"F ive?" asked the bookstore clerk when Joyce set the copies of Whispering Shadows Mystery Monthly on the counter.
"I have a story in it," Joyce told her. She felt a blush spread over her cheeks as she smiled.
"Really? How exciting!"
"It's my second story. I sold my first to them a few months ago."
The clerk, a young woman who seemed to be about Joyce's age of 19, opened one of the magazines. She moved her finger down the table of contents page, along the list of authors. She stopped at Joyce's name. "I bet you're Joyce Walther," she said.
Joyce beamed. "Right! How did you know?"
"Elementary, my dear Watson. I'm a fan of this magazine. I read your first story when it came out. It was very good, by the way. At the time, your name stuck in my mind, because the introduction said you live here in town. And I've also been to your father's store." Grinning, she swept back some wavy brown hair and showed a gold earring to Joyce. "Then, of course, you were in the news for the way you caught those thugs. With all that, how could I forget your name?"
Joyce shook her head, amazed. "You'd make a good detective," she said.
No other customers were waiting, so the clerk hurried to the magazine rack. She rushed back to the counter with another copy. "How about an autograph?" she asked. "Make it to Susie."
Delighted, Joyce turned to page 63. Just below her printed name, she scribbled, "For Susie, a real Sherlock Holmes. All my best, Joyce Walther."
"Oh, this is great," Susie said as she read what Joyce had written.
"I hope you like the story," Joyce told her.
"If it's half as good as the first one, I'm sure I will. You've got real talent. And you're a heroine, too."
Joyce was still blushing with pleasure when she finished paying for her magazines and left the bookstore. Turning to the right, she headed down the wide, crowded aisle of the shopping mall. At the far end was another bookstore. She was going to stop there to buy a few more copies of the magazine. Later, she planned to drive all over Santa Monica to buy a lot more.
The magazine's publisher had given her the usual number of copies an author gets---three. But she needed at least 15 just for relatives and friends. And she wanted 15 or 20 more to keep for herself. "You can't have too many," she thought. "They'll be almost impossible to get, once the next issue hits the stands."
"Excuse me, miss," a voice said, interrupting her thoughts.
She turned her head to look at the young man suddenly walking beside her. He was handsome, with blond curly hair and a pleasant smile. His tan jacket was buttoned over a sport shirt.
"Yes?" she said.
"Do you have a blue Ford parked on level one of the mall lot?" He glanced at a scrap of paper in his hand. "License plate 633 TME?"
Joyce's stomach knotted. "Yes, I do," she said. "Why?"
"My partner and I spotted a prowler. We think he broke into your car."
J oyce suddenly felt sick as she stared at the young man. "Did he take anything? " she asked.
"We're not sure. We spotted him just as he was running away. My partner went after him, and I came to look for you."
"How did you know that I was the one driving that car?" Joyce asked.
He shook his head. "It wasn't easy finding you. There was a woman who saw what was going on. She told me that she'd parked near you and saw you get out. She described you. Unfortunately, this mall seems to be full of young women with blond hair who are wearing plaid skirts. I checked with seven or eight before I got to you. Now, if you don't mind, I'd like you to come along with me. We'll take a look in your car and see if he stole any of your property."
"OK," Joyce said. They walked across the mall.
"By the way, I'm Officer Stevens, Santa Monica Police Department. What's your name?"
"Joyce Walther," she answered. For a moment she was disappointed that he didn't seem to recognize her name. "Don't be silly," she told herself. "It's been six months since you helped catch those thieves. You can hardly
"I have a story in it," Joyce told her. She felt a blush spread over her cheeks as she smiled.
"Really? How exciting!"
"It's my second story. I sold my first to them a few months ago."
The clerk, a young woman who seemed to be about Joyce's age of 19, opened one of the magazines. She moved her finger down the table of contents page, along the list of authors. She stopped at Joyce's name. "I bet you're Joyce Walther," she said.
Joyce beamed. "Right! How did you know?"
"Elementary, my dear Watson. I'm a fan of this magazine. I read your first story when it came out. It was very good, by the way. At the time, your name stuck in my mind, because the introduction said you live here in town. And I've also been to your father's store." Grinning, she swept back some wavy brown hair and showed a gold earring to Joyce. "Then, of course, you were in the news for the way you caught those thugs. With all that, how could I forget your name?"
Joyce shook her head, amazed. "You'd make a good detective," she said.
No other customers were waiting, so the clerk hurried to the magazine rack. She rushed back to the counter with another copy. "How about an autograph?" she asked. "Make it to Susie."
Delighted, Joyce turned to page 63. Just below her printed name, she scribbled, "For Susie, a real Sherlock Holmes. All my best, Joyce Walther."
"Oh, this is great," Susie said as she read what Joyce had written.
"I hope you like the story," Joyce told her.
"If it's half as good as the first one, I'm sure I will. You've got real talent. And you're a heroine, too."
Joyce was still blushing with pleasure when she finished paying for her magazines and left the bookstore. Turning to the right, she headed down the wide, crowded aisle of the shopping mall. At the far end was another bookstore. She was going to stop there to buy a few more copies of the magazine. Later, she planned to drive all over Santa Monica to buy a lot more.
The magazine's publisher had given her the usual number of copies an author gets---three. But she needed at least 15 just for relatives and friends. And she wanted 15 or 20 more to keep for herself. "You can't have too many," she thought. "They'll be almost impossible to get, once the next issue hits the stands."
"Excuse me, miss," a voice said, interrupting her thoughts.
She turned her head to look at the young man suddenly walking beside her. He was handsome, with blond curly hair and a pleasant smile. His tan jacket was buttoned over a sport shirt.
"Yes?" she said.
"Do you have a blue Ford parked on level one of the mall lot?" He glanced at a scrap of paper in his hand. "License plate 633 TME?"
Joyce's stomach knotted. "Yes, I do," she said. "Why?"
"My partner and I spotted a prowler. We think he broke into your car."
J oyce suddenly felt sick as she stared at the young man. "Did he take anything? " she asked.
"We're not sure. We spotted him just as he was running away. My partner went after him, and I came to look for you."
"How did you know that I was the one driving that car?" Joyce asked.
He shook his head. "It wasn't easy finding you. There was a woman who saw what was going on. She told me that she'd parked near you and saw you get out. She described you. Unfortunately, this mall seems to be full of young women with blond hair who are wearing plaid skirts. I checked with seven or eight before I got to you. Now, if you don't mind, I'd like you to come along with me. We'll take a look in your car and see if he stole any of your property."
"OK," Joyce said. They walked across the mall.
"By the way, I'm Officer Stevens, Santa Monica Police Department. What's your name?"
"Joyce Walther," she answered. For a moment she was disappointed that he didn't seem to recognize her name. "Don't be silly," she told herself. "It's been six months since you helped catch those thieves. You can hardly
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