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office.   I’m Special Agent in Charge Lionel
Simpson and this is my assistant Mark Higuchi.   Ms. Rowell, we’d like to ask you a few
questions.”

CHAPTER THREE

 
 
    Not how she wanted to
spend the rest of her afternoon, but it was clear this was a command
performance.
    “Of course.”   She led the men inside.   They took up residence in her living room,
dwarfing the furniture.   Simpson, as
the quartet’s big dog, claimed the largest upholstered chair and flipped open a
notebook to a page on which a great deal had already been written.   “Tell us about yourself, Ms.
Rowell.   You’ve lived in Bodega Bay how
long?”
    She settled into a
cane-backed chair she carried over from the dining room.   “A little more than a year.”
    “And you live here
alone.”
    “Yes.   I’m divorced.”   Annie noted Simpson’s wedding ring and
gold bands on every other man in the room.   Somehow her failed marriage felt like a count against her.
    “Why did you move to
Bodega Bay?”
    “Well, I’d been living
in LA with my husband and—”
    Higuchi spoke for the
first time.   He was standing with
his back to the bricked-in fireplace and like Simpson was consulting a
notebook.   “Lippincott is his name?”
    “Philip Lippincott,
yes.   He’s an internist.”
    “Go on,” Simpson said.
    “Well, after the
divorce I wanted to come back to the Bay Area.   I grew up in Berkeley but needed a less
expensive location.   And I liked the
idea of a smaller town, somewhere I could focus on my writing and not get, I
don’t know, distracted by all the big-city things.”
    Simpson was watching
her closely.   “Is it fair to say,
Ms. Rowell, that it’s difficult to make a living as an author?”
    Odd question.   “It’s fair to say.   Most of us have to economize.”
    Higuchi spoke up.   “Yet even with money tight, you chose
not to seek another position as a legal secretary.”
    She was surprised they
knew that detail about her.   “I
wanted to write full-time.”
    “It didn’t seem risky
to you?” Simpson asked.   “To rely
solely on your writing income so soon after your divorce?”
    It was risky but her
life had fallen apart as it was.   Why not go one step further and quit an occupation she’d never liked
anyway?   But all she said was, “I
thought it was a risk worth taking.   And if it didn’t work out, I could always take a regular job later.”
    Simpson turned a page
in his notebook.   “ Devil’s Cradle is your most recent book,
is that correct?”
    “Yes.”   She stopped.   Somehow it felt like boasting to mention
that it had landed her on the Times list.
    But Simpson already
knew that, too.   “I understand that
book will get you on the bestsellers’ list for the first time.   So congratulations are in order.”
    “Thank you.”
    “Now you’re in that
elite group of bestsellers.   Like
the late Seamus O’Neill.   As you
know, he was killed at the mystery-writers conference in February in LA.   You attended that conference?”
    “Yes.”
    “Would you say that the
other writers were jealous of O’Neill?   He was a huge bestseller, at the top of the lists for years.”
    “I’m not sure it was
due to jealousy but I can tell you that Seamus wasn’t popular.”
    “Why is that?”
    “He was a crusty old
bastard.   He carried a gun around
and showed it off all the time, like the protagonist in his books.   He was very opinionated and liked to
pick fights.”
    Simpson eyed her.   “Speaking of which, I gather the two of
you got into an altercation at that conference.”
    Annie stilled at the
word altercation .   Surely it was her imagination running away
with her, because suddenly she was getting the distinct impression that Simpson
was questioning her as a suspect.   On what possible basis could he think that?
    She began to choose her
words even more carefully.   “He and
I were on a panel together.   I don’t
even know why he was on it because the topic