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was women mystery writers.   But he sat there and said women had no
business writing mysteries, that they were ruining the genre with their female
sleuths.   He claimed that advances
were going down because of us.”   Annie watched Higuchi scribble in his notebook.   “Afterward a number of people thanked me
for standing up to him,” she added.
    “You stayed for the
awards ceremony Saturday night?” Simpson asked.
    “Yes.   I flew home late Sunday.”
    “By which point O’Neill
was dead,” he murmured.
    Annie said
nothing.   She remembered going down
to the hotel lobby to check out and finding her fellow writers huddled in
groups wearing shocked expressions.   Because one of their own had been shot to death in his luxury suite.
    She glanced at her
watch.   It was past four and now she
had the idea that her unexpected visitors would be staying for some time.
    “Are you on deadline,
Ms. Rowell?”   That question came
from Higuchi.
    “No, my next manuscript
isn’t due for two months.”   She
rose, her stomach growling so loudly she was sure all four men could hear
it.   “I’d like to eat something if
you don’t mind.”   What she really
wanted was time alone to think.   “I
missed lunch.   May I offer anybody
anything?   Coffee?   A soda?”
    From the sofa Pincus raised his head.   “I’ll take coffee.   Cream and sugar, please.”
    It felt like an escape
going into the kitchen.   She took
her time brewing the coffee and making a ham and swiss sandwich, then decided to grill her late lunch just so she’d have another minute
or two alone.
    She put the sandwich in
the toaster oven and watched the radiant bars heat to an incandescent
orange.   What could Simpson possibly
think he had on her?   There was
nothing to have.
    By the time she trotted
back into the living room, tray in hand, she’d assured herself that this was a
fishing expedition and nothing more.   She’d be cautious in how she answered Simpson’s questions and that would
be the end of it.
    She gave Pincus his coffee and returned to her chair, eating her
sandwich while Higuchi wrapped up a cell phone call and Simpson reviewed his
notes.
    Finally Simpson looked
up from his notebook.   “Let’s move
on to Elizabeth Wimble.”
    Annie set her plate
aside.   “I never met her but I heard
her speak at a conference several years ago.   She received a Lifetime Achievement
Award and I recall people saying that it was a rare appearance for her, that
she was getting quite frail and almost never left her home anymore.   How old was she when she died?”
    “82,” Higuchi
answered.   “What did you think of
her?”
    “I really admired
her.   She wrote what are called
‘cozy’ mysteries and I loved them.   So did lots of people.   She
had legions of fans.   I think Maggie
Boswell wanted to be the grande dame of the mystery writers but
Elizabeth Wimble actually was.   She
seemed very gracious …”   Annie’s
voice trailed off.   “I was horrified
when I heard what happened to her.”
    It was
unspeakable.   A crochet hook plunged
into the old woman’s throat while she dozed in an easy chair in her Connecticut
home.   No sign of forced entry; nary
a fingerprint.   Her housekeeper
found her on a Monday morning, when the beloved author had been dead for two
and a half days.
    Simpson spoke.   “And how did you hear of the murder, Ms.
Rowell?”
    “I read it in the
newspaper.”
    “Were you in California
at the time?”
    “No.   I was in Manhattan.   At the wedding of one of my college
roommates.”   Silence fell.   Annie spoke again into the void.   “When it comes to Maggie Boswell, I
don’t know what more I can tell you than I told the police over the phone.”
    Higuchi chose that
moment to sit down, claiming an ottoman he’d moved away from the wing
chair.   “And why was it that you
spoke to investigators over the phone and not in person?”
    “Because I left the
party before Maggie was killed.