Read He Done Her Wrong: A Toby Peters Mystery (Book Eight) (Toby Peters Mysteries) for Free Online

But it soon will be. Mark my word. It soon will be.”
    With that he returned to his seat and folded his arms, waiting for someone to dare criticize him.
    “Cynthia Brewer,” mumbled Aardvark.
    The superior sneer left Campbell’s face. His eyes darted back and forth as if reading frantically through his memory of all the tales of Conan Doyle in a mad frenzy to recover the forgotten name.
    “Challenge,” he shouted at Aardvark, who didn’t look up.
    “He challenged,” I said to Randisi, whose eyes were cast forlornly on the disappearing sherbet.
    “What?” said Aardvark, brushing a wisp of orange hair from his forehead.
    “He challenged Cynthia Brewer,” came a voice, an old lady voice.
    Aardvark’s confusion was evident.
    “He challenged Cynthia Brewer?”
    “He did,” I said. “Who is she?”
    “She’s a sophomore in my early American history class,” he said. “How does he know her? I was just thinking …”
    “And now,” said Lachtman the meek and bald, rising with a prod from Officer Margaritte before he could make another swipe at the deerstalker challenging him in his shopping bag, “Lou will introduce our speaker for the night.”
    He sat down and all eyes turned to Randisi, whose head was down completely, lost in the scotch memory of Cynthia Brewer.
    We waited for several moments for Randisi to stir, but the best he could do was reach up and remove his name card. We all watched in fascination as he turned it right-side up, considered putting it back on, and let it fall to the table. I introduced myself.
    “What part,” asked an ancient woman with incongruously blond hair, “does deduction play in your solving cases?”
    “Almost none,” I said.
    “Then how do you help your clients, catch criminals, restore order?” demanded Campbell.
    “I’m stubborn,” I said, looking around the room for my suspect. “I take whatever passes for a lead, and I keep after it. Sometimes I go after ten leads before I get anywhere, and sometimes I go after twenty leads and never get anywhere. My trick is to never give up.”
    “Do the police ever seek your help on baffling cases?” came another female question.
    The question had a sting to it. She was thinking Holmes. I was thinking that my being in this very room was the result of the only time in my life that a cop had asked me for help. I skipped that exception and gave the rule: that cops thought I was a pest, which I was, that they caught far more con men, thieves, and killers than I did and did it a lot more efficiently.
    More questions came, and I kept giving answers, but not the ones they wanted to hear. The only one that seemed to please them was that I liked my work.
    When I sat down Lachtman got up, thanked me, and everyone clapped politely. The meeting ended with Lachtman asking for suggestions about the next meeting. One little old lady, filled with enthusiasm, said aloud, “I’ve got it. Let’s put on a play.”
    While this never failed to get a rise from Judy Garland when Mickey Rooney said it, no one in the group even gave an indication that the woman had spoken.
    Campbell rapped his cane on the table and stood.
    “I suggest that when next we meet, we have a Sherlockian quiz prepared by our current president and that the winner of that quiz have his dinner paid for.”
    “Or her dinner,” came a powerful rasp.
    “As the case may be,” conceded Campbell, sitting with a smirk that indicated clearly who he expected to win the quiz.
    “Sounds like a fine idea,” agreed Lachtman, looking around for support. Margaritte turned her head away. Meanwhile, Aardvark’s head was sinking dangerously close to the pool of melted sherbet. I nudged him, and he roused himself into something that resembled being awake.
    “Settled,” said Lachtman. “I’ll prepare the quiz. And that’s it for tonight. I’m glad you could all—”
    Campbell was already up and had turned his back to address a group at another table before Lachtman could