The Book of Fate

87

What about your visit to the Mannings?” Lisbeth said into her phone as she walked briskly through the rain just outside the townhouse where she met Violet. “They say anything I can help you with?”

Wes paused barely half a second. For Lisbeth, it was more than enough. If he wanted to lie, he would’ve already made up some story. A pause like this… whatever he’s debating, it’s tearing at him. And to her own surprise, the more she saw what he’d been through — and was still going through — the more it tore at her as well. Sacred Rule #10, she told herself: Get attached to the story, not the people in it.

“No — just the usual,” Wes finally offered. He added a quick good-bye to sidestep the awkwardness. It didn’t.

Lisbeth couldn’t blame him. By bringing that tape recorder, she’d shaken his trust. Yet as she slid behind the steering wheel of her car and started dialing a new number, it was clear she wasn’t going to just sit still and let him hold her at a distance.

“Palm Beach Post,” a female voice answered on the other line. “This is Eve.”

“Eve, it’s Lisbeth. Are you—?”

“Don’t worry, the column’s all done.”

“Forget the column.”

“Even got the dumb art award in.”

“Eve!”

There was a pause on the other line. “Please tell me you didn’t wreck my car.”

“Can you please listen?” Lisbeth pleaded as she stared down at the crossword puzzle Violet had given her and spread it across the steering wheel. “Remember that old guy from comics — y’know, with the creepy glasses and the moon-chin—”

“Kassal? The guy who designed our crossword puzzles?”

“Yeah, that’s the — wait, whattya mean designed? Don’t tell me he’s dead.”

“Lisbeth, this newspaper’s so cheap, they shrunk the font size on our headlines to save money on ink. You really think they’d pay an extra employee, extra benefits, extra health insurance, when they can get a syndicated daily crossword for thirty bucks?” Eve pointed out. “They fired him two years ago. But lucky you, I happen to be staring at an employee directory from three years ago.”

“You really haven’t cleaned your desk in that long?”

“You want the number or not?”

Ten digits later, Lisbeth watched a light rain skate down her windshield. Her foot anxiously tapped the floor mat as she waited for someone to pick up. “Be home, be home, be home…”

“Hiya,” an older man with a horse voice and a creaky Midwest accent answered.

“Hi, I’m looking for Mr. Kassal,” Lisbeth explained.

“Martin to you. And you are…”

“Lisbeth Dodson — we used to work together at the Palm Beach Post—and I promise you, sir, this’ll be the strangest question you get all d—”

“Up the pace, sweetie. I got pancakes cooking for dinner, and it’ll kill me to see ’em burn.”

“Yeah, well, a good friend of mine has a problem…” Lisbeth took a full breath, reaching for her pen, then stopping herself. “How good are you at solving puzzles?”