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athlete, played tackle on his college football team. However, unlike his detective, Spence’s sexual preference was for other brawny males. According to a publishing figure who insisted upon anonymity, Spence was involved with a series of male lovers. He made a mistake—he went after Bledsoe. The informant said he’d bet the farm that Bledsoe came on to Spence. Anyway, Bledsoe hired a private detective, got the facts on Burke’s liaisons, and threatened to go public. Spence paid Bledsoe a half million. Once the magazine was underway and successful, Bledsoe published an article about Spence entitled ‘Tough-Guy Writer Dishonors Craft.’ Spence blew his brains out two days after publication.”

“That’s dreadful,” Annie exclaimed.

“Diabolical,” Lady Gwendolyn pronounced.

Henny shrugged. “So what else is new. This guy’s lower than a snake.”

“Yes,” Annie said quietly, “yes, he is,” and she told them about Fleur Calloway and her daughter, Jaime.

“God,” Henny said. “That explains a lot in her bio.” She found the right page, cleared her throat, and read:

“Fleur Romney Calloway was born in 1935 in Bogaloosa, Louisiana, the youngest of five children. Four older brothers. Father owned the local bank, mother a nature artist. Grew up on a plantation, Romney Hall, overlooking a marsh. Expert horsewoman. Excelled at fishing, loved canoeing. Graduate Randolph Macon, master’s in English from University of Mississippi. Upon graduation, she married Jack Calloway, former fullback at the university, the assistant football coach. Divorced three years later, shortly after the birth of daughter, Jaime Noel, in 1960. Never remarried. Returned to Louisiana and lived upon another small family plantation, Strawberry Hill. First mystery, Death, My Sister, published in 1964, received the Edgar for Best First Mystery. Seven mysteries, all well received (except for reviews by Bledsoe and a few other antiwomen critics), published between 1964 and 1978. None since then. During her productive years, she was active in book circles in her hometown, a fund-raiser for the local library, member of the parents’ groups in Jaime’s schools.”

Henny paused for a sip of—Annie was glad to note—coffee. “Here’s what the head librarian said, ‘Such a gracious woman, always so kind and friendly to everyone. I tell you it’s a shame how hard she’s grieved for her girl. Closed her doors and hardly came out again. Most people in this town don’t know her anymore, just heard about her, the beautiful, quiet lady who lives at Strawberry Hill. My grandson works summers at the cemetery, says she comes every evening at dusk and puts a fresh rose on her daughter’s grave and stays there a long time, then walks home again. I tell you, it’s a crying shame how kids don’t realize they’re loved till it’s too late. Nobody can believe Jaime would jump off a bridge—and what was she doin’ in New York, anyway? There’s stories—but there’s always stories.’”

Henny turned the page. “Jaime’s best friend remembered, ‘We had so much fun growing up at Strawberry Hill. Barefoot all summer. Picnics at the lake. One summer it seemed like all it did was rain and we were in the house a lot and Jaime’s mom told us lots of stories ’bout when she was growing up and how she and her brothers played so many jokes. One time she and her brother Alex smuggled a bull frog into Sunday school and it almost caused a riot. We laughed ’til we cried. That was the summer before Jaime died.’

“Her agent, Evan Parker: ‘Oh sure, I’ve tried. But Fleur just says she can’t write anymore. I don’t know whether it’s grief or guilt. I don’t know what it is. But I could sell a book by her tomorrow. Hell, today.’

“Fleur’s lifelong friend, Consuelo Magrane: ‘Fleur—she was always so full of love, but it’s almost as if she’s been frozen, ever since Jaime died.’”

Henny pushed her wire glasses up on her nose. “There should,” she said crisply, “be a special place in hell for Neil Bledsoe.”

“Emma Clyde’s opinion precisely,” Annie interjected.

“Ah, yes, Emma Clyde.” Lady Gwendolyn shot a quick glance at Annie. “I found it quite interesting