Page 119 of The Evening Wolves

Vivienne opened her mouth.

I tried to stop myself, I really did. But it was another blurt: “And no.”

Vivienne closed her mouth.

“But mostly yes,” I said. “I mean, yes. Absolutely. The heart of a mystery novel.”

She opened her mouth again.

Sometimes, being Dashiell Dawson Dane was like being in a horror movie: you knew you weren’t supposed to go down into the basement alone to check the circuit breaker, or you knew you weren’t supposed to get freaky with the rude but cute jock in the backseat of his car at Make-out Point, or (just for the sake of example) you knew you weren’t supposed to keep talking. But you just. couldn’t. help yourself.

“It’s just—the puzzle,” I said, “and the human element.”

Vivienne closed her mouth again. Her eyes really were stunning. That was, apparently, the kind of thing I could think while I was having an out-of-body experience.

But then she smiled and said, “Quite right, Dashiell. That’s well put. The puzzle and the human element. Very well put. Not that I would expect any less from you. I read ‘Murder on the Emerald Express.’ It was very clever. Quite the send-up of Christie, I think.”

“Thank you.”

“And your parents, of course.”

And there it was. The whole reason I was here. Not because I’d written a couple of short stories that had eventually landed in Black Mask and Flying Aces. But because I was the son of Patricia Lockwood (Mommy’s Sleeping and Blind Furies and What the Laundress Saw) and Jonny Dane (the Talon Maverick series). Because, to put it bluntly, Vivienne was doing her colleagues a favor.

Not that I cared. Well, not too much. I needed to get away from Providence, and here I was—about as far as you could get.

“How are your parents?” Vivienne asked. “I haven’t seen them in ages.”

“They’re all right.”

“And what are they doing these days?”

“Oh, you know. Mom stays busy with the chickens, and Dad has his guns.”

Vivienne laughed, and I tried to smile, fighting the familiar tightness in my chest.

“Portsmouth really is so charming,” Vivienne murmured. “I’ve only been once, and your parents were such wonderful hosts. I’d love to see them again.”

“I’m sure they’d love to have you visit.” I dredged up another smile. “I hope you like skeet shooting.”

That made her laugh again. She settled back into her chair—it was so massive that it was really more of a throne—and examined me more carefully. After a moment of that long, considering stare, I looked away. Her study, where we were having this interview, was exactly what a famous author’s study should look like: a cavernous fireplace, built-in bookcases (filled with her own titles, of course—all the books in the Matron of Murder series, and translations into dozens of languages), a massive cherrywood desk. She had a laptop, a sleek little aluminum thing, but the typewriter that featured so prominently in the Matron of Murder TV adaptation had pride of place on the desk. Posters from the show lined the walls. The actor they’d picked looked remarkably like Vivienne, even though the protagonist in the books, Genevieve Webster, was nominally fictional; I wondered if she’d had any say in the casting. Interspersed with the posters were photos of Vivienne. Vivienne with politicians. Vivienne with celebrities. Vivienne accepting honorary degrees and keys to various cities. Pictures of Vivienne when she’d been younger—glamorous, but not quite beautiful. Apparently, she owned (or had owned) a yacht.

“Tell me, Dashiell—”

“Just Dash.” I rushed to add, “Unless you prefer Dashiell, that is.”

She was silent for a beat. “Tell me about your writing, Dashiell.”

“Well,” I said. And that was as far as I got. That sense of tightness in my chest worsened. Vivienne’s beautiful study got a little blurry around the edges. “I’m very passionate—”

“Your ideas, Dashiell.” She waved a hand. “Your plans. Yes, I understand that your position here will be as my administrative assistant. But we both know it’s a bit more than that. You’re a talented writer.” She gestured to the desk, even though it was bare aside from the laptop and typewriter. “Your resume is impressive. You’ve attended top writing workshops. You’ve done some teaching yourself.”

“Just as an adjunct.”

“And you have publications.”

“Two short stories.”

“But good, Dashiell.” She leaned forward. Her glasses swung on their chain. Her gaze seemed to spear me to my chair. “They’re good stories. They’re smart. Even better, they’re true. I don’t need to ask you about your references. I don’t need to know that you can type and use a word processor and answer phone calls. I want to know who you are, and I think you know, Dashiell, that the way to know a writer, truly know them, is to know their stories. People lie all the time. But every story is an act of disclosure, no matter how hard we try otherwise.” She waited, as though I might say something, and then sat back again. “So, let’s hear them.”

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