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Three weeks later, just before school let out for the summer, I went to Dallas to take some
photographs of the three apartments where Lee and Marina would live together. I used a small Minox,
holding it in the palm of my hand and allowing the lens to peep out between two spread fingers. I felt
ridiculous—more like the trench-coated caricatures in Mad magazine’s Spy vs Spy feature than James
Bond—but I had learned to be careful about such things.
When I returned to my house, Mimi Corcoran’s sky-blue Nash Rambler was parked at the curb and
Mimi was just sliding in behind the wheel. When she saw me, she got out again. A brief grimace
tightened her face—pain or effort—but when she came up the drive, she was wearing her usual dry
smile. As if I amused her, but in a good way. In her hands she was carrying a bulky manila envelope,
which contained the hundred and fifty pages of The Murder Place. I’d finally given in to her pesterings
. . . but that had been only the day before.
“Either you liked it one hell of a lot, or you never got past page ten,” I said, taking the envelope.
“Which was it?”
Her smile now looked enigmatic as well as amused. “Like most librarians, I’m a fast reader. Can we
go inside and talk about it? It isn’t even the middle of June, and it’s already so hot.”
Yes, and she was sweating, something I’d never seen before. Also, she looked as if she’d lost weight.
Not a good thing for a lady who had no pounds to give away.
Sitting in my living room with big glasses of iced coffee—me in the easy chair, she on the couch—
Mimi gave her opinion. “I enjoyed the stuff about the killer dressed up as a clown. Call me twisted,
but I found that deliciously creepy.”
“If you’re twisted, I am, too.”
She smiled. “I’m sure you’ll find a publisher for it. On the whole, I liked it very much.”
I felt a little hurt. The Murder Place might have begun as camouflage, but it had become more
important to me as I got deeper into it. It was like a secret memoir. One of the nerves. “That ‘on the
whole’ stuff reminds me of Alexander Pope—you know, damning with faint praise?”
“I didn’t quite mean it that way.” More qualification. “It’s just that . . . goddammit, George, this
isn’t what you were meant to do. You were meant to teach. And if you publish a book like this, no
school department in the United States will hire you.” She paused. “Except maybe in Massachusetts.”
I didn’t reply. I was speechless.
“What you did with Mike Coslaw—what you did for Mike Coslaw—was the most amazing and
wonderful thing I’ve ever seen.”
“Mimi, it wasn’t me. He’s just naturally tal—”
“I know he’s naturally talented, that was obvious from the moment he walked onstage and opened
his mouth, but I’ll tell you something, my friend. Something forty years in high schools and sixty
years of living has taught me and taught me well. Artistic talent is far more common than the talent
to nurture artistic talent. Any parent with a hard hand can crush it, but to nurture it is much more
difficult. That’s a talent you have, and in much greater supply than the one that drove this.” She
tapped the sheaf of pages on the coffee table in front of her.
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Say thank you, and compliment me on my acute judgment.”
“Thanks. And your insight is only exceeded by your good looks.”
That brought the smile back, dryer than ever. “Don’t exceed your brief, George.”
“Yes, Miz Mimi.”
The smile disappeared. She leaned forward. The blue eyes behind her glasses were too big,
swimming in her face. The skin under her tan was yellowish, and her formerly taut cheeks were
hollow. When had this happened? Had Deke noticed? But that was ridic, as the kids said. Deke
wouldn’t notice that his socks were mismatched until he took them off at night. Probably not even