To Write a Wrong

by Jen Turano

  The amusement lurking in her eyes intensified. “Didn’t you say you’re always hesitant to encourage writers to share what they’re writing with you because you’re afraid they might not be proficient with the English language?”

  “You don’t seem to have an issue with the English language.”

  “True, but I fear I might be a horrendous poetry writer, and if I share what I write with you, you’ll then be forced to crush my tender, poetic feelings. By crushing my feelings, you might also leave me with the distinct urge to encourage Eunice Holbrooke to refuse to have the Bleecker Street Inquiry Agency take on your attempted murder case.”

  As an argument for not sharing more about her writing with him, Herman thought it was a sound one. Nevertheless, he found himself unwilling to abandon the topic. “I doubt your poetry is horrendous and I can be gentle with any critique if I set my mind to it. So, with that said, allow me to encourage you to share a few snippets from any verses you’ve recently completed.”

  The amusement in her eyes disappeared in a flash, replaced with what almost seemed to be incredulity. “You want me to recite, as in out loud, my poetry?”

  He barely managed to swallow the laugh that had almost escaped him. “Indeed, and know that I’m waiting with bated breath to hear what you’ve composed thus far.”

  CHAPTER

  Four

  For a few seconds, Herman didn’t think Daphne was going to grant his request, but then she sent him the barest hint of a nod, folded her hands primly in her lap, and closed her eyes.

  “Her skin was soft as a baby’s behind,” Daphne began, “her lips as rosy as wine, and while my love for her was not returned, I couldn’t help but yearn for . . .” Daphne’s eyes flashed open. “That’s as far as I’ve gotten. I’ve been trying to fit in something more about the tragic hero, who’s a pirate, but I’m having difficulty fitting any pirate talk into the stanzas.”

  Herman didn’t know whether to rise to his feet and give her a standing ovation for what was the worst recital of poetry he’d ever heard, or give her that ovation for having what was undoubtedly an unusual mind, one so unusual that she was able to compose horrendous poetry on the spot.

  Clearly, Miss Daphne Beekman was not a poet, although he had the sneaking suspicion, given her comments about what authors at literary salons should be discussing, that she was a writer. What she wrote, though, or better yet, why she didn’t want to share that with him, was a mystery that begged to be solved.

  “What did you think about what I’ve composed so far?” she asked.

  He fought a grin as he pulled himself back to the odd situation at hand. “In my professional opinion, your poetry shows some, ah, interesting possibilities, although it does need a great deal of polishing. I definitely understand more clearly why you’re dressed as a pirate, what with how a pirate is the hero in your latest poem. Looking for inspiration, are you?”

  “I’ve been experiencing a lack of creativity of late and was forced to take drastic measures.”

  “And are you finding inspiration now that you’re wearing pirate attire?”

  “You just heard the first part of my poem. How inspiring would you say it’s been for me?”

  “Perhaps you might need to search for additional inspiration.”

  Daphne suddenly bent over, but not before he caught sight of her grinning. She then, for some unknown reason, began talking to the space underneath the fainting couch she was sitting on. A second later, a paw materialized from underneath the couch, followed by a large beast of a dog that was wearing an eyepatch.

  Daphne straightened and sent the dog a fond look. “I seem to be running out of options as pertains to my pirate situation. I spent the entire day with this darling, but his appearance did absolutely nothing to inspire me.”

  “It was brave of you to put that patch over the poor pooch’s eye. I can’t imagine he appreciated that, and it also seems, given the size of him, he has some very large teeth.”

  “Winston’s wearing a patch because he’s missing an eye, and I’m not responsible for the patch, his owner is. Plus, while his teeth are large, he’s woefully lacking in courage. He stuffed himself under the fainting couch the moment I asked him to investigate your arrival.”

  Herman considered Winston. “I’m sorry to say that if a pirate dog doesn’t provide you with an incentive to fix your pirate dilemma, I don’t know what will, unless you could dig up a parrot.”

  “I’ve already found a parrot, one that goes by the name of Pretty Girl, and have volunteered to watch her while her owners are away, even though I’m deathly afraid of birds.”

  “Has that helped?”

  “I spent hours with Pretty Girl today as well, and since, again, you’ve heard my poem, I’m convinced she is not going to provide me with the breakthrough I need.” She gave Winston a brisk pat. “And with all that out of the way, let us return to the pressing matter of someone wanting you dead, which has nothing to do with my fondness for poetry. I believe we were discussing your literary friends, but since you can’t seem to accept the idea that any of them want to do you in, what about your friends who aren’t literary types?”

  “I can’t think of a single friend who’d want me dead.”

  Exasperation flickered through her eyes. “Forgive me, Mr. Henderson, but I’m not getting the impression you’re really using what I assume is an intellectual mind to its full capacity. Someone apparently wants to murder you. Murder, as I’m sure you realize from all the murders you’ve written about, is an act of passion, brought about because of an intense emotional state. That suggests the person behind the attempts on your life is probably someone known to you and could have murderous intentions toward you because of a perceived slight.”

  “I haven’t slighted any of my friends.”

  “What about ladies?”

  Herman frowned. “Ladies?”

  “Quite right. I suppose I should have asked this before, but what about your wife? Could she want you dead?”

  “I’m not married.”

  She jotted that down in her notepad. “So that’s one suspect we don’t need to worry about. What about any ladies you may be courting?”

  “I don’t make it a habit to court numerous ladies at the same time.”

  “Which is commendable of you, but I’m sure there must be a few ladies out there seeking your affection. From what you’ve disclosed, you’re a wealthy gentleman, and, I must add, a handsome one, and I’m sure there is many a young lady who’d like to catch your eye.”

  Male satisfaction immediately coursed through him. “You find me handsome?”

  “I’m not blind, Mr. Henderson, or at least not blind when I’m wearing my spectacles. Of course you’re handsome. You’re also reasonably intelligent, and there are many ladies who find that appealing.”

  “Reasonably?”

  “Surely you don’t expect me to proclaim you’re unusually intelligent, do you, not with the way you haven’t considered who might be behind your own demise? But returning to the ladies,” she continued before he could respond to that first bit, “I’ll need a list of every lady you’ve escorted to the opera or other events around the city, as well as any lady you might know who holds you in a semblance of fondness.” She tucked the pencil behind her ear. “I’ll also need a list of places you frequent often. I’m actually surprised to discover you attend places like the opera, given that the limited gossip I’ve heard about you over the years has painted you as a recluse who prefers to remain inside the confines of your mansion on Irving Place, except when you’re traveling the world, searching for fodder for your stories.”

  “I don’t travel the world, Miss Beekman. I prefer to live that type of adventurous life vicariously through my characters. With that said, though, I’m by no means a recluse.”

  Daphne frowned. “I’ve not heard any rumors that you mingle with the New York Four Hundred, an exclusive group that I imagine would enjoy having someone with your acclaim attending their e
vents.”

  “My family was once firmly ensconced within New York high society. But when my parents and grandfather died, my grandmother stopped attending social events and withdrew from society. And while I’ve been invited to enter the hallowed circle of the New York Four Hundred, I’ve declined.”

  “Because you prefer spending your time with other writers, discussing riveting topics such as sentence structure?”

  “Clearly you’re a bit skeptical of the merits of that type of talk, but no. I’ve chosen to avoid society for the most part because if I were to spend time in that illustrious circle, people would begin to start paying calls on my grandmother again, something that could very well see her taking to her bed and never stirring from it.”

  “That’s a very considerate attitude to embrace in regard to your grandmother,” she said. “But society aside, tell me this—if you don’t travel the world, how do you come up with such descriptive passages in your books, especially the ones set in exotic locations?”

  “My late mother left behind numerous journals. She was a gifted writer, and she describes the exotic lands she and my father traveled to in wonderful detail.”

  Daphne’s eyes began to sparkle. “May I dare hope that you occasionally share some of the entries in these journals with others, and if so, do I also dare hope that your parents, at some point in time, encountered a pirate?”

  “I’m afraid I’ve yet to run across anything pirate related.”

  Her face fell. “That’s too bad, although I suppose it’s not well done of me to question you about pirates in the first place. You are, after all, here to seek out the professional services of the Bleecker Street Inquiry Agency, not provide me with inspirational tidbits for my, uh, poetry. So, returning to your case, when do you think you’ll be able to get me the list of all of your friends, acquaintances, and young ladies known to you?”

  He retrieved his notepad from his pocket, flipped it open, then thumbed through the pages. “As luck would have it, I have a fairly extensive list available now because my grandmother has convinced me to host a house party at my residence on the Hudson at the end of next week.” He began tearing out some pages. “Everyone who’ll be in attendance is accounted for here.”

  He handed Daphne the pages, which she immediately began looking through, lifting her head a moment later.

  “Why is Miss Finetta Shoenburger’s name circled?”

  “Sheldon wanted to make sure I remember to give Miss Shoenburger and her grandmother, Mrs. Shoenburger, some undivided attention during the house party.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Mrs. Shoenburger is a close friend of my grandmother, and, ah, it’s somewhat difficult to explain the reason behind the undivided attention. Or rather, ah, embarrassing.”

  Daphne examined the notes again and jotted something next to Finetta’s name. “I’m sure you do find it embarrassing that your grandmother, along with Miss Shoenburger’s grandmother, have decided to use your house party as a venue for their matchmaking.”

  Herman scratched his chin. “How did you come to that conclusion? It’s not as if I gave you much to work with.”

  “It’s my job at the agency to make reasonable deductions from statements our clients provide me with. I’m reasonably good at what I do. Besides, your grandmother’s desire to delve into matchmaking was hardly difficult to figure out, since grandmothers often resort to matchmaking attempts when their grandchildren reach a certain age.” She peered at him through the thick lenses of her spectacles. “You have to be at least thirty, which means, given your unmarried state, there was every likelihood your grandmother would decide to help you on your way to wedded bliss. She’s probably of the opinion you’ve been dragging your feet.”

  “For the record, I’m thirty-one, and, yes, Grandmother believes I’ve been negligent when it comes to the ladies. But in my defense, I’ve been occupied with daunting deadlines over the past few years.” He smiled. “That preoccupation has now resulted with Grandmother deciding to lend me a helping hand. Finetta Shoenburger is the lady my grandmother wants to see me settle my affections on the most, although there are several other ladies she’s been bringing into conversations of late. Those ladies have also been invited to the house party. Sheldon marked their names with asterisks in my notes so that I’ll be certain to direct some special attention their way, which will keep Grandmother from becoming distressed.”

  “That was very thoughtful of Sheldon.”

  “Does that mean you no longer consider him a suspect?”

  “Not at all. People can be thoughtful and shifty at the same time.” She poised her pencil over the page with Finetta’s name now written on it. “Is Miss Shoenburger a lady you hold in great affection, and if so, does she return that affection?”

  “I’m not well acquainted with Miss Shoenburger, although we seem to attend many of the same events.”

  “No doubt due to the manipulations of your grandmothers.”

  “Indeed. With that said, though, we’ve not spoken more than a few words to each other.”

  “Hence the reason for the house party,” Daphne said, writing something down.

  He craned his neck to see what she’d written. “Did you make a notation questioning why Finetta and I have not spoken much?”

  “I did. It’s odd that you wouldn’t engage in more active conversation with a young lady whom your grandmother wants you to court.”

  “Finetta’s very shy, and when you add in the fact that I seem to make her nervous, there’s nothing odd at all about our not conversing more.”

  “Your size is probably responsible for her nervousness,” Daphne said as she began writing again. “You are unusually large, which lends you an intimidating air.”

  “I’m a writer. Writers aren’t known to be intimidating sorts.”

  She lifted her head. “That’s not true. Many readers are intimidated by their favorite writers because they admire their work and believe writers are overly intellectual sorts, which apparently intimidates many people. Perhaps Miss Shoenburger, besides being intimidated by your size, is an admirer of your work, which results in her becoming tongue-tied in your presence.” She tapped her pencil against the notepad. “Granted, there is the possibility she only tolerates your presence because of her grandmother. That right there could be reason enough to add her to the top of the list of credible suspects.” She returned to her notes, but before Herman could compose a suitable argument about why Finetta was the last person who should be on a list of suspects, Daphne caught his eye. “I’m beginning to think your house party may give the Bleecker Street Inquiry Agency a prime opportunity to investigate those nearest and dearest to you. That is, if the agency decides to take up your case.”

  “How would you do that without being obvious? The majority of the guests attending the house party are known to each other. New faces would definitely stand out, as well as draw suspicion.”

  Daphne rose to her feet and began pacing around the room, not stopping until she’d circled the room seven times. “Someone from the agency will have to go undercover, perhaps as a servant, or . . .”

  Her eyes went distant as she resumed her pacing, stopping after she made it another three times around the room. “Instead of a servant, perhaps it would be better to have an agent pose as your assistant. An assistant would be expected to be in your company often, which would allow one of our agents to observe your guests.”

  “Which is an intriguing idea, except that Sheldon might take issue with my bringing on another assistant.”

  “If Sheldon’s responsible for the attempts on your life, bringing in a new assistant could very well lead to him escalating his attempts to murder you.”

  “But if Sheldon isn’t responsible, bringing on a new assistant will offend him. I would not care to do that.”

  “Which is very considerate of you, and that means . . .” Daphne stopped talking as she began pacing again, making it four trips around the room before she stopped and arc
hed a brow. “You said that Sheldon takes your work to a typist?”

  “I did.”

  “Well, that’s the solution, then. I know how to type, which gives you a very plausible reason for hiring me.”

  Herman rose to his feet. “You told me you rarely work in the field because of the questionable state of your nerves.”

  “My nerves seem to become less questionable when I’m in disguise.”

  “You said you fainted numerous times while disguised as Cleopatra.”

  “True, but I’m much less likely to swoon these days.”

  “Much less likely is not the same as never likely to swoon, especially if, in the course of investigating my guests, you happen upon the would-be murderer.”

  She winced. “I suppose that might be problematic.”

  “Or deadly, and you might be the person to end up dead.” He caught her eye. “Perhaps it might be for the best if a non-swooning agent takes over my case.”

  “No one else knows how to type, and again, I’m sure my swooning won’t be an issue since . . .” Daphne suddenly stopped talking as her eyes widened.

  Concern was swift and had Herman taking a step closer to her. “Is something the matter?”

  “Shh . . .” she whispered, her gaze fixed on something behind him. “Someone’s moving down the hallway. There’s a shadow flickering.”

  To Herman’s disbelief, she darted around him, dashed to where she’d left her cutlass, snagged it up, then took him completely aback when she stepped in front of him and brandished the cutlass in the direction of the doorway. “Stay behind me,” she demanded.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Get behind me.”

  “I’m the trained, or somewhat trained, professional here.”

  “No, you’re not, but now’s hardly the time to debate the matter, and—”

  Whatever else Herman was about to say died on the tip of his tongue when a huge brute of a dog suddenly materialized in the doorway, followed by a second dog. They stopped in the doorway and settled their beady eyes on Daphne, who was now waving her cutlass back and forth, the dogs’ heads moving from side to side as they considered her every wave.