Clyde looked hard at Harper. "This is not Elliott Traynor, this guy in the Traynor cottage who's the spitting image of Traynor, who looks like Traynor's picture on his book jackets, who is supposed to be suffering from terminal cancer? Who is overseeing the production of Traynor's play and finishing up Traynor's novel?"

"Fry cook from Jersey," Garza said. "Dead ringer for Traynor."

Clyde shook his head. "And Traynor's agent was worried because his work was so bad? A fry cook is writing Traynor's book? And is Vivi a fake as well?"

"That's Mrs. Traynor," Harper said. "They came close to pulling it off."

"They killed him?"

"Not sure yet," Harper said. "New York's working on that."

"How did you…?

"Someone knew," Garza said. "Or suspected. Someone blew the whistle. Called the agent, told her it was time to take her problem to NYPD, to talk to the detectives."

Clyde shuffled the deck. "I'm getting lost here. It would be nice if you guys would start at the beginning."

"Talk about chutzpah," Harper said. "Fry cook with no literary talent, impersonating one of the country's top writers."

"And you have them in jail."

"Brought them in late this morning," Garza said. "They were packing up, getting ready to skip. We're holding them on illegal disposal of a body, until New York decides if it was homicide."

Garza counted his chips, then looked up at Clyde. "Elliott Traynor died six weeks before they were to fly out here. No one knew, there was no report made of his death. For all intents and purposes, Elliott boarded the plane with Vivi."

"No one might have known," Harper said, "except that Traynor's book wasn't finished when they left New York. When they got out here, the writing suddenly turned inept. Apparently this fry cook can't write worth a damn."

"What did they do with the body?" Clyde asked. "You can't just-"

"Seems Vivi dressed him in old ragged clothes, old shoes. Elliott had lost weight, didn't look well, and that fit right in. She left him in an alley-a dead John Doe, one of New York's homeless."

"Agent got concerned," Garza said, "because Traynor's last chapters were so bad. She started poking around, then called Max.

"Agent was waiting for us to check on Traynor, when someone from Molena Point called her. Suggested she get over to NYPD and talk to the detectives, take them a picture of Traynor."

Clyde didn't ask who called the agent. Under the table, his foot was tapping. He eased back his chair as if he found it hard to sit still.

"The agent's visit paid off," Garza said. "One of the detectives remembered a John Doe that looked like Traynor. Body was tucked away in the morgue waiting to be ID'd. The detective took the photo and ran with it. Got the agent to bring him some manuscript pages-some that Traynor sent before they left New York, and some later chapters that were sent from here."

Harper said, "Prints on the chapters Traynor wrote before they left the city matched the John Doe. The other set, on the chapters sent from Molena Point, are Vivi's, most of them. One or two that match up with the fry cook. And," he glanced at Charlie, "some prints where the housekeeper had moved the manuscript, when she dusted the desk."

"You had Vivi's and this guy's prints?" Clyde asked.

"We were able to lift them from the house," Harper told him, "sent them overnight to New York."

"Another few weeks," Garza said, "and Elliot might have been buried in a pauper's grave to make room for new bodies."

"But why would Vivi… How did Traynor die?"

Harper shook his head. "The body was found by a garbage collector behind a row of trash cans. Unshaven, dirty, shaggy hair. Nothing visible to indicate the cause of death. Usually, whether the coroner suspects murder or not, on a John Doe they'll take blood and tissue samples for later investigation.

"Even though he was really too clean, no thick calluses on his feet, no sores or signs of prolonged ill health, New York thought Traynor was homeless. They're a busy department. Overworked, backed up on investigations, as is the medical department. They didn't take samples. Tucked him away hoping they'd get an inquiry, someone looking for him."

"But why didn't they run his prints?"

"They ran his prints," Harper said. "No record. Even if he'd had a driver's license, New York DMV doesn't take prints. Only a picture. Could be, they would never have made the connection except for Traynor's agent and whoever tipped her. I talked with her this afternoon. She's not taking this too well-they were close friends. She's convinced it was murder.

"She said Traynor had plotted a smashing ending to the book, a finale that fit the story yet would blow the reader away. Said Traynor plotted carefully before he began to write, and that he always adhered to his outline. She said the plot was followed in the last chapters, but the writing was not like Traynor's work. She thought for a while that it was the medication.

"She said that for several weeks after he sent the first chapters, while he was still in New York-when the writing first turned bad-Vivi wouldn't let her talk with Traynor when she called. Vivi claimed he had a bad cold, on top of the cancer and his treatments, that his condition was pretty serious, so McElroy didn't push it. Said she was leaving town for a week's conference. When she got back, Traynor did finally return her calls but he was forgetful and his voice muted, like the cold was hanging on. What upset her was that he didn't want to talk about the book, didn't seem able to talk intelligently about it. She wondered if he'd had a stroke, but Vivi denied that.

"Then," Harper said, "Traynor decided to come to California to oversee the play and finish the book, despite his illness. McElroy said she was worried about him doing that."

"But," Clyde said, "if Traynor died naturally, from the cancer, if Vivi didn't kill him, why wouldn't she have a bang-up funeral and collect his estate?"

"If the book wasn't finished," Harper said, "she might have to give back his advance. And the guy had four previous wives. Maybe he didn't leave much to Vivi."

"Then you're saying she had no motive to kill him? That he died a natural death, but she didn't want anyone to find out?"

"That remains to be seen," Harper said.

Joe and Dulcie exchanged a glance of smug satisfaction. But they lowered their eyes when they saw Clyde watching them, and began diligently to wash-the age-old ritual of pulling a little curtain of disinterested preoccupation around themselves.

Garza said, "Apparently she met this fry cook some six months ago. Willy Gasper, working in a little hole-in-the-wall in Queens." That made Joe swallow back a laugh. This tall, well-dressed, elegant-looking man that everyone thought was an author of international fame-this guy's name was Willie Gasper?

"Think about it," Garza said. "She discovers a dead ringer for Elliott. Elliott's ill, she assumes he's terminal somewhere down the line. She knows that when he dies, the writing income is reduced, and that very likely four ex-wives could have some claim on his assets. Willie presents a ready-made way to keep Elliott in the picture, convince everyone that he's still alive. Not hard, she thinks, if she offers Willie the right deal.

"She'll have to take over Elliott's writing, but she has his research, and this book's three-fourths finished. She figures she can do that."

Garza smiled. "Apparently it didn't occur to Vivi that she might not be able handle the literary side of the matter. The opportunity was too good. How could she pass it up?"

Harper said, "The New York medical examiner should have an answer in a day or two as to whether she killed him or he died of natural causes. Meantime, the two of them are in jail raising all kinds of hell.

"When we get this sorted out," Harper continued, "we may find a link between these two and Augor Prey. We picked Prey up last night. Prey and Casselrod."