"Oh, you packed your gear, did you? Then where is it?"

"In the trunk of my car. Where else?" Rubino ripped off the prescription and handed it to me. "Now if you'll give me back my signed book, I'll be on my way."

"But… "

Dr. Rubino snatched the book from my hands. "I'd advise you to get that prescription filled right away, Penelope. The stress is obviously getting to you." Then he turned on his heel and began to walk away. "And don't take it with alcohol," he tossed over his shoulder.

Congratulations, baby, your gumshoeing just got hinky.

"Well, you weren't exactly a big help."

There was no saving that interrogation, honey. It was about the absolute worst I've seen in all my years-and I'm including the dead ones.

"You don't need to rub it in."

Tell you what: I'll make it up to you.

"What? Another night tailing cheating husbands while drinking martinis stirred not shaken?"

No baby, another lead. Turn around and take a look at who else seems to be Dr. Rubino's friend.

Through the archway connecting the Events room to the store's selling floor, I saw Randall Rubino speaking with someone. I took a few steps closer to the room's exit and finally saw who: Harmony Middleton. The two were standing very close, their heads bent together in private conversation. As I watched, it appeared the good doctor was growing impatient, even angry.

A lover's spat? Jack proposed.

"Could be," I replied.

Suddenly, Rubino stepped back, grasped young Harmony's upper arm, and pulled her away from the crowded part of the store.

Get closer, baby. Follow them.

I did. Careful to stay clear of their sightline, I tailed them to a quiet aisle near the back corner, where I stocked a collection of children's and young adult mysteries for the families in the area. I peeked around the endcap display of Encyclopedia Brown books-the ones Spencer had devoured back in fourth grade.

"Come on, Randy… you know I need it."

It was Harmony's voice and it sounded whiney, like a brat who wanted candy.

"Let's not go down that road again, Harmony. You remember what happened the last time."

"You're being difficult. Can't you see my side?"

"Let's table this discussion. It's not the time or place. Talk to me another time, all right?"

"When?"

"Whenever you need to. Ring my cell, and we can straighten this out."

The two parted then, and I quickly moved away from the aisle.

"What do you think, Jack? Seems awfully suspicious," I noted.

Jack agreed then reminded me of one more suspicious thing. Dr. Charm says he was looking for a fishing spot when you saw him hiking near the lighthouse with a backpack, right?

"Right."

When you saw him out there, he was carrying a pack and nothing else. Where the hell was his fishing pole?

CHAPTER 14. True Crime

I RETURNED TO the front of the store, resolving to keep Randall Rubino high on my "suspects with hinky alibis" list. I noticed Brainert finishing up a call on his cell. I walked over to him.

"Have you spoken with Dr. Pepper?"

Brainert closed his phone. "All I get is his voice mail. I've tried his home, the college, even the box office at the theater, but I can't locate the man." He sighed. "I'm sure Pierce Armstrong is settled at Wendell's house by now, but the old man might be reluctant to answer someone else's phone-"

"Then let's drive over. Surely Armstrong will answer the door if he's there."

Brainert nodded. "My thoughts exactly. I'm parked right across the street, and it's a short drive to Larchmont Avenue."

"Let's go."

I gave Sadie a heads-up, grabbed my purse from behind the sales counter, and hurried back to Brainert, who quickly scanned the room. "No sign of Seymour," he said, and started for the door.

"Wait! I'm sure he's around. He was helping me with Hedda's signing, but we're all through with that now, so he's probably changing out of his uniform-"

"No, no, Pen. You misunderstand," Brainert whispered conspiratorially. " Seymour 's absence is a good thing. We don't need him fawning over Pierce Armstrong while we try to interview the man, or poking fun at Dr. Pepper's good name and embarrassing us both."

Suddenly a large arm snaked around Brainert's neck and a beefy hand mussed his neatly combed hair.

"That's what I love about you, Brainiac," Seymour said. "Always a stickler for etiquette."

Brainert quickly extricated himself from his friend's bear hug and smoothed down his neatly cut brown hair. He whirled to face Seymour and gasped.

"What's the matter?" Seymour said, arms wide. "I told you I was going to change into civilian clothes."

Seymour 's large T-shirt sported a vintage Mighty Mouse flying over a cartoon skyline, tiny cape fluttering in the breeze. His hairy legs stuck out of khaki shorts that ended just above his dimpled knees. Size-twelve feet were tucked into clogs, which he wore sans socks.

Brainert groaned. "How old are you?"

"Old enough," Seymour replied.

"Except for your lack of a baseball hat-worn backward, of course-you could pass for one of my college students' younger siblings."

Seymour reached back, yanked a ragged Red Sox cap out of his back pocket, and donned it backward.

"Let's go," he said. "I can't wait to meet Pierce Armstrong."

Larchmont Avenue was a quiet, shady boulevard at the top of a picturesque hill on the edge of town. The homes were large three- and four-story structures surrounded by expansive lawns and lush topiaries. Each house was unique. Many had flagstone paths, balconies, even widow's walks circling their roofs. The oaks, elm, maple, and chestnut trees that dotted the lawns and hugged the walls of the homes were well over a century old. And no home here was built later than the 1920s. That was about the last time most people in our little town of Quindicott had been able to afford a new house as large as these.

The dean of St. Francis's School of Communications lived here, too, in a sprawling three-story building of sand-colored stone, red roof tiles, arched windows, and wrought-iron balconies.

On the drive over, Brainert had explained that the dean's large house was a repository for his lifelong interest in certain collectibles.

"It's practically a museum dedicated to Hollywood of the 1940s through the '70s, chiefly related to film noir. I'm sure you'll both be impressed. It's a superb collection. The Smithsonian has expressed interest in obtaining certain pieces after his death."

Brainert parked at the curb. He tried his colleague's home phone one more time, but only connected with the answering machine.

With a sigh, he closed his cell phone. "Let's go."

We followed a winding stone path through a manicured lawn trimmed in dark green shrubs and bright red tulips. At the large front porch, we paused in front of the door.

"I hope someone's here," Brainert said as he rang the bell.

I heard movement in the house on the second ring. The lock clicked and to my surprise screenwriter and novelist Maggie Kline opened the door.

"Parker! What a surprise!" Laugh lines creased the edges of her eyes as she gave him a big smile. She adjusted her red-framed glasses and put a hand on the hip of her low-waisted khakis. "And you brought friends, I see. Is this a party? Did Wendell invite you over? Come on in."

We entered a high-roofed foyer with bright yellow walls and a slowly rotating ceiling fan. The space was dominated by a huge framed poster for the film Taxi Driver. The central image of Robert De Niro as Travis Bickle was framed by a yellow border, which matched the walls. Below it was a glass case, displaying a pistol rigged on some kind of sliding rail-a prop from one of the movie's scenes, I assumed.