After Midnight

31
THE OFFER

“Kind of,” I said, and shrugged and changed the subject. “I’m sure klutzy this morning.” I reached out and took a wadded napkin off the coffee table.
Murphy watched me blot the beer off my chest, but he said, “Tony already had a paper. Why would they bring him another one?”
“Some sort of mix-up?” I suggested, and slid the damp ball of paper down between my breasts. “They usually just do that if you call.”
“But he got his. And he’s not even home.”
I grinned and pulled out the napkin. “It’s a mystery, isn’t it? You’re a mystery writer. What do you think?”
He made a face, narrowing one eye and turning down a corner of his mouth. “Well, let me think. Obviously, someone called the Tribune and asked for a new paper to be delivered. Since Tony is gone, it’d be stretching things to assume that he made the call.”
“Wouldn’t make any sense at all,” I agreed.
“So somebody else must’ve asked for the paper.”
“But why would anyone want another paper delivered to Tony’s place?” I asked.
“Elementary, my dear Fran.”
“Oh?”
“Sure. It was some sort of a mix-up.”
I laughed and drank some more beer.
“It was delivered to Tony’s by mistake!” he pronounced.
“Sent to the wrong address?”
“Exactly!”
“You’re a genius!”
“You bet,” he said, and laughed. “Somewhere along the way, somebody misunderstood the address, or wrote it down wrong, or hit a wrong computer key…something like that.”
“You’re a regular Travis McGee,” I told him.
He beamed. “You know McGee?”
“Sure.”
“Well, now. I’d give you a beer, but you’ve already got one.”
“Well, I’ll take another when this one’s done. Maybe I’ve read some of your stuff. What name do you write under?”
“My own.”
“Murphy Scott?”
Looking pleased that I’d remembered, he said, “That’s it.”
“What are some of your books?”
“There’ve only been two so far. That have gotten published, anyway. Deep Dead Eyes and The Dark Pit.”
“Neat titles,” I said.
“Thanks.”
“How are the books?”
“Brilliant.”
“I thought you said they’re crap.”
“That was before I found out you’re a reader.”
“That makes a difference?”
“Sure. To someone who isn’t a reader, I might as well be writing crap.”
I laughed. “You’re weird, you know that?”
“Maybe a little. How about you?” he asked. “Are you weird?”
“What do you think?” Reaching out, I grabbed a few pretzels out of the bag between us. “You’re the mystery writer. What do you make of me?” I chomped a pretzel and grinned at him.
Taking a long drink, he gazed at me over the upper rim of his mug. Then he set down the mug, turned sideways on the couch so he faced me, and said, “I’ll say this about you. You’re not what you seem.”
It made me feel a little sick to hear him say that.
And it probably showed on my face.
Suddenly, the pretzel in my mouth went so dry I had a hard time swallowing it. I had to wash it down with some beer. Then I asked, “What do you mean?”
“Well,” he said, “you’re not really a redhead. That’s either a dye job or a very good wig, I’m not sure which.”
“What makes you think it isn’t natural?”
“A couple of things. Redheads usually have light skin and freckles, whereas you’ve got a nice dark tan. Also, you have brown eyes and eyebrows.”
“Ah. Okay. You’re right. It’s a wig. Anything else?”
“I guess that’s about it,” he said.
Alarms went off inside me.
I could tell by the look in his eyes that there was something else.
Something a lot bigger than my hair color.
“What is it?” I asked.
He shrugged. “This and that. Why don’t you tell me?”
“Tell you what?”
“Who you really are.”
“I’m just me.”
“And what’s really going on.”
“Nothing’s going on.”
“Hang on,” he said. “I want to show you something.”
“Okay.”
I sat there with my beer while he got up and walked over to a corner of the living room. There, he crouched over a cardboard box and opened its lid.
I thought about bolting.
I also thought about attacking him.
But I had no idea what he knew—or what he thought he knew.
Besides, I sort of liked him.
He took a book out of the box, then came back to the couch and handed it to me. A hardbound copy of Deep Dead Eyes by Murphy Scott.
The front picture showed a dead woman under water. You seemed to be looking down at her from the surface of a lake or river as if you were in a rowboat or something. She was a few feet below the surface, and sort of blurry. She seemed to be naked, but you couldn’t make out the details very well. What you could really make out was the way her eyes were gazing up at you.
“That’s for you,” Murphy said.
“Really? Thanks. Will you autograph it for me?”
“Sure thing. But first, take a look at the back cover.”
I flipped the book over. On the back of the dust jacket was a black-and-white photograph of Murphy standing in front of a tree. In jeans and a plaid shirt, he looked like a hunter or fisherman. The picture, taken at an odd upward angle, looked as if the photographer had been more interested in the tree than in Murphy. The tree sure looked a lot more menacing than the author.
“Do you recognize me?” he asked.
“Sure. Nice picture.”
“Thanks. And it shows that I am who I say I am, right?”
“A writer, you mean?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s either you, or you’ve got a twin.”
“It’s me,” he said.
“I believe you.”
“Want the autograph now?”
“Sure.” I handed the book to him.
Holding it, he bent over and searched the cluttered table until he found a pen. Then he stepped around the table, sat on the couch and opened the book on his lap. He turned to the title page. At the top right corner, he scribbled the date. Then he smiled at me and asked, “Do you want it personally inscribed?”
“Sure.”
“To…?”
“Me.”
“Fran?”
“Sure.”
“Are you sure? Is Fran the name you want on here? Is Fran your real name?”
“Why shouldn’t it be?”
He made a little shrug, then lowered his head and wrote a brief message in the book. Below the message, he scratched his autograph. Then he passed the book to me.
The inscription said:
To Fran,
My mysterious and beautiful guest—
Tell me your story.
Who knows? Maybe my next book will be about you.
Warmest Regards,
Murphy Scott
I lifted my eyes to his. “Thanks,” I said, and shut the book.
“How about it?”
“Tell you my story? What makes you think I have a story?”
“Your red hair.”
“And what else?”
“Your telephone call to Tony’s sister.”
“What about it?”
“It was a fake. You were still on the phone with her when I came back from checking for Tony’s car. Remember?”
“Yeah.”
“And you told her that Tony’s car was gone?”
I nodded.
“Well, I could hear the busy signal.”
“No, you couldn’t.”
“Yes, I could. I was standing right next to you. I heard it coming out of the earpiece. It was very quiet, but…”
“There wasn’t any busy signal. I was talking to Tony’s sister.”
“The question is, why?”
“She was worried about him.”
“You weren’t talking to her. You were talking to a busy signal. But that’s all right. Okay? I just want to know what’s going on. I’m curious. Maybe it is something I can write about. And maybe I can help you.”
“Who says I need any help?”
“You’ve gotta be awfully desperate to put on a disguise and come over here the way you did—make up a story about being stood up for breakfast.”
I shook my head and tried to look stupid.
“And Morning Dehydration Syndrome? You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Just because you’ve never heard of it…”
He smiled and shook his head. “And the second Tribune? You must’ve called in the request for it. My guess is, you needed to get into Tony’s apartment for some reason, but you didn’t know which one it was. So you called for a replacement paper. You wanted to see where it got delivered.”
“You oughta be a writer,” I told him, smiling and shaking my head. “With an imagination like that…”
“Am I wrong?”
“Dead wrong.”
“Oooh. Don’t say things like that, okay? To a writer, that sounds like some sort of ironic foreshadowing. I’m not at all interested in getting myself killed. I’m fascinated by your situation, that’s all.”
“You don’t even know my situation.”
“Tell me about it.”
“What do you think is going on?” I asked him.
“Tony had something in his apartment, and you wanted it. You had to get it. Maybe you figured you just couldn’t wait for the Tribune guy, so you thought up the breakfast story and came to my door, hoping you could trick me into letting you into his place. While I was searching for him, you tried to take care of your problem, whatever it was. And you made the fake call to his sister to add a touch of verisimilitude to your story.”
Laughing, I said, “What a crock.”
“Was he blackmailing you? What?”
“He stood me up for breakfast.”
Murphy raised his right hand and said, “No matter what, I’ll never tell a soul.”
“Nothing to tell.”
“I’ll give you a thousand dollars for your story.”
“Haw!”
“And if it’s something usable, we can work out a deal so you get a percentage of everything.”
“You really are curious.”
“Nothing like this has ever happened to me before,” he said.
“Nothing like what?”
“I’m minding my own business when a gorgeous mystery woman comes to my door and drags me into her intrigue.”
Gorgeous?
“It’s a first,” he said. “This sort of thing just doesn’t happen in real life. Not to me, anyway. At least it never did until this morning.”
“Maybe I’d better leave.”
“No, don’t. Please. You’ve got no idea how great this is. For me. Do you want another beer? Something else? Just name it, I have to know what’s going on. Was Tony blackmailing you? Did he have pictures of you, or…?”
I shook my head.
“What’ll it take for you to tell?” he asked.
“I guess I’ll take another beer,” I told him.
Nodding, he stood up. “You won’t run off, will you?”
“Not a chance.”
He raised his eyebrows as if he wanted to know why.
“I can’t run off,” I explained. “I might have to kill you.”
Which was a joke. I didn’t intend to kill him. There’d be no need for it. Like I already mentioned, I planned to ensure his silence by getting him to screw me.