The others snorted with laughter and I joined them, pleased to know that Derek had hired such likable people.
“We’ve got a few wrinkles,” Derek said, interrupting the merriment. “First of all, Tom believes he’s hired us to protect his people from a stalker who’s been tormenting the star of the show, Randolph Rayburn. Randy has been stalked for the past six months by an unknown person, so we have no physical description.”
Derek gave them all a brief rundown of the things the stalker had done in the past, the last of which may have been the peanut-allergy scare. “He—or she—has never threatened Randolph physically before, so his behavior appears to be escalating.”
“The stalker could be anyone in this building,” I added. “Randy’s a good-looking guy, so I thought we might be dealing with a woman, but he’s not convinced.”
“So, to be clear,” George said, “our assignment is to protect Randolph and Brooklyn, not the general population.”
“Brooklyn and Randolph,” Derek corrected, spearing each of his employees with a meaningful stare, just so there would be no mistaking the fact that I was their primary job. I wished us all luck with that.
“Yes,” Derek continued, “they’re the primary assignments. However, there’s an adjunct problem. While the stalker seems obsessed only with Randolph, the assailant who attacked Brooklyn is capable of hurting anyone who gets in his way.”
“So everyone here is at risk,” Barbara said.
“Yes,” Derek said. “Hypervigilance is called for at all times.”
George gave a brisk nod. “Got it, boss.”
? ? ?
After the producers and Derek’s security force went off to work the studio, I spent the rest of the day—whenever I wasn’t working onstage—holed up in my dressing room, doing more research on The Secret Garden.
I went back to all the rare-book sites I had visited during my original research of Vera’s book. The books I’d used for comparison were still available at each site, so I pored over their history and origin again, soaking up whatever skimpy background information they could provide on Frances Hodgson Burnett, the author.
Because I worked on books for a living, I often studied the writers and other book industry professionals, as well. If I was hired to track the provenance of a particular book, it was important to check out the publisher and even the original bookbinder and his bindery. That’s where I often found some interesting connections.
So in the hope of finding a connection, any connection, between Lug Nut and Grizzly Jones and this particular copy of The Secret Garden, I was willing to dig deeply into the background of Frances Hodgson Burnett. If that entailed going out on a limb or sliding down a rabbit hole to discover some helpful snippet of information, I would do it.
Not that I seriously believed the author of The Secret Garden would turn out to be Grizzly’s long-lost grandmother. Or great aunt. Or their mother’s third cousin’s beloved fifth-grade teacher. Or whoever. On the other hand, anything was possible. It didn’t pay to ignore the tiniest clue.
Reading about Frances Hodgson Burnett reminded me that authors were truly an odd bunch. I always enjoyed discovering little ironies in their lives, and in Frances’s case there were some fascinating ones. She had begun writing The Secret Garden while plotting out her own garden at the home she was building on Long Island. The young characters in her book began to thrive once they were able to draw from the redemptive power of nature, as one reviewer called it, referring to the plants and flowers within the walled garden of the book.
Frances evidently had thrived in the garden, as well. By every account, she loved gardening, right down to the dirty job of weeding. In one passage, her description of pulling weeds sounded more like a fierce warrior describing a battle than a gardener noting a small infestation of plants.
On another Web site, I found one measly tidbit of a story about Mrs. Burnett visiting New York City and taking in a Broadway play. It didn’t connect to any other aspect of her life in New York, though. Did she have an interest in playwriting? The theater? Big-city nightlife? It seemed to be a throwaway line, but I wanted to know more.
According to friends, Frances had a strong temper, but I couldn’t find out who or what it had been aimed at. She was said to have suffered mentally and physically, but nothing explained why or to what extent.
I smiled when I read that her close friends called her Fluffy. It didn’t jibe with the claim that she had a strong temper, and other than the theory that she occasionally wore wigs and frilly clothing, I could find no satisfactory explanation for the nickname.