Milo’s bedroom door stood open, and he sat at his desk, alive and beguiled by electronic gizmos that meant less to me than would ancient tablets of stone carved with runes.
On the desk, watching her master at work, sat Lassie. She looked up as I entered, but Milo did not.
“Did you see him?” I asked.
Milo, who can multitask better than a Cray supercomputer, stayed focused on the gizmos but said, “See who?”
“The man … a guy wearing a red bow tie. Did he come in here?”
“You mean the man with three eyes and four nostrils?” he asked, revealing that perhaps he had been more aware of my spy game at the restaurant than I had realized.
“Yes, him,” I confirmed. “Did he come in here?”
“Nope. We would have freaked if he did.”
“Shout if you see him. I’ll be right back.”
The door to Penny’s studio was closed. I flung it open, rushed inside, and found her at the easel.
So dimensional was the image of the villain owl that it seemed to be flying at me from out of the canvas, beak wide to rend and eyes hot for blood.
Certain that she knew the cause of my breathless entrance, Penny spoke before I could say a word: “Did the coffeemaker assault you or have you used the dishwasher again and flooded the kitchen?”
“Big problem,” I said. “Milo. Come quick.”
She put down her brush and hurried after me. When she saw Milo tinkering in peace and Lassie without hackles raised, Penny sighed with relief and said to me, “The punch line better be hilarious.”
“Stay here with him. Brace the door with that chair when I leave.”
“What? Why?”
“If someone asks you to open the door, even if it sounds like me, don’t open it.”
“Cubby—”
“Ask something only I would know—like where we went on our first date. He probably can’t imitate my voice—I mean, he’s not a comic-book supercriminal, for God’s sake—but you never know.”
“He who? What’s wrong with you?”
“There was an intruder. I think he’s gone, but I’m not sure.”
Her eyes widened as might those of a mouse in the sudden shadow of a swooping owl. “Call 911.”
“He’s not that kind of intruder.”
“There isn’t any other kind.”
“Besides, I might have imagined him.”
“Did you see him or not?”
“I saw something.”
“Then it’s 911.”
“I’m a public figure. The media will follow the cops, it’ll be a publicity circus.”
“Better than you dead.”
“I’ll be okay. Use the chair as a brace.”
“Cubby—”
Stepping into the shorter of the two upstairs hallways, I pulled the door shut. I waited until I heard the headrail of the straight-backed chair knock against the knob as she jammed it into place.
Dependable Penny.
Reason argued that a renowned critic and textbook author like Shearman Waxx was not likely to be a psychopath. Eccentric, yes, and perhaps even weird. But not homicidal. Reason, in its true premodern meaning, had served me well for many years.
Nevertheless, from a hall table, I seized a tall, heavy vase with a fat bottom and a narrow neck. Flat-footed athlete that I am, I held it as I would have held a tennis racket—awkwardly.
In addition to Milo’s quarters, this back hall served two small guest rooms, a bath, and a utility closet. Quickly, quietly, I opened doors, searched, found no one.
As I turned toward the longer of the two second-floor hallways— off which lay the master suite, Penny’s studio, and another bedroom that we used for storage—I heard a noise downstairs. The short-lived clatter rose through the back stairwell, from the kitchen, and the silence in its wake had an ominous quality.
Ceramic vase held high, as if I were a contestant in a Home and Garden Television version of a reality show like Survivor, defending my home with any available decorative item, I cautiously descended the stairs.
Waxx wasn’t in the kitchen or in the family room beyond. All appeared to be in order.
The swinging door between the kitchen and the downstairs hall was closed. I didn’t think it had been closed earlier.
As I eased open the door, I saw Waxx at the far end of the hallway, exiting my study on the right, crossing the foyer.
“Hey,” I called to him. “What’re you doing?”
He didn’t reply or glance at me, but disappeared into the library.