“Yeah. They didn’t really seem to think much of it.”
Calvin handed it back. “Sounds personal.”
“I guess.” I set the note on the coffee table before turning to Calvin. “But what am I supposed to make of it? I read Christopher Holmes’s mysteries, so sue me.”
“And Christie, Doyle, English—”
“All right, all right. I read a lot of mysteries. I get it.”
Calvin put a hand on my knee. “Nothing else out of the ordinary has happened?”
“No.” I put my hand over his, running my fingertips along his knuckles. “Max brought up an interesting point, though.”
“What’s that?”
“A copycat.”
Calvin slowly shook his head. “No, I don’t believe that’s the case. A copycat tries to emulate the original criminal, so he or she wouldn’t have acknowledged you in such a forward fashion in this case. Andrews couldn’t rationalize the world outside of Poe’s writing. I’d suspect anyone else attempting to pick up where he left off would at least reproduce his form of communication.”
“That’s more or less what I figured,” I replied. “Still. It’s… weird.”
“I’ll make some calls tomorrow,” Calvin said. “Check in and see if he’s had any visitors.”
“Thanks. I appreciate that.”
“Of course, sweetie.” Calvin resumed eating again before he asked, “Promise me one thing?”
I leaned over to grab my food from the table, but paused and looked sideways at Calvin. “What’s that?”
“You won’t take it upon yourself to investigate, if something else were to happen.”
“Very funny,” I muttered, taking my carton.
“I’m being serious, Seb.”
“I’m well aware of who the detective is in this relationship.”
Calvin grunted.
The only murders I was trying to solve these days were in the paperbacks I’d read a dozen times already. I admit that hunting for clues and piecing a real-life mystery together was a thrill I could easily become addicted to, but in the end, I wasn’t one for violence. The thought of firing another gun in my lifetime was more than enough to rein me in.
We all have our strengths and should stick to what best suits us. Calvin was made to fight bad guys. It was in his DNA to be a hero, to save people, to solve crimes. Me? I’m a hoarder of information. I know the history of picture buttons and of Victorian mourning clothes. I know how to spot fake tin types. And I liked what I did.
Antiques suited my temperament just fine.
Besides. Solving crimes Calvin-style meant being extremely fit, and I was more of the second-slice-of-cake sort of guy.
After Sherlock Jr., we watched Buster Keaton’s Cops, which got quite a number of laughs from Calvin. We were about halfway through Steamboat Bill, Jr. when the effects of greasy food, beers, and a dark room began to get the best of me. I felt Calvin pet my head and I opened my eyes.
“Want to go to bed?”
“Did I fall asleep?” I asked in return, yawning.
“Dozed off.”
I blinked a few times and sat up from where I had been leaning against Calvin’s shoulder. The sound of heavy rain could be heard over the slapstick music.
Calvin reached for the remote and turned the film off. “Come on.”
