“I’m sorry,” Melanie Joan was saying, “but I still don’t understand what difference any of this makes.”
“Sunny’s looking for an angle,” Spike said. We were already beyond the center of town. He was tackling the third in a series of sharp turns, as directed by the GPS. “She wants to understand what makes Book Babe tick, so you guys can get on her good side.”
I gave Spike a smile. “That’s right,” I said.
We moved through a residential area—ranch houses, mostly. Before long, those houses began to get fewer and farther between. We hit some woods, and the GPS led us through them. “I’m keeping my eyes peeled for a gingerbread house,” Melanie Joan said.
Spike snickered. The next turn landed us on an unpaved road called Robin’s Way. I remembered the name from the map Swinging Dick had provided. “This is her road,” I said.
“I’m a little nervous,” Melanie Joan said.
“I am, too.”
The road took us past a creek and up, winding around a mountain. My ears popped. Out of the passenger-side window, I could see the tops of trees.
“Nice view,” Spike said.
“Your destination is on the left,” the GPS said.
“It is?” I said.
“How trustworthy is this source of yours?” Melanie Joan said.
Spike drove another hundred feet or so. “GPS isn’t as accurate in rural areas,” he said. He drove a little bit longer until finally we saw a driveway, a mailbox out front with the same street number Swinging Dick had written. He turned in.
A two-story farmhouse with peeling yellow paint was perched at the edge of what might be politely called an English garden. Untrimmed hedges, a lawn out front that was more dandelions than grass, scraggly trees, wildflowers everywhere. A blooming wisteria was devouring a pergola that buckled under its weight. The place almost looked abandoned, save for the sleek black Porsche convertible parked on the grass beside the garage, its top down. It was as though Book Babe had completely neglected her home for the sake of this one pampered pet of a car. I could practically smell the oiled leather seats without having to open my window.
Spike pulled up behind the garage and cut the engine. I watched the house. In one of the top-floor windows, I could see a curtain moving. “Looks like she’s home,” I said to Melanie Joan. “You ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.”
We left the car. Spike stayed behind the wheel. We walked up to the door and Melanie Joan rang the bell. I heard footsteps, a female voice calling out, “Who is it?”
“My name is Sunny Randall.”
“Who?”
“I’m a private investigator,” I said. “I’m here with Melanie Joan Hall. We just want to talk to you. And apologize. Right, Melanie Joan?”
She didn’t say anything. I nudged her.
“I do want to apologize,” Melanie Joan said. It didn’t sound like her heart was in it, but I gave her a thumbs-up anyway. I motioned for her to take off her sunglasses. She did.
The footsteps grew nearer, then stopped. There was a drawn-out silence. It was so warm out here, the air around us heavy with the pasty smell of wild lilies. The hum of locusts was like static in my ears. “Hello?” I said. “Are you there?”
“Wait a minute,” said the voice.
We waited. And waited. Until finally, the door opened.
“Fuck,” Melanie Joan said.
I had a whole speech in my head that I’d prepared in the car on the way over. It had to do with women supporting one another and how, if they agreed to publicly bury the hatchet, both Book Babe and Melanie Joan could benefit from the publicity. I was going to tell her how genuinely sorry Melanie Joan was for posting that comment—as evidenced by how quickly she took it down—and how she wanted to make it up to Book Babe by helping her add thousands of new followers.
I’d planned on saying all of this by way of introducing Melanie Joan, who had promised me in the car that, should she have a chance to speak to Book Babe, she would be contrite, cordial, and, above all, humble.
But all of that evaporated when the door opened and we found ourselves face-to-face with the homeowner—a woman in baggy shorts and a T-shirt that saidI Think, Therefore I Read.
That woman was Leila Donnelly.
