people. I loved writing that book. You know, I still have readers who send me letters telling me that they pretend that book doesn’t exist. And I get letters telling me it’s the only good thing I ever wrote.”
“Well, can’t please everyone all the time.”
“That’s the truth. I remember when I wrote Sticking Place I showed it to my agent first. My agent back then. You remember Bob Drachman? He told me he couldn’t put it down, but that they’d never publish it. Ellis wasn’t a coldhearted killer, he said. You’ll lose half your readers. I told him I might lose half, but I’d get twice as many back. He asked for a second draft, one that wasn’t so brutal, so, of course, I added another murder.”
“Which one?” I said.
“I can’t remember. No, I do. I think it’s the guy she locks in the freezer and leaves there. Yeah, that was the one, because Bob admitted he liked that scene when he read the final book. Anyway, I told him to submit the manuscript or I’d look for another agent, and so he sent it in. They published it, and, guess what, the world kept turning.”
“And you probably doubled your readers.”
“I don’t know about that, but I didn’t lose many. And I picked up an Edgar, so there was that.”
“It’s a good book.”
“Thanks for that, Mal,” he said.
“You never wanted to write another one in the same vein? Another Ellis revenge book?”
“Nah, not really. Thing is, you only need to do it once, and then the reader knows that Ellis has this side to her. But if every time she lost someone she loved, she went on some kind of killing spree, then she’d be someone else. No, it only happens once. She gets broken. She gets her revenge, and she knows she can never let that side of her take over again. I did, however, write a book without her once, did I ever tell you about that?”
He had, of course, but I told him that I didn’t think so.
“Yeah, I wrote a standalone. This was a couple of years after Sticking Place, I think. It was another revenge book but with a guy this time. South Boston cop whose wife gets raped and murdered by a bunch of Irish thugs. He tracks ’em down and takes them all out. I wrote it in about two weeks, read it over, and realized I’d basically rewritten Sticking Place. So I stuck it in my drawer and forgot about it.”
“You still have it?”
“Jesus,” he said, scratching the side of his rubbery nose. “That’s when I was living with Mary out in Newton so who knows if it survived the move. But, yeah, I don’t remember throwing it out so it’s around here somewhere.”
“You talking about Mary?” Tess said, coming into the room. She was no longer wearing the apron, and it looked as though she’d put on some makeup.
“Yeah, the good old days,” Brian said. “Dinner ready?”
“Dinner’s ready.”
We went down to the ground floor and ate by candlelight at the dining room table nestled in front of the bay window that looked out onto the street. Humphrey the dog had been given some sort of treat and was busy chewing on it from his dog bed in the corner. Tess had made braised short ribs, and between the three of us we went through three bottles of wine before she brought out dessert, a clementine tart.
“Did you make this?” I said.
“God, no. I cook, but I don’t bake. Who wants port?”
“We don’t,” Brian said, looking at me. “Let’s have some of that whiskey I was talking about earlier. The Talisker.”
“You can have that,” Tess said. “I’ll have port.”
“Can I get it for you?” I said and stood up, banging my thigh a little against the edge of the table.
“Thank you, Mal, that would be lovely. There’s port down in our cellar. Bri, tell him which bottle he should grab. And the whiskey’s upstairs, I think.”
I was given my instructions and went down into the basement first to look for the port. I’d never been down there before; it was semifinished, the walls Sheetrocked, but the floor just poured cement. Along one wall was an enormous bookcase. I went over to look at it and found that it was entirely filled with books by Brian Murray, all the various versions, including foreign editions, of his Ellis Fitzgerald series. I stood, staring at them for a moment, aware that I’d had far too