Chapter 33

CHAPTER 33

POE WAS PARTIALLY blinded by the stage lights as he walked across the dais with his partners. When he sat down at the table, with a microphone aimed at each of them, the glare was less piercing, and the audience came into view—maybe a thousand people or more.

The ballroom was set up with rows of chairs fanning toward the back in four neat sections. In the center of each aisle, volunteers in matching outfits stood facing the stage, cradling wireless mics.

Poe recognized the woman who had introduced them. She was now seated in the moderator’s chair. It was Anna Spahr, a New York crime reporter from the local NBC affiliate. Her perfect teeth gleamed as she leaned forward in her chair and looked across the stage at them.

“Welcome, Holmes, Marple, and Poe!” she said, drawing another quick burst of applause. “If the audience will indulge me, I’ll ask the first question.” She glanced at her note cards, then looked up again. “Please tell us what first drew you to the world of crime investigation.”

Poe tried hard not to roll his eyes. In his peripheral vision, he saw Holmes lean toward the table mic in front of him. “Truth, justice, and the American way,” he said somberly. Then he slumped back.

There were a few snorts and titters from the audience. Then Poe heard Marple’s voice crackle through the room.

“Crimes are like puzzles, aren’t they?” she said. She’d dialed up her accent, sounding chipper enough to bounce off the walls, instantly lifting the mood. “I think we all like solving puzzles. And when we solve a crime, whether it’s in a story or in the real world, it’s incredibly satisfying. Am I right?”

This drew positive murmurs and a solid ripple of claps.

Poe sighed and settled into his chair. How long will this take again? But the next fifteen minutes or so moved relatively quickly, with Marple doing the bulk of the work keeping the audience charmed.

“Impostors!” A loud voice from the audience.

Spahr whipped around and placed her hand above her eyes to peer past the lights and into the crowd. “Please!” she said. “If you have a question, one of the ushers will bring you a microphone.”

Poe sat up straight in his chair as one of the volunteers approached a very tall bald man with glasses. He took the mic. “Just kidding,” he said, breaking into a grin. “You’re among friends here. But let’s face facts. Clever as it is, Holmes, Marple, and Poe is a publicity stunt, right?”

Poe squinted. He recognized the man from his book jacket photos. It was Harlan Coben, a bestselling crime author and winner of the Edgar Award, named after… who else? Edgar Allan Poe.

“I’d like to hear your real origin story,” Coben said. “If you dare.” He handed the mic back and sat down to hearty chuckles and pats on the back.

Poe leaned forward and cleared his throat. “Mr. Coben is right,” he said. “We’re frauds.” Awkward silence. Poe lowered his head, and his voice. “We actually met in a mystery book club as undergrads at—”

“ No! He’s lying!” Holmes interrupted. “He’s very good at that. It was at a murder mystery dinner party in Secaucus fifteen years ago. At one point in the evening, the three of us found ourselves locked in the library—”

“With Professor Plum and Colonel Mustard,” added Marple brightly.

A big laugh from the crowd.

“Hold on!” A female voice from the other side of the room.

Poe looked over. He spotted a slightly built woman with bright red hair. In her first two words, he had picked up a slight Irish lilt.

“What is it with these false identities?” she asked. “How do you expect us to believe this claptrap?”

“Do you mind giving us your name?” asked Spahr, trying to reassert control.

“I’m Tana French,” said the woman.

Christ! thought Poe. Another highly successful crime author. And another damned Edgar Award winner. They were beset by the best.

Marple spoke up again. “I have something to say, and I’ve never said this before. Don’t let it leave this room, but my actual name is not Marple.” She paused for a beat. “It’s Christie.” Some genuine gasps from the crowd.

“Oh, please !” Another female voice, this time from the front row. Poe looked down as an usher walked over with a mic. The speaker had thick brown hair and a round, open face. “Hello. My name is Lisa Gardner.”

Dear God, make it stop, thought Poe. Another great crime writer, with a famously analytical mind.

“If you can’t be honest about who you really are, why should we believe a word you say?” Gardner asked.

Poe looked over at Holmes, who seemed played out. But not Marple. She was obviously loving this. She leaned forward, her arms resting on the table. “Why not ? Don’t we accept the over-the-top tales you tell? Willing suspension of disbelief, right? And speaking of playing with names, Ms. Gardner, would you care to identify Alicia Scott?”

A burst of chuckles from the crowd. Gardner tightened her grip on the mic and glanced around before replying, “Everybody here knows that Alicia Scott is a pseudonym I used when writing romantic suspense. It’s a pen name. A simple literary device.”

“Is it?” asked Marple. “How can we be sure which name is the real you? If you like, we’d be happy to investigate.”

Poe leaned toward his mic. “No charge.”

Amid the guffaws that followed, Anna Spahr walked briskly to the podium and made a broad show of looking at her wristwatch. “Well, ladies and gentlemen, as you know, our schedule has been thrown a little out of whack. So let’s thank our panelists and head out through the rear exits for a little reception and more conversation.”

Poe was the first one off the stage, as light applause echoed in his ears.

Marple was next. “Wasn’t that delightful?” she said. She turned to Holmes. “Be honest, Brendan. Won’t you miss the spotlight?”

Holmes scowled. “Not for one second.”