To the Manor Dead (22 page)

I poked my head
into Josie’s room, Sputnik by my side. She was in bed, reading Stephen King. Two suitcases were on the floor by the door.

“Big day tomorrow,” I said.

She nodded.

“I’m sure they’re a terrific family.”

She nodded again.

“The check came today for the two squeeze toys you sold on eBay. I owe you your commission.”

“I only accept cash.”

“Thatta girl.”

I went over and sat on the edge of her bed, fussed with her blanket.

“I’m proud of you, Josie.”

“Thank you for being my friend,” she said.

“Thank you for being mine. You were a big help in solving this murder. And, hey, Troy is only about fifty miles away. What do you say I give you a couple of weeks to settle in, then I come up and take you out to dinner?”

She nodded. I touched her cheek. I could see that, like me, she was willing herself to stay cool. She was going to need that strength a lot more than she needed some soapy farewell.

“See you in the morning.” I kissed her forehead and stood up. “Come on, Sput.”

I went into my bedroom and got undressed. I was exhausted, in that bone-deep way that feels like release. Sputnik curled up on his rug. I crawled under the covers. The moon was almost full and moonlight spread across the ceiling.

Just as I was halfway to dreamland, there was a ping on my window.

I swung my legs over the side of my bed and looked down to my ratty backyard.

There was Mad John, with a pile of debris tucked under his arm, traipsing through town in the moonlight, gathering the makings of his new raft.

He waved.

I hesitated.

Then I waved back.

THE END

Acknowlegments

For their support and guidance, I’m grateful to Terri Bischoff, Brian Farrey, Connie Hill, Steven Pomije, and everyone else at wonderful Midnight Ink.

Special thanks to Sue Ann Jafferian, who is as generous as she is talented and adorable; to David Dolittle, who helped me find Janet; to Alice McCauley, for the words and so much else; to Dr. Kurt Gress, for sharing his expertise; to Brian DeFiore, for being such a pro; to Mameve Medwed, for reading and for just being.

Also to the folks in the Hudson Valley/Catskills, for endless inspiration. Extra special thanks to Louie Ruggiero, for thirty years of friendship and flowers. And to Steve McCauley, for everything.

About the Author

Sebastian’s last novel,
The Hour Between
(Alyson, 2009) won the Ferro-Grumley Award and was a National Public Radio Seasons Readings Selection. The ghostwritten
Charm! by Kendell Hart
(Hyperion, 2008) was a New York Times bestseller.
24-Karat Kids,
written with Dr. Judy Goldstein (St. Martins, 2006) was published in seven languages. His first novel,
The Mentor
(Bantam, 1999) was a Book of the Month Selection.

As a playwright, Sebastian was dubbed “the poet laureate of the Lower East Side” by Michael Musto in
The Village Voice
. His plays—which include
Smoking Newports and Eating French Fries, Beverly’s Yard Sale,
and
Under the Kerosene Moon
—have been seen at the Public Theater, The Kitchen, and LaMama, among other venues.

Sebastian has worked as a ghostwriter and editor in every genre imaginable, from business to politics to show business to travel.

A native New Yorker, he now lives with novelist Stephen McCauley in Cambridge, Massachusetts and Saugerties, New York.