Disclaimer: The only part of Castle that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.
"You weren't kidding, you really are naked," he says, after kissing her far less thoroughly than he'd like. Her greeting had taken him aback. "You know who the killer is? You're not even on the case—okay, obviously you're working on it sub rosa—"
"I know who it is, Castle."
"How? Never mind, later. First tell me who."
"Molly."
"Molly?"
"Yes."
"Molly who?"
"Molly from Fortress."
"You mean Molly as in Quinn? Molly as in Alexis?"
"Well, not your Alexis, the show's Alexis. But yes, Molly Quinn."
He's so shocked by this piece of information, or speculation, that he hasn't even realized that she has divested herself of her towel, moved to their bedroom, put on an oversized shirt and a pair of yoga pants and is now on her way to the kitchen while he trails after her. "Molly? What makes you think it's Molly? It has to be some deranged fan, right? Why would it be Molly?"
Beckett begins grating cheese into a small bowl. "Want an omelet, Castle?"
"Yes. But Molly?"
"Cheese?"
"Yes, thanks. Molly?"
She takes two skillets out of the cupboard, and drops a large chunk of butter into each one. As they melt, she cracks four eggs into a larger bowl, whisking seriously and silently.
"Really? Little Molly?"
"Not so little, Castle. She's twenty-two. Hold on." She pours half the beaten eggs into the first skillet, expertly tipping it with one hand and working the spatula with the other, nodding her approval before adding cheese, folding the mixture in three, and sliding it onto the plate. She repeats the process with the rest of the eggs, and points her head towards the table. "Let's eat."
Castle sits down, still wearing the expression of someone who has been hit in the head with a brick. "Molly?"
"I'm not counting," Beckett says, waving her fork, "but you've asked that about ten times."
"Okay, it's just—I'm stunned. And why aren't you freaking out?"
"Already did that, while you were flying over California, Arizona, Colorado, Kansas, Missouri, Illinois, Indiana, Ohio, Pennsylvania, and New Jersey. And I'm stunned, too, but it makes sense."
"It does? I think I need some wine. Something. You?"
"Couldn't hurt." She chews methodically while her husband fills two glasses and carries them to the table. "Thanks, Castle."
"What makes you so sure it's Molly? How did you even think of her?"
"Let me tell you what we know, first."
He smiles for only the second time since he got home. "Ha! I knew you knew something!"
"I've been calling Espo," she says, not bothering to look even faintly guilty. "Calling his burner from my burner. Nobody will find out." She fills Castle in on what she has so far.
"Doesn't it seem like it must be a fan? I mean, I checked Twitter and Facebook and there are millions of people out there screaming foul about Stana and Tamala being fired. Screaming bloody murder, in fact. If someone hadn't killed Cutter I'd be expecting a torchlit mob outside those offices."
"Ordinarily I'd say you're exaggerating, but you're not. There really are millions of them."
"And that note the killer left was obviously from a fan."
"Not so obviously," she says, taking another sip of wine. "For one thing, and it's an important thing, it was written in a very unusual if cleverly pointed typeface, Betrayed. Why would anyone take the trouble to do that? How many fans are even interested in typography?"
"Well, we are."
"That's what I mean. We are. And who knows that we are? People on the show, that's who. It's one of our so-called things that they actually wrote into that wedding-invitation moment in an episode a couple of years ago. But fans don't know that."
"Could've been a coincidence."
"I know you love those, but there are too many other things involved, like the disabled security cameras." She turns around when she hears her phone ring. "It's Esposito. He must have found something."
He had. Castle watches while she speaks with the detective, though he's clearly doing almost all the talking; her end of the conversation is largely "uh huh," "right," or "figures." The call is short and she returns to the table.
"Interesting."
"Yeah?"
"They scrubbed all the footage from the lobby. Sunday's the lightest work day, right? Even in the news and TV business. So there's nothing like as much to go through as there'd have been at other times. Anyway, there's a gap. The guards change at midnight, and they sometimes schmooze a little when they do. Must be bored out of their minds. Anyway, it turns out that that's exactly what they were doing last night, schmoozing. Tech guys found a ninety-second gap in the video almost exactly at midnight, so they interviewed the two guards. Seems someone—a woman, in a coat and hat—did come in around then but she called them by name and held up her ID so they really didn't pay any attention. All they could say was: white female, medium height."
"Could still be a fan," he insists.
"But think about it: what was done with cameras and the feed indicate not just technical savvy—which, granted, plenty of fans could have—but also almost certainly some familiarity with the building. And whoever it was who sailed by so-called guards in the middle of the night knew them by name and either had an ID or had something that could pass for from several feet away."
"So maybe a network employee, then."
"What network staffer would come in at that hour?"
"A newsperson, maybe?"
"So it's another coincidence that the woman who came in—the one you think could work there—is not visible on tape, because her arrival coincided with the gap?"
"All right, I admit it's a stretch." She's giving him the eye. "More than a stretch. But how do you make her as the person whose name I will not utter again? For now. Whom we first met when she was a cute little fourteen-year-old, wouldn't hurt a fly."
"It's not like we know her, Castle. Don't confuse her with your actual kid."
"I'm not." She gives him the eye again. "Maybe a little."
"Mmhmm." She picks up her fork, plate, and glass. "I'm gonna need coffee and a hell of a lot of ice cream for this next part. I think you will, too."
"You make the coffee. You never take out enough kinds of ice cream and especially not enough sides."
"Sides?" she asks, as she puts her things in the sink.
"Additions. Enhancements. Whipped cream. Chocolate sprinkles. Rainbow sprinkles. Red hots. Marshmallow fluff. At least four toppings. Peanuts, almonds, walnuts. Potato chips."
"Enough! Aggh. I'm glad you have such an appetite, Castle."
"Don't you? We haven't seen each other since Thursday."
"Good point. Don't forget my chocolate sauce."
"As if," he says, before adding brightly, "Don't eat it all. I want to use some later. On you."
Two bowls—one relatively demure (scoop of coffee, scoop of vanilla, chocolate sauce) and one borderline revolting (bubblegum, fudge ripple and pistachio ice creams, topped with bits of ribbon candy, butterscotch sauce, strawberry sauce, crumbled pretzels and a hillock of whipped cream)—two spoons, and two mugs of coffee are on a tray that Castle's taking to the bedroom.
"Aren't we eating on the sofa?"
"Not a chance. If what you tell me is so astounding that I keel over, I want to keel over in our bed. Besides, I love having dessert in bed. Two desserts."
"You've got enough dessert that for an army, Rick. Don't need mine."
"I wasn't referring to your paltry ice cream, Kate, I was referring to you. You are the best dessert ever."
"You're pretty tasty yourself," she says, licking her lips. "But we're talking about the case first."
"Right. You know who."
"Molly."
"God, you drive a hard bargain."
"I understand that you're resisting this, but hear me out."
"I am, I am. It's just that it seems crazy that Molly, or anyone in the cast, would kill Cutter. Unless they thought that getting rid of Beckett meant the end of the show? But that doesn't make any sense. They wouldn't have bothered firing Stana and Tamala if they were planning to shut down Fortress now, with this season's finale. They'd just close up shop, say thanks everyone, it was a great run. And they wouldn't have had millions of homicidal fans on their hands, just disappointed ones. Standard reaction for a popular show when it comes to an end."
She leans to her left and swipes her thumb across his chin. "Yum, butterscotch," she says, licking it off. "You know Molly doesn't like Stana, right?"
"What? Why?"
"I think partly it's that she has a crush on Nathan, even though he plays her father. She's not a teenager anymore, remember."
"I do remember. But I also remember this is a TV show, not real life. It's not as if Stana is stealing away her father and has become her evil stepmother. And—" he holds up his spoon to make a point, and a strawberry-syrup-coated potato chip lands on his shirt, "if she doesn't like her, she'd be thrilled that Stana's gone, wouldn't she? She wouldn't stab Cutter, she'd buy him a celebratory drink."
Beckett points to the blob on her husband's shirtfront. "You might want to get that before it leaves a stain. I'm certainly not licking up that combo."
"Oh, okay." He scoops it up with his finger, swallows it, and smacks his lips noisily.
"There are a couple of things you don't know. One, there was talk of a Fortress spinoff."
He lights up. "Really, that would be cool. What is it?"
"Was, Castle, past tense. The network was hoping to get a younger demographic—"
"What's wrong with my demographic? I spend a hell of a lot more money than those twenty-somethings they're always wooing."
"Sorry, gramps. Anyway, they were hoping to get a younger demographic with a spinoff that would star Molly and Toks Olagundoye as BFFs who run a P.I. agency."
"Terrible idea." He shudders. "Can't stand the whole P.I. thing and I really can't stand Hayley. They should have sent her wherever they sent Pi."
"Apparently the focus groups last month agreed, but Molly and Toks are very high on the idea and have been arguing how great it could be. Still think it can fly, I heard."
"How do you know that?"
"Because I have an old school friend who runs those focus group things. So I asked her, on the QT."
"So shouldn't Molly and Toks be delighted that Beckett is being bumped off?"
"No, because Stana staying on the show was what would have made the spinoff possible. I got this from her, by the way. Stana, that is, about the spinoff idea. She told me over Christmas when she was here and we got together. The writers were supposed to introduce Haley this season, set the P.I. thing up, get fans interested in that dynamic duo and boom! But instead, fizzle. And you know what they say about redheads' tempers. Molly must have been enraged at Stana—although it's hardly her fault—and at Cutter, crazy as it sounds. She wants to be a star, not a supporting player. The dweeb daughter, she said at one point."
"Well, wait a minute. Even if this is all true, how could she have pulled off all the tech stuff?"
"You'll love this. It's life imitating art, another favorite of yours."
A/N Thanks for your support for this little revenge story!
TBC