Poison Pen
Chapter 5
"Who's next on our list?" Castle queries Kate.
"Lawrence Singer. He lives in Tribeca."
"That neighborhood has more celebrities per square foot than anywhere else in the city," Castle notes. " Tourists hang out, hoping for a glimpse of Sarah Jessica Parker or DeNiro. I take it, Mr. Singer is not another retired teacher."
Kate shrugs. "I don't know, Castle. I just have a name and address and the lack of felonies on his record. There wasn't much else in my background search, and Singer is a pretty common name."
"Yeah, it is," Castle agrees, "but I heard Mother mention a Lawrence Singer, years ago. As I recall, she was booked for a movie, but the script was a disaster, and he was called in to doctor it. The movie tanked. The critics liked the new version, but the audiences stayed away in droves. The thing is still screened occasionally to class up minor film festivals. It's billed as thought-provoking."
"Have you seen it?" Kate asks.
"I see all of Mother's movies, a practice best for keeping peace in the family. Unfortunately, I found that one more sleep-inducing than provocative. My popcorn fell out of my lap."
"Lawrence, who's at the door?" A shaky voice calls from a back room, as Singer admits Kate and Rick to a condominium.
"No one worth disturbing your nap, dear," Lawrence calls back. "You need your rest."
"Was that Merlina Maguire?" Castle wonders. "She came to one of my mother's salons once."
"Right," Singer agrees. "You're Martha Rodgers' boy, the pulp writer. I believe Merlina mentioned meeting you. She and I have been married for the last 15 years."
A sordid scenario solidifies in Castle's mind as he survey's the opulent but aging furnishings. "That would have been right after she made her last major film, 'Bird Whistle.'"
"That's correct," Singer confirms. "I was called in to rework the script. We discovered we were soulmates — and we fill each other's needs. But I doubt that you're here about my marriage to Merlina. What can I do for the N.Y.P.D.?"
"Are you familiar with The Poe Society, Mr. Singer?" Kate inquires.
I've occasionally seen the award symbol embossed on the dust jacket of a mystery novel, usually on the clearance table when I've been browsing at Taschen. Other than that, I can't say that I am. My specialty is enabling actors to communicate timeless ideas in language that purveys the beauty of their themes. Mysteries, either on the screen or in print, are not my genre. If I had my choice, I'd help bring nothing but classics to the screen. Unfortunately, much of the movie-going public these days prefers to see comic-book characters continually grappling with each other. 'Hulk, smash,' is not my idea of compelling dialogue."
"Seems to me that it conveys the action perfectly," Castle quips, "but then what does a pulp writer with 23 bestsellers know?"
"Mr. Singer," Kate interrupts, "have you ever met Connor O'Donnell or Salmon Ivanovich?"
"I can't say that I have," Singer avers, "but I am fond of some early works Ivanovich published in Literary Monthly. Quite lyrical. Pity he gave in to the pressures of the marketplace."
"Lawrence, I need some chamomile tea to help me relax," Merlina's voice demands from afar.
"Yes, Sweetheart, right away," Singer responds. "If there's nothing else, Detective Beckett…"
"No, I think we're finished here," Kate replies. "Go make your wife her tea, Mr. Singer. I'll call you if I have any more questions."
"Castle, are you humming 'Just a Gigolo?'" Kate asks as they leave Tribeca.
"Fitting, don't you think?" Castle replies. "That was obviously Merlina's condo. Singer is too unimaginative to achieve any sizable success as a script doctor, so he hitches his wagon to a fading star."
"Castle, that's cynical," Kate argues. "From your books, I would think you have a more optimistic outlook on life than that. Maybe Merlina and Lawrence are in love."
"I was less cynical before my mother's second husband took off with all her savings. She wasn't much younger when she married him than Merlina must have been when she married Lawrence. Well, at least Lawrence brings Merlina tea. All Mother's ex brought her was unpaid bills. And how many of my books have you read, Detective?"
Blood suffuses Kate's cheeks. "After my mother was killed, I started reading everything you wrote. I told you that she liked your work. I'd wrap myself in an old quilt she loved and curl up with Storm. It made me feel closer to her. It still does."
Castle lays a hand gently on her shoulder. "Nothing wrong with that, Detective. I'm glad that Storm can be of service. But if we're discussing coping mechanisms, perhaps we should focus on Mr. Singer. Do you think he's compensating for his position, literary and otherwise, by committing murder?"
"Do you, Castle?" Kate throws back.
"Honestly, I don't think he has the creativity the Poe Awards Killer has shown. He seems to have satisfied himself by kindling that flame in his students."
"Barring solid evidence to the contrary, I agree," Kate concedes.
"So, on to the next suspect?" Castle inquires.
"Unless the ID on Flaming Sword comes through, yeah."
Castle blinks at the mountain who answers Beckett's knock. At six foot eight and at least 280 pounds of muscle, with a long black braid, George Buck appears more like a regular in a sweaty gym than a library. Still, the inside of his apartment looks more like the domicile of a scribe than a bodybuilder. Except for thick hardcover volumes, there are no weights in sight. The air also has the old book smell resulting from the breakdown of lignin in paper.
"I have nothing to hide, Detective Beckett," Buck asserts in answer to Kate's inquiry. "I wrote the post you describe and many others. I strut the high steel for a living, but books are my passion." He gestures at a crowded shelf. "Many of those have accompanied me to look down on this city. I feel that the wordsmithing that creates them should be as lofty."
Kate cranes her neck at Buck's coppery weathered face. "Mr. Buck, are you familiar with the works of Connor O'Donnell?"
"I read his first book," Buck responds. "I'm always eager to discover new talent. It wasn't bad, but his construction was twisted to fit the genre. I wouldn't take him above the third floor. And Mr. Castle, I've read some of your work too. Your imagery can be quite evocative, but again, it's a matter of genre. If you turned your hand to literary writings, you might produce something worth taking to the top."
"So other than your personal taste, you have nothing against mystery writers?" Kate presses.
"Only bad mystery writers, or bad writing of any stripe," Buck insists. "I believe that if you are going to do something, do it well. When it comes to the construction of a building, doing it right can be a matter of life or death, and when it comes to the construction of a story, it can be life or death for the form. My posts are my way of encouraging writers to put forward their best efforts. I don't see what could be wrong with that."
"Neither do I," Castle agrees. "I'll tell you what, Mr. Buck, if I ever decide to try my luck at an opus more suited for a skyward journey, I'll send you a copy of the first run."
Buck's leathery face crinkles in a grin. "I'd like that, Mr. Castle. I'd like that very much."