Poison Pen
Chapter 9
At the end of his shift, Simon goes outside to bring in the morning papers dropped off for the library's reading room. As the wind blows one open, an item in the education calendar catches his eye. "Celebrated author Richard Castle will be speaking to the Creative Writing Club at Marlowe Prep. He'll be generously giving his time to answer questions from students and school personnel. Light refreshments provided by parents will be served."
A sly smile twists Simon's mouth. It shouldn't be challenging to pretend to be delivering pastries on behalf of a busy mother. He saw for himself that Castle enjoys sweetened breads. If he includes one of the sushki that Castle featured in his last novel, he can accompany it with a fancy card requesting that it serve as a treat for the author himself. That faux homage will be the last that Castle ever experiences. Simon will be skipping a few hours of sleep to pursue his plan, but when Castle is gone, he and his forbears will rest very well indeed.
The tantalizing scent of vanilla wafts from the blue ceramic mug Rick presents to Kate. "What did you dig up on Phillip Larkin?"
"A few weeks ago, he had the blarina toxin shipped to him, purchased with a prepaid credit card from a convenience store. He paid cash for the card. The toxin went to a box at one of those shipping places, a different one than Badcock used as Flaming Sword. But," she adds, "he may have screwed up with this one. The facility has video, and the system goes a month before recording over it. Ryan and Esposito are scrubbing the footage for any sign of Badcock. I was about to join them. Want to help?"
"Of course! We're tightening the noose, Beckett. I can feel it."
"I hope you're right, Castle, but a month's worth of video is a lot to go through, and he may not even show up."
Castle swipes the back of his hand across his eyes and checks his watch. He hates leaving Beckett and her comrades in arms in the lurch. They still have two weeks' worth of video to go through, and so far, there hasn't been a sign of Badcock. Still, Rick has to keep his promise to the school, and he needs to check out Owen.
It's not that he doubts his daughter's judgment, but because of the sting of abandonment he suffered during his own childhood, he has sheltered her. Maybe too much. Not that he's planning to stop. If he could erect a forcefield around her to shield her from the hurts of the world, he would. As it is, he'll stick his nose in far enough to try to head off obvious perils, like what can happen when hormones go wild, and teenage infatuation banishes reason. If Owen seems the type to take advantage, he may have to step in, even if Alexis won't speak to him for the next six months. If nothing else, Rick can watch the boy's body language. It's generally more revealing than what comes out of a suitor's — or poker player's — mouth. Hopefully, Alexis has picked a boy whose lust has yet to overcome honorable intentions.
"More goodies!" club adviser Mary Beth Lewis greets Simon. "Excellent! We're expecting quite a turnout. We had to move our meeting from its usual room to the multipurpose area." She flips open the large bakery box to reveal the card that Simon calligraphically inscribed for a sushka. "'An edible salute to Mr. Castle's work.' I'll make sure that he gets it. I believe Mr. Castle will be quite touched by the effort."
"I'm sure he will," Simon agrees. All he needs to do now is find someplace at the periphery of the meeting where he can observe the denouement of his plan.
Rick inwardly groans at the question he's heard at least a hundred times. "Where do you get your ideas?"
"First of all, you have to read," Castle explains. "You're not doing it because you're trying to copy someone else's work or style. That's the last thing you want to do. What you are looking for is a feeling that will touch something in your own life. When that happens, you won't have to force the flow of ideas. If anything, you'll have a hard time keeping from being overcome by them. Everyone you see and everything you do every day can also become part of a story. Who's the customer in front of you at Pizza Sam's, and how did he get blue ink on the seat of his pants? Where are the riders near you on the subway with you going, and why? The city, the world, is full of people, each of whom has histories and futures. Some little detail about any one of them can spark your imaginings."
"What about research?" Another student asks.
From his spot behind a stack of tables used for art projects, Simon impatiently fingers the talisman in his pocket, an empty ink cartridge. He saved it from a fountain pen he was given as a graduation present from junior high school. At the time, hardly anyone used much except ballpoints anymore. In fact, some of his fellow students already did much of their work on keyboards of one sort or another. But Simon loved the feel of a fountain pen in his hand. The words that flowed from it seemed to have magic. Unfortunately, the spell couldn't last. The writing tip became clogged, and Simon couldn't fix it. He regretfully took up the tools that the rest of the students used but kept the cartridge as a reminder of the wonder he'd felt. Now it's a reminder of his work to remove the purveyors of garbage that despoil the written word — like the one regaling the aspiring young writers with tricks of his pulpish trade. Castle won't be plying that trade much longer, not much longer at all.
Alexis has been at enough book readings to have heard all the questions and her father's answers before. This meeting is open to everyone, but it's not one of her regular activities. She's seen the less glamorous parts of her father's life, like when he stays up all night in a caffeine haze, making revisions to meet a deadline. She's witnessed his frustration when an editor cut his favorite lines from the final version of a book. She doesn't know what she wants to be yet, but she's not following in the footsteps of her actress mother and grandmother or of her writer father.
She also knows that she wants to go to the prom with the boy sitting next to her. That morning he slipped a sonnet into her locker. It wasn't the greatest poem she'd ever read, but Owen wrote it for her. That makes it precious. Dad has to be able to see just how wonderful Owen is — if the other students ever stop asking questions.
Mary Beth Lewis stands ready with her presentation for Richard Castle. She has the usual certificate of appreciation run off on the printer in the office, the only machine in the school that can handle heavy paper. She signed it, and so did the principal. The special pastry and card will be an excellent addition. She looked around for something nice to put it on, but the scratched plastic plates in the teacher's lounge didn't seem right for the task. The school secretary is out sick, and she's the only one who knows where to find the fine china used for board meetings. A paper plate will have to do, but Mary Beth is sure that as a regular school volunteer, Castle's eaten off plenty of them before. The flurry of upraised hands has finally stopped. That's her cue.