Part 27 (1/2)

”No, of course not! I stole Albany's headshot.”

So much for a murder confession.

”I took Joy's date book from the reception area and brought it into her office. At first I just wanted to look at Albany's picture. I don't know what came over me, but then I took the picture out of the book. I figured Joy owed me that much. I even had it framed.”

With that, he reached under the sofa cus.h.i.+on and pulled out a framed photo of the gorgeous redhead he'd fallen for on his first visit to Joy.

”But I'm afraid to hang it up. After all, it's stolen property.”

”I wouldn't worry about it if I were you, Barry.”

”You're not going to tell?”

”My lips are sealed,” I said, getting up to leave.

”No!” he shouted, jumping up and blocking my path. ”You can't leave.”

All traces of the scared rabbit he'd been just a few seconds ago were gone, his fists once again clenched tight, a strange manic gleam in his eyes.

And a wave of fear shot through me.

Was it possible this namby-pamby goldfish lover was a killer? Had he poisoned Joy's chocolate, after all, and taken Albany's headshot as a souvenir?

Had he known all along I wasn't really a reporter? Had he heard that I was investigating Joy's murder? Afraid I'd stumble onto the truth, had he lured me here to the wilds of Glendale to put a permanent end to me and my investigation?

Suddenly those upper arms of his which just two seconds ago had seemed sort of flabby now looked taut and muscular.

”I've got something to show you,” he said.

I just prayed it wasn't a machete.

I surrept.i.tiously reached into my purse for my travel-sized can of Aqua Net. I've always found hair spray an effective subst.i.tute for Mace. All it takes is one good spritz in the eye to put your attacker out of commission.

With my finger on the nozzle, I watched as Barry pulled out a drawer in the coffee table and took out a black oblong box.

The perfect size for a revolver.

By now my palms were gus.h.i.+ng sweat.

He lifted the lid on the box, and I practically swooned with relief. Not a gun in sight. Instead the box was lined with pens!

”My vintage fountain pen collection,” he said, beaming with pride.

Before my grateful eyes, his upper arms turn to flab again.

How foolish I'd been to think of him as a killer.

”I have one of the best collections in the San Fernando Valley. I thought you might be interested in doing a story about them for the L.A. Times.”

The poor guy just collected pens as a hobby.

”Look,” he was saying. ”Here's a 1920 Esterbrook. Extra-fine nib.”

He took out one of the pens, a lovely tortoisesh.e.l.l affair, and unscrewed the top. The nip was indeed fine as a needle.

He then unscrewed the base of the pen, revealing the rubber sack that held the ink.

”It's a real beauty isn't it?”

”Absolutely,” I said. I wanted to kiss the darn thing, so grateful that it wasn't a lethal weapon.