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by showing their devotion to the author’s work. That’s almost always extremely touching and welcome. Other times, like when the person in question thinks he can pretend to be the author’s character (and do a damned fine imitation—this guy was good!), it’s a sign that either the caller is an aspiring author who thinks (mistakenly) that a published writer can help his career or, worse, the caller really thinks he’s a crimestopper, which borders on the terrifying.
    Paula walked back in, noticed the shift in dust and clutter, nodded approvingly, and sat down on an unoccupied few inches of futon. She narrowed her eyes when she looked at me, trying to determine what that odd expression on my face might indicate.
    “I’m sorry, Mr. Madison ,” I said, pointing to the phone for Paula’s benefit. She curled her lip in amusement. I shook my head—this was no laughing matter. “I make it a policy never to meet with fans.”
    “I’m not a fan,” “Duffy” replied. “As I said, I haven’t ever read any of your novels. I’m sorry if that is a slight; I don’t intend it to be. But I do need to see you.”
    That was the tell: “I need to see you” rather than “I need to talk to you.” I reminded myself that I was a professional and he was a consumer (even if he insisted he was not one of my readers). Getting snarky would be unproductive. “If you have a warrant, feel free to drop by,” I told him. “Can you give me the name of your contact at the Bergen County Prosecutor’s Office?”
    The fictional imposter on my phone didn’t answer for a long moment. “I work with Chief Investigator William Petrosky,” he said.
    “Nice try,” I answered, forgetting my pledge of four seconds ago not to be snarky. “But Duffy always works with Lieutenant Isabel Antonio.”
    “That’s a novel ,” the man said. You could hear his teeth clench. “This is real life .”
    “Mr. . . . whoever you are,” I began.
    “Madison. Duffy Madison. And a woman’s life is in danger. Please!”
    I hung up on him and turned to Paula. “Call Verizon and get them to disconnect the landline,” I said.
    She pulled a pen from behind her ear and wrote a note on the scrap of paper closest to her.
    The phone rang. “Wait,” I told Paula. I reached over and unplugged the line coming in. The ringing stopped immediately. “Now, let’s have some ice cream.”

Chapter 3
    “I love Duffy Madison!” The woman standing in front of me looked positively enthralled. Usually, that’s good; this was a little unsettling.
    One day after Paula and I had polished off a good deal of ice cream, BooksBooksBooks was looking its best and the evening sun was just about giving up the ghost, but I was having some trouble concentrating on the event. Normally there are few things as nourishing for an author as a book signing—when people show up. I’ve been at both kinds, and people showing up is definitely the better option. Because the people who show up are those who have read and (almost always) liked your book, and that can put a glow into an author that, under the right circumstances, can last for a week. I love going to book signings these days.
    When Olly Olly Oxen Free was first being published, I knew nothing about signings, so I called Rita Mendham at BooksBooksBooks and asked her if I could come to the store a few weeks before the publication and at least let people knowthat I had a novel on its way. Rita, who is among the best people on the planet (I adore booksellers!), said to wait until the publication date, when she would have copies in stock, and we could have a “launch party.” Who knew there was such a thing?
    Rita did, luckily, and she turned BooksBooksBooks into a one-title store for the night. She had banners and posters made—something I’d never imagined—and invited her most loyal customers for weeks in advance. I invited pretty much everyone I’d ever known (my parents had each sent regrets), since having your