“I don’t understand.”
“Fit to Print is a franchise, Mr. McKenzie. I have only one of seventeen stores. I bought the rights to operate Fit to Print in Victoria from the Donovan Printing Corporation. They’re the franchiser. Mr. Donovan owns the company. It’s his plan to put a Fit to Print in every small town in Minnesota.”
“He came here to help you celebrate your first anniversary?”
“Oh, yes. Of course. Mr. Donovan is very hands-on. He visits all the stores a couple of times a year. I’m sure he’ll return for our next anniversary.”
“I don’t believe it,” I said aloud. Inside my private voice was chanting, Dammit, dammit, dammit. I knew Donovan was franchising Kinko’s-like print stores in Minnesota. I read it on the Internet when I was researching him and the Brotherhood, but I was too damn lazy to dig deeper. Dammit, dammit, dammit.
“I bet Donovan used one of your PCs,” I said.
“Just a minute,” Tapia said. “You’re not saying that Mr. Donovan is responsible for sending the e-mail you’re talking about?”
Jace swung her head from Tapia to me and back to Tapia again, sensing trouble.
“Oh, I’m sure he’s not,” I said. “I’m just surprised to see his name in your book.”
Of course, he sent the e-mail. He probably guessed someone would trace it to Victoria, as well—the scene of the crime. I bet he’s also responsible for placing the fifteen roses at Milepost Three. He’s been handling me from the very beginning, manipulating me to come down here and prove Jack Barrett killed Elizabeth Rogers. The incident in the skyway and the parking lot of International Market Square, the telephone call—reverse psychology at its finest. I know why he did it, too. It all makes perfect sense.
“Mr. Donovan is an important man,” Tapia said.
I stared at Donovan’s signature. I wondered what a handwriting analyst would say about it.
Such a small thing, writing his name down in a book. On the other hand, they caught Ted Bundy because of a broken taillight. On still another hand, if I had known about his connection to Fit to Print, I wouldn’t have needed Donovan’s signature.
“He’s been very good to me,” Tapia said.
I bet the Brotherhood doesn’t know Donovan is trying to sabotage Governor Barrett. I wonder what they’ll do when I tell them.
“This is so wrong,” Jace said. She was no longer interested in us. Instead, she was reading the place mat taped to the top of the carton. “This is a mistake.”
“What? What is a mistake?” Tapia immediately moved to her side, forgetting me altogether.
“This horoscope. It says we’re incompatible.”
“No lo creo,” he cried, which my high school Spanish translated into “I don’t believe it.”
“It says Sagittarius and Capricorn are opposites.”
“Oh, my, Judith Catherine.” Tapia put his hand over his heart. “I thought you found a typo or something. I thought I was going to have to reprint the job.” He circled her shoulder with his arm and kissed the top of her head. “Don’t scare me like that.”
“You should reprint these mats,” Jace said. “Look at this. It says, ‘When Sagittarius and Capricorn join together they may feel that they don’t have much to gain from one another.’ Are you sure you were born in November?”
“November 30,” Tapia said.
The same birthday as John Allen Barrett, my inner voice reminded me.
“ ‘Sagittarius and Capricorn may not be able to see beyond each other’s faults.’ ”
“I’ll be damned,” I said.
“Do you believe it, McKenzie?” Jace asked.
“I do not believe it.”
“Neither do I.”
Donovan, you bastard. Who’s the schnook now?
I had not expected violence. There was a time back with the cops when that wouldn’t have mattered. I would have responded quickly and efficiently just like one of those guys on TV who know exactly which way to roll when the bad guy leaps out with a lug wrench. Only not this time. This time I went into vapor lock. Norman probably thought I looked like a deer in the headlights when he pointed the Charter Arms .38 at me as we left Fit to Print. Only this time I knew Norman hadn’t come to kidnap me. This wasn’t a test.
Jace had stepped outside first; I had held the door for her. I offered to hold the door open for Tapia, too. He insisted I go next, even though he was carrying the carton filled with place mats for the Rainbow Cafe.
And there he was in the parking lot—Norman—dressed in his gray trench coat and black wingtips that were being ruined by the pool of slush he stood in.
This is not good, I told myself.
