I gave my full attention to bringing as much of the available surface area of my skin into contact with as much of the available surface area of his skin as I could.
“So? You’re not bored? You don’t want to do…this…or possibly this…with another girl?”
“Not at all.” A tiny pause. “Well, maybe there’s one other girl—”
A shiver poured down over me. I would have pulled away but he had me securely immobilized.
“One other? Who?”
“Well, someday—” he murmured, moving with inexorable grace to carry us to our moment of total, uninhibited, spontaneous combustion. The last thing I heard, as I let go all of my cognitive functions and cast my whole being into to the fires of Tom Bennington, was his voice.
“I don’t know. Someday, I might like to get a little better acquainted with Lee Ann.”
Author’s Note
When I dreamed of writing a mystery series set in Cleveland, I found inspiration and encouragement in the success of Cleveland author Les Roberts, whose seventeen mysteries featuring a Slovenian private eye take place in my places. So, when I decided—with considerable temerity—to set key scenes of The Devil’s Own Game in and around The Cleveland Museum of Art, I turned to something Les Roberts said about writing Cleveland.
When someone asked him, “Don’t you know the Cleveland Orchestra never plays on Wednesday, you dummy?” Roberts answered, “My Cleveland Orchestra plays whenever I tell it to.”
Like Allie Harper, I love the Amitāyus Buddha in Gallery 241-B. But my plot depends upon the bench in front of him. Not. Really. There. I also obscured and misdirected descriptions of things I thought might be sensitive to security or disrespectful in any way to our city’s magnificent and venerable art museum. So when I hear from a knowledgeable reader who says, “You dummy! There’s no bench in front of the Amitāyus Buddha,” I plan to hide behind Mr. Roberts and answer, “My Amitāyus Buddha has a bench. You got a problem with that?”
One of my greatest pleasures in writing a series which features Tom Bennington, “nice, hot, smart guy” who’s also blind, is the friends I have made at The Cleveland Sight Center. Thanks to them I have walked with a white cane, sat in on the Sight Center’s rowdy book group when they discussed Too Lucky to Live, and volunteered at a Touch Tour like the one featured in this book. It was on last summer’s White Cane Walk around the Museum of Art’s lagoon that I realized what and where the first scene of this book would be. I am grateful to Alicia Howerton, Community Relations Specialist, who led me on my first tour of the Center, Melissa Mauk, Manager of Volunteer Services, who “turned me into a volunteer,” Larry Benders, President and Chief Executive Officer, who’s been forever gracious and welcoming, and to “my CSC book group!”
The Cleveland Museum of Art and the Cleveland Sight Center are both institutions dedicated to uplifting the human spirit. Treasures.
On an unhappy note: Time passes. Things change. The Happy Dog on Euclid Avenue, lively setting for all manner of entertainment, enlightenment, and a scene in this book, is no more.
Acknowledgments
Much gratitude to:
At Poisoned Pen Press, now the new mystery imprint of Sourcebooks, I owe all thanks and my sanity to my editor, Annette Rogers, who is my stalwart source of courage and my unfailing common sense when both are lacking. And, as ever, unlimited appreciation for Barbara Peters, Rob Rosenwald, Diane DiBiase, Holli Roach, Beth Deveny, Suzan Baroni, Kacie Blackburn, and Michael Barson. And for my fabulous, intrepid PPP Posse—every writer should have a posse so generous and remarkable.
My agent, Victoria Skurnick, for her insight, and patience. And those wicked-fast response times. Speed of light, Victoria. I am so grateful for everything you do and who you are on my journey.
My Sisters in Crime, more than ever, my tribe.
Tina Whittle, my lightning strike of luck and my constant supply of blessings. Without you, no this.
Thrity Umrigar. The 100 percent friend.
Stacey Vaselaney, of SLV Public Relations, for smart PR and abiding friendship.
Meredith Pangrace, of MAP Creative, for keeping AnnieHogsett.com ever-fresh, alive, and pretty—and Bill Hogsett, for web-mastery with swearing.
My experts:
Our neighbor, Dr. DeRoss, for his keen insights into matters surgical.
Elaine Martone, fashion consultant, partner in Veuve Clicquot, and BFF.
For footwear wisdom, Stephan Moody, artist/designer, shoe guru, and self-described “hunka hunka burning love.”
Joe Valencic. (Jože Valenčič.) For keeping me up on the “čič” of my Slovenian characters.
Laura Starnik, for inspiration and commitment. You know exactly who you are.
Steve Gluskin for the braille and the laughs.
The Usual Suspects—Douglas Bunker, Thomas Moore, Elaine Martone, and Bob Woods—for state-of-mind repair.
Mary Lucille DeBerry and Joe Sigler for morale unfailing.
Vicky and Chet for being our daring in-law duo.
John Farina for offering himself up as “murder victim” multiple times. Be careful what you wish for, John.
I am fortunate way beyond deserving to have so many wonderful, kind, and patient friends and family whom I’ve ditched and deserted multiple times as I wrote and rewrote this story. You know who you are. I promise I’ll be back! And while we’re talking neglected friends, my wonderful, forgiving book group who have supported me unfailingly, even when I turned ghost and didn’t hold down the cupcake end of our meetings this year.
And last, because this is the true bottom of my heart, Bill and John for being the epicenter of my world. And Cujo because his love can be bought with treats.
About the Author
Photo by Dan Milner
Annie Hogsett, the author of the Somebody’s Bound to Wind Up Dead Mysteries, lives and writes in the city of Cleveland, ten yards from the shores of Lake Erie. She has never won a $550 million lottery jackpot. The Devil’s Own Game is the third in her series.
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