kitchen.
Fitting her original impression of Leonardo Noble being both surfer dude and mad scientist, the interior was a mishmash of the comfortable and the formal, the modern and classic. The art, too, was bizarrely eclectic. A large Blue Dog painting, by Louisiana artist George Rodrigue, graced the stairwell; next to it, a traditional landscape. In the dining room hung an antique portrait of a child, one of those hideous representations of a child as a miniature adult.
“The portrait came with the house,” a woman said from the top of the stairs. Stacy looked up. The woman, of obvious mixed Asian descent, was gorgeous. One of those cool, self-possessed beauties Stacy admired and despised—both for the same reason.
Stacy watched as she descended the stairs. The woman crossed to her and extended her hand. “It’s quite awful, isn’t it?”
“Pardon?”
“The portrait. I can hardly bear to look at it, but for some obscure reason Leo’s grown attached.” She smiled then, the curving of her lips more practiced than warm. “I’m Kay Noble.”
The wife. “Stacy Killian,” she said. “Thank you for seeing me.”
“Mrs. Maitlin said you’re a police officer?”
“I’m investigating a murder.” That much was true.
The woman’s eyes widened slightly. “How can I help you?”
“I was hoping to speak with Mr. Noble. Is he available?”
“I’m sorry, he’s not. However, I’m his business manager. Perhaps I can be of some assistance?”
“A woman was murdered several nights ago. She was heavily into fantasy role-playing games. The night she died she was meeting someone to play your husband’s game.”
“My ex-husband,” she corrected. “Leo’s the creator of a number of RPGs. Which one?”
“The game that refuses to die, I’ll bet.”
Stacy turned. Leonardo Noble stood in the doorway to the parlor. The first thing she noted was his height—he was considerably taller than he had appeared in his press photo. The boyish grin made him look younger than the forty-five she’d read his age to be.
“Which one would that be?” she asked.
“White Rabbit, of course.” He bounded across the foyer and stuck out his hand. “I’m Leonardo.”
She took it. “Stacy Killian.”
“ Detective Stacy Killian,” Kay added. “She’s investigating a murder.”
“A murder?” His eyebrows shot up. “Here’s an unexpected twist to the day.”
Stacy took his hand. “A woman named Cassie Finch was killed this past Sunday night. She was an avid fan of role-playing games. The Friday before her death, she told a friend she had met someone who played the game White Rabbit, and he had arranged a meeting between her and a Supreme White Rabbit.”
Leo Noble spread his hands. “I still don’t understand what this has to do with me.”
She took a small spiral notebook from her jacket pocket, the same type of notebook she had carried as a detective. “Another gamer described you as the Supreme White Rabbit.”
He laughed, then apologized. “Of course, there’s nothing about this situation that’s funny. It’s the comment…a Supreme White Rabbit. Really.”
“As the game’s creator, aren’t you?”
“Some say so. They hold me up as some sort of mystical being. A god of sorts.”
“Is that the way you view yourself?” she asked.
He laughed again. “Certainly not.”
Kay stepped in. “That’s why we call it the game that refuses to die. The fans are obsessed.”
Stacy moved her gaze between the unlikely pair. “Why?” she asked.
“Don’t know.” Leonardo shook his head. “If I did, I’d re-create the magic.” He leaned toward her, all boyish enthusiasm. “Because it is, you know. Magic. Touching people in a way that’s so personal. And so intense.”
“You never published the game. Why?”
He glanced at his ex-wife. “I’m not the sole creator of White Rabbit. My best friend and I created it back in 1982, while we were grad students at
Fitting her original impression of Leonardo Noble being both surfer dude and mad scientist, the interior was a mishmash of the comfortable and the formal, the modern and classic. The art, too, was bizarrely eclectic. A large Blue Dog painting, by Louisiana artist George Rodrigue, graced the stairwell; next to it, a traditional landscape. In the dining room hung an antique portrait of a child, one of those hideous representations of a child as a miniature adult.
“The portrait came with the house,” a woman said from the top of the stairs. Stacy looked up. The woman, of obvious mixed Asian descent, was gorgeous. One of those cool, self-possessed beauties Stacy admired and despised—both for the same reason.
Stacy watched as she descended the stairs. The woman crossed to her and extended her hand. “It’s quite awful, isn’t it?”
“Pardon?”
“The portrait. I can hardly bear to look at it, but for some obscure reason Leo’s grown attached.” She smiled then, the curving of her lips more practiced than warm. “I’m Kay Noble.”
The wife. “Stacy Killian,” she said. “Thank you for seeing me.”
“Mrs. Maitlin said you’re a police officer?”
“I’m investigating a murder.” That much was true.
The woman’s eyes widened slightly. “How can I help you?”
“I was hoping to speak with Mr. Noble. Is he available?”
“I’m sorry, he’s not. However, I’m his business manager. Perhaps I can be of some assistance?”
“A woman was murdered several nights ago. She was heavily into fantasy role-playing games. The night she died she was meeting someone to play your husband’s game.”
“My ex-husband,” she corrected. “Leo’s the creator of a number of RPGs. Which one?”
“The game that refuses to die, I’ll bet.”
Stacy turned. Leonardo Noble stood in the doorway to the parlor. The first thing she noted was his height—he was considerably taller than he had appeared in his press photo. The boyish grin made him look younger than the forty-five she’d read his age to be.
“Which one would that be?” she asked.
“White Rabbit, of course.” He bounded across the foyer and stuck out his hand. “I’m Leonardo.”
She took it. “Stacy Killian.”
“ Detective Stacy Killian,” Kay added. “She’s investigating a murder.”
“A murder?” His eyebrows shot up. “Here’s an unexpected twist to the day.”
Stacy took his hand. “A woman named Cassie Finch was killed this past Sunday night. She was an avid fan of role-playing games. The Friday before her death, she told a friend she had met someone who played the game White Rabbit, and he had arranged a meeting between her and a Supreme White Rabbit.”
Leo Noble spread his hands. “I still don’t understand what this has to do with me.”
She took a small spiral notebook from her jacket pocket, the same type of notebook she had carried as a detective. “Another gamer described you as the Supreme White Rabbit.”
He laughed, then apologized. “Of course, there’s nothing about this situation that’s funny. It’s the comment…a Supreme White Rabbit. Really.”
“As the game’s creator, aren’t you?”
“Some say so. They hold me up as some sort of mystical being. A god of sorts.”
“Is that the way you view yourself?” she asked.
He laughed again. “Certainly not.”
Kay stepped in. “That’s why we call it the game that refuses to die. The fans are obsessed.”
Stacy moved her gaze between the unlikely pair. “Why?” she asked.
“Don’t know.” Leonardo shook his head. “If I did, I’d re-create the magic.” He leaned toward her, all boyish enthusiasm. “Because it is, you know. Magic. Touching people in a way that’s so personal. And so intense.”
“You never published the game. Why?”
He glanced at his ex-wife. “I’m not the sole creator of White Rabbit. My best friend and I created it back in 1982, while we were grad students at
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