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her.”
    Donna sounded mildly embarrassed when she said, “Catherine Tunderew is one of the top children’s book illustrators in the country. My daughter Amy loves her work, as do I. I thought everyone knew who she was.”
    “Well, I’ve not been too much into children’s books for the past couple of years. But I appreciate you telling me. And I’ll be sure to pass on Amy’s—and your—regards.”
    “Thank you, Mr. Hardesty. Good-bye.”
    It occurred to me that if Catherine Tunderew was a well-known illustrator, it was probable that the picture her ex-husband painted of her might be as inaccurate and unfair as his description of Larry Fletcher.
    Donna had not indicated whether Mrs. Tunderew worked out of her home or for a company, but I tried calling the number I’d been given. I could always just leave a message, if she had a machine.
    I heard a click, and then, “Catherine Tunderew.”
    “Mrs. Tunderew.” I felt a little awkward addressing her by a title she no longer officially held. “My name is Dick Hardesty, and I’m a private investigator. I wonder if I might talk with you about your ex-husband.”
    “And which sweet, innocent young virgin cruelly seduced and despoiled by the heartless but famous and newly rich writer do you represent, Mr. Hardesty?”
    “I beg your pardon? I’m not sure I follow you.”
    “Ah. Then perhaps I’ve mistaken you for one of the two other private investigators to whom I’ve spoken recently.”
    Despite the definite undertone of bitterness in what she said, her tone was light.
    “I’m sorry to have confused you. I haven’t represented a despoiled virgin in quite some time. I’m working for Mr. Tunderew, as a matter of fact.”
    She laughed. “Well, then, in that case it’s been a very long time indeed. What other mischief has my darling Tony been up to?”
    “Would it be possible for us to talk in person? I’ll be happy to explain everything then.”
    “Of course,” she said pleasantly. “If there is anything I can do to add to dear Tony’s problems, I’ll be glad to contribute what I can. I assume you are licensed and listed in the phone book?”
    Now that was a first, I thought.
    “Yes, of course. It’s under Hardesty Investigations…” and I gave her the address and phone number.
    “Thank you. I’ll call you right back.” And she hung up.
    A very interesting if somewhat odd lady, I decided.
    Less than a minute later, the phone rang. This time I did not wait for the customary two rings, but picked up the receiver immediately.
    “Hardesty Investigations.”
    “One can never be too careful,” Catherine Tunderew said. “I was quite serious when I said if there was anything I could do to add to my ex-husband’s problems I would, but that does not include catering to the tabloids or the money-grubbers. You’d be surprised the innovative lengths to which some people will go to get information they can turn into cash.”
    “I can appreciate your caution,” I said, and on thinking it over, I certainly could.
    “Would you like to come by at two? I assume you have my address.”
    “Yes, I do. I’ll see you at two, then. And thank you.”
    *
    Catherine Tunderew’s address proved to be a small, well-maintained but unassuming apartment building probably built in the 1930s. A small, neat entry with a panel of eight brass-plated mailboxes was just to the left of the door. No locked security door, no buzzers.
    I took the stairs—there was no elevator—to the second floor and walked down the hall to the back of the building, where I found Apartment #8. A small bracketed sign to the left of the door said “C. Tunderew.” I knocked.
    “Who is it?” a voice said from just the other side of the door.
    “Dick Hardesty, Mrs. Tunderew.”
    I heard the security chain being slid aside and the door opened.
    Catherine Tunderew was a pleasant-looking woman about forty, no makeup, greying hair pulled back into a ponytail, dressed in jeans and a man’s