Wicked Deeds. Heather Graham

      “What’s sad?” Griffin asked, pulling out onto the street.

      “Well, he had a hard life. His parents died. His foster mother loved him, but died. He argued with his foster father, who didn’t support him through college. He fell in love and the girl’s father hid his letters. He fell in love again, and his bride died. And then, as far as his own death went...no one really knows. And now...he’s still running around, haunting Baltimore,” Vickie said.

      “Many times, life can be sad. And sometimes, it’s as they say—life is what we make it. Poe was incredibly talented. He did have an ego the size of Texas. He argued with people. He was a drunk.”

      “Not as bad as his biographers might have made him out to be, Griffin!”

      “Hey, I agree he was talented, and I think it’s great he’s helping on this,” Griffin told her. “But there was something dark about him—he did provoke a lot of his enemies. And there you go—there’s your next project. A book on Poe—in his defense.”

      Vickie thought about that. “I’m not so sure I can do the research the way it should be done while I’m in the academy. But...yeah! You’re right.” She laughed. “And now I have insight.” She fell silent, hoping that they were able to find the truth—and that in doing so, they might, in a way, help the long-dead author as well.

      Griffin pulled into the parking lot for the Black Bird.

      “Showtime!” he said softly.

      “Showtime?”

      “Well, I would bet that we’re going to discover that Franklin Verne was killed by someone who knew him well.” His expression was grim as he looked toward the restaurant. “I believe he was killed by a friend, the worst kind of betrayal. And perhaps...”

      “Perhaps it was the same with Edgar Allan Poe as well.”