“He was partway through a mystery novel,” Joan said. “And then he died. I finished it in his memory.” She smiled to herself. “And it was fun.”

“So you made up a pen name.”

“And I kept writing.” Joan spread her hands. “And now this.”

“What if you just denied it?”

“I’d be lying.”

Her sister lifted a brow again as if to question the relevance of that statement. “Yeah?”

“Aside from the ethics of the situation, I’m pretty sure I’d get caught.”

“Which makes me wonder…how did you keep it a secret this long?”

“A numbered company through Zurich.”

Heather’s dark red lips pursed in admiration. “Not bad.”

“It was Anthony’s idea.”

“I bet Daddy could hide your tracks.”

Oh, yeah, that was the answer. Engage her father in a conspiracy. “You thirsty?”

“Got a cosmopolitan?”

Joan stood. “Let me check.” She drank more wine than martinis, but lime juice was a staple in Indigo, and she entertained often enough to keep a stocked bar.

Heather rose gracefully from her chair and followed. “I don’t get what happened, Joanie.”

Joan pulled the cranberry juice and lime out of the refrigerator, setting it on the breakfast bar that separated the dining area from the kitchen. “Mysteries are a lot more fun than history books.”

“Did you want to be famous or something?”

“Of course not. I just wanted to have fun writing them. I figured, what’s the harm? And I did hide it for ten years.”

“See, that part blows me away. Ten years.”

Joan scooped some ice from the freezer and dumped it into the martini shaker. “Something like that.”

“So this wasn’t your first book?”

“Bayou was my twelfth. And there’s one more in line-editing.”

Heather blinked at her in silence.

“What?” Joan asked.

“Daddy’s going to freak.”

Joan reached for the Absolut. “There was a chance he wouldn’t freak over one book?”