!ADULTS ONLY! Tag Bonewell and the Murder of Wendy Wilde!

ALMOST NO ONE has ever heard of Ms. Jennifer Penelope Deaux-Fontaine, but plenty of folks know her alter ego, her nom de plume, her pseudonym, her pen name, Wendy Wilde, the wicked writer of sexually explicit novels and articles. Yeah, that Wendy Wilde. The same offbeat writer who had more people hating her than even Adolf Hitler could ever have imagined.

But, as of today, everyone's heard of the woman behind the Wilde mask. Anyone, that is, who bothered to read last night's evening paper. Or even glance at the front page. The two-inch high headline said it all:

AUTHOR WENDY WILDE MURDERED! Story page 2.

And, just in case you've been living in a cave for ten years, a full page photograph below the headline showed Ms. Wilde, or Ms. Deaux-Fontaine, at a nudist camp and as naked as a jaybird. She was sporting a wide shit-eating grin that just screamed out how much she loved being sans clothing under the California sun. There were two other people in the photo, but they had been cropped in such a way no one could tell who they were.

Because the newspaper had thoughtfully airbrushed out her important private parts, the photo made her look ghastly and grotesque. It was obvious the retoucher had had a hard time trying to hide those very large breasts of hers. In the final result, she looked as if she had had a twin mastectomy performed, a bad one at that. Why they simply didn't just show her face is beyond any guess. Of course, nude pictures, even sloppy looking ones, do sell more papers.

The photo caption read: Wendy Wilde, second from left, bared it all in 1962 at the Suncatcher's Nudist Camp, San Francisco, CA. Story page 2.

1962. Yes, a long time ago. Ms. Fontaine was thirty-five years old in the photo, which means she was pushing sixty-five when her body was found.

Her publisher and lifelong friend, Hamilton Worthy, Ham or Hammy to his friends, was also her confidante at the time of her unscheduled demise. He was quoted saying just how much he was going to miss his longtime friend and best-selling author.

For over thirty years, Hammy did his best to keep her real identity a secret. His best was good enough up until a year ago, when some hacker tracked her down through the internet and began e-Mailing her threats.

Who he is isn't yet known, but one thing is; the cat was now out of the old bag. And yesterday, someone had shot the cat. Or the old bag, if you want to get crude about it. And she was shot three times with great and deadly accuracy. In her very own suite at the Wellington Hotel. And with much malice aforethought.

* * * * * *

"YOU TAG BONEWELL?" Tag looked up from his desk. A man stood in the doorway. A man in his forties, with brown hair and brown, sad looking eyes. He looked to be around the six foot tall mark. He also looked quite fit, with not a sign of flab on him, if you didn't count the slight belly paunch, that is.

The guy was wearing an inexpensive, off-the-rack, dark gray suit and an equally run-of-the-mill white shirt. His tie was a nothing to rave about solid black. Sensible shiny black patent leather shoes finished the sartorial picture. Tag smelled cop.

Tag said, "That's right, sir. How may I help you?"

"I'm Detective Hunger, Jack Hunger, I'm here about the murder." Murder?

"What murder?" If Tag looked genuinely puzzled, he was. He hadn't read the newspaper yet today.

Detective Hunger fished a small note pad out of an inside suit pocket. He looked down at it. "Guess you haven't heard yet. Well, anyway, the vic is one Jennifer Penelope Deaux-Fontaine, aka Wendy Wilde. One of your room maids, a gal named . . . " He looked down at his notes. "Freda, called it in. About an hour ago."
He approached Tag's desk. "Mind if I sit?" Tag motioned him to take the chair in front of the desk. Freda flashed briefly through his mind. They had only done it twice now, but each time had been fantastic. She had that European . . .

When Detective Hunger was seated, he said, "Ah, that feels good! Been on my tootsies all morning . . . now, I came by your little office place here because I like to work with the house dick when a hotel's involved. I'm savvy to the hotels need to protect their rep, and I find it works out better for all parties concerned, Tag, if I give the house cop a heads up. May I call you Tag?"

Tag nodded. "Good. And why don't you just call me Jack, without the detective up front. OK?" Tag nodded again. He liked Jack. The man had real down-to-earth class.

"Tell me, Tag, you ever read any of Wilde's, uh, stuff?" It was said innocently enough, but Tag could read between the lines. The man was setting his stage up.

"No, can't say I have, Jack. Anyway, I prefer the hands-on approach to sex. It's a quirk of mine." He grinned at the cop.

The detective smirked at him, cocked one eye, and said, "You ever bring your quirk up to suite 912 any time in recent memory?"

"Ha ha! No Jack, I make it a rule not get too quirky with the paying guests." He smiled. He knew lying to a cop was a fool's game, but he felt even if Jack found out about Mergie, or Greta, or both for that matter, it wouldn't mean much. Not to Jack, who was now grinning at him as if to say, yeah, sure, and I'm the king of Prussia!

Tag said, "I was in blue, too, Jack, a few years back. Six years in. Threw it in to do some private gumshoeing, but you know how that goes, feast or famine. Well, I had a feast of the famine, if you get me." He grinned at the detective.

"Yeah, Tag, I know all about it. Heard about you, too. You were a wee bit of a hotdogger, I'd say, and had a mite of trouble following police protocol. From what I've heard, you were downright naughty at times." He grinned at Tag.

"Guilty as charged, Jack. Now, tell me, what is it you need from me?"

"Nothiing really, but I thought you might like to come along with me when I enter the Wilde suite," He looked at his notes. "Suite 912, and, who knows? You just might spot something these old, tired eyes of mine miss. Of course you shouldn't . . . "

"Touch anything. Yeah, I know, Jack, but I do keep disposable latex gloves in my desk." He opened the desk's front drawer, took out a box and held it up. "See?"

Hunger stood up. "Good boy! Shall we go? On the way, I'll fill you in on this Wilde woman, and I mean wild in the feral sense of the word. I popped her name into my PC's search engine and, man, she was a pip! C'mon, I'll tell you all about it on the way."

As they passed by Lucy's desk, Tag said, sounding most businesslike, "Miss Fern, hold all my calls, I'll be out a while." Then, to Hunger, he added, "God, I've always wanted to say that!" Hunger said, "And now you have. Come, I'll tell you all about her publisher, one Mr. Hamilton Worthy. A real gent, that one."

Tag sensed there was a Colombo side to DetectiveHunger. He was cagier than he appeared to be. He had made it seem to Tag that he had just arrived on the scene, but now it looked as if he had taken the time to talk to one Hamilton Worthy. And who else?

You're slick, Detective Hunger, Tag thought, real slick . . .

* * * * * *

SUITE 912 was unoccupied, if you don't count the corpse of Wendy Wilde. Which had three neat, closely placed holes in its chest. Hunger pegged it as a .22 calibre job. Tag agreed. They had found the body in a small room that Wilde had used as an office.

She was lying in the center of the room, on her back, totally nude, with a large white towel lying alongside her. Her hair and the towel were damp. Hunger took a quick glance into the bathroom. One look at the wet tub told him she had obviously just come out of the shower, mere minutes before her killer had pumped three into her.

Her wig, a brunette one, was pushed forward and covering her right eye. She reminded Tag of Veronica Lake, a sultry, sexy actress from the 1940's.

Hunger asked Tag if he would go through her desk while he did whatever it was he planned to do. Tag, with his brand spanking new latex gloves on, opened the top middle desk drawer and whistled. "Jack, I've got a .45 here. With a very expensive-looking pearl handle. What you want I should do with it?" Tag looked down at the pearl handle. It looked like a custom job, with a purple capital W embedded into each side.

"Empty the clip, so some kids don't get to it loaded, and just leave it there, would you?" Tag would. He stripped the clip and slid it back into the gun's handle. Then he had a question for Jack.

"Jack, how come this place isn't crawling in blue? You breaking cop protocol?" A little tit for tat.

"Look who's telling me about protocol! Listen, Mr. Pot, this Mr. Kettle is going by the book. This is a closed crime scene, of which I am in charge. Now, because I prefer to have an early look-see, before there are two dozen pairs of shiny shoes mucking it up, I tell forensics to wait for my call. They'll be along shortly."

"Yeah, Jack, but you don't even have anyone guarding the . . ."

"Door? He's on his way. I called just before I went into your office. Any more question, nosy?" Tag had none that he could think of. For now, at least.

The two men checked the place very carefully and, besides some of her published books and some paper files, they found nothing to speak of. No weapon, no casings, no perp hiding in a closet.

While Hunger was placing the necessary calls, Tag wandered back into the living room and went over to the large bookcase that housed her published writings and personal reading matter.

The first book of hers he laid his hands on, was titled, Pandora's Box. He opened it to somewhere in the middle and began reading.

Tag flipped a few pages and read some more.

As Jose's hot, boiling cum hit the back of her throat, some of it actually going down to her stomach, Carla spluttered. The next blast, equally as strong as the first, seemed to fill her mouth up. She swallowed quickly, as if not to do so would make her drown in his . . .

He flipped a few more pages.

The feeling was overtaking her. "Oooooooh!" Sue screamed out. Then she . . .

Then a voice behind Tag spoke.

"That was her first, Pandora's Box. Her best, too, in my opinion." Tag turned and saw the man. Tall, elderly, with jet-black hair that had a white swirl running down the middle. The hair reminded Tag of a skunk. The man himself reminded him of nervousness. He was also impeccably dressed in a tone-downed medium-gray suit and vest. It looked custom-made. The man had the overall look of money, and lots of it.

Tag said, playing real dumb, "She read a lot of this type of, uh, literature then, I take it, sir. Bit steamy reading for a lady of her caliber, don't you think?" That sounded dumb enough to Tag.

"Read? Oh, I see, you don't know, do you? No, I suppose you don't. Ms. Deaux-Fontaine wrote that book and four more just like it under her pen name, Wendy Wilde. You'll find her photograph on the back cover." The man twirled his fingers, a signal to Tag to turn the book over.

Tag turned the book over and saw the same face he had just recently looked at, only this time she looked much happier. Scrawled across the bottom of the picture, and looking as if it was written by her, was XXX Wendy Wilde. He thought: Hot kisses from a corpse, now. Then he realized it could also stand for the triple-X used in the porn trade. Both seemed to fit, and Tag surmised that that was probably the whole idea.

"You must be Hamilton Worthy." Tag said. "Detective Hunger mentioned you to me. Said I'd be bumping into you soon enough."

The man nodded. "Guilty, sir. And you are . . . ?"

"Tag Bonewell, Mr. Worthy, and I'm at your service, sir. I'm the Wellington's house detective." God, he thought, this guy brings out the formal in me. I'll be bowing at the waist any minute now and sticking a dainty pinky out whenever I drink my Scotch.

"Then you're not the police. Where are they? Shouldn't they be here by now?"

Tag thought of the body still lying in the office room. "Well, Detective Hunger is somewhere else in the apartment. I'm surprised you missed him on your way in. But you shouldn't really be here, sir. Crime scene and all. Why don't you say hello to Detective Hunger on your way out? He'd like that, sir."

Worthy got the message and, without even a sweet goodbye, turned and left. Oh, well, Tag thought, that went smoothly. He then heard multiple voices coming from the other room.

The forensics team, it seemed, had arrived . . .

* * * * * *

TWO DAYS LATER, and long after the body had been removed and forensics had crawled all over suite 912, taking every thing that wasn't nailed down with them, including her PC, Detective Hunger paid Tag another visit.

After some idle chit-chat, Hunger said, "Tag, you should see the video tapes we took out of Wilde's place! Dozens of 'em, with people doing all kinds of nasty stuff on them. And sweet little Wendy is on every one. Au naturel, to be sure." He laughed as he added, "And they're all labeled, ha ha ha, research!"

Tag chuckled, and then said, "Research, huh? Well, Jack, I guess some writers take their work extra seriously." He laughed.

"So do we cops, Tag. Hell, I've had to force myself to sit through at least, ha ha ha, a half dozen of 'em so far. Taking copious notes, too, mind you." He grinned at Tag.

"I'll just bet! And with a very hard pencil, no doubt!" He chuckled.

"The hardest! Well, at least for the first twenty minutes of note taking. Then I have to drag it into the John to put a new point on it!" They both laughed, heartily, with Tag rapping the edge of his desk with an open hand several times.

Then Hunger said, "Say, Tag, how's about I send you over a handful of 'em? Pardon the pun. That is, if you can find a decent pencil in that mess you call a desk."

"Great, Jack, I'd like that. And, you know, since I became the house dick around here, I haven't had to sharpen my own pencil in a while, so it'll be a nice change of pace. It'll take me back to my roots . . . pun intended." He chuckled.

Hunger grinned, then said, "Yeah, I guess as house dick, it wouldn't surprise me to know you have a pencil sharpener on every floor . . . even the penthouses, eh?" Was Hunger already onto Mergie? Or Greta? Hunger was fishing for information of the prurient kind, but Tag got cagey with him.

"Well, detective, I ain't sayin' anything more without my lawyer present, but as you yourself well know, what the fuck good is a pencil with a dull tip?"

The boys laughed it up a bit before Hunger took his leave, promising the films would be sent tomorrow and, this afternoon, some books and notes Wilde had made.

"Look her books and notes over, Tag, and see what you make of 'em. Maybe you'll spot something this harried old copper missed. Never know." He left Tag's office and Tag could hear him stopping by Lucy's desk.

Through the open door, though Tag couldn't see them, he heard Hunger say to Lucy, with a laugh in his voice, "Does that slave driver boss of yours make you sharpen his pencil?" If he only knew, Tag thought. Then again, Hunger is a good detective.

"Huh?" Tag heard Lucy say, then quickly add, "Oh, I getcha! For your information, Detective Hunger, Mr. Boneher-all-the-time needs lotsa pencil sharpening. He's a diligent note taker, don'tcha know?" She giggled. That Luce, thought Tag, smart as a whip.

Hunger said, "I know, Ma'am, and it takes one to know one!" He then went out the front door, laughing loudly on his exit.

"Luce?" Tag hollered out. "Could you come in her a sec? And bring your best sharpener with you, would you, please?"

He heard her yell back, "Be right in, slave driver boss. Just gonna lock the front door first and turn on the answer machine . . . "

* * * * * *

AS LUCY ENTERED, she saw Tag was naked from the waste down, his semi-hard penis in evidence. This signaled he was either in the mood for a blowjob or a quick doggy style. The choice, she knew, was all hers. Tag, that darling, was easy that way.

"Well, Mr. Boneher-in-the-office, is that a pencil in your hand or are you just glad to see me?" She giggled. As she approached him, he said, "Both!"

She reached out and gave his pencil a squeeze. "My, my, my, you've got one big pencil there, sir." She looked at him. "Why don't I just put my sharpener at your disposal and you can stick that big, old pencil right in and get a good tip on it?"

"Mmm," he said. "Sounds like a plan to me." She assumed her familiar position.

Bent over the desk, as she was, Lucy got playful from the getgo. Right after Tag had pushed his throbbing cock into her just an inch or so, letting it soak, she said, "Rrrrrrrrrrrr! Rrrrrrrrrrrr! Rrrrrrrrrrrr!" It was her imitation of a pencil sharpener. It sounded a mite hoarse and guttural, raspy even. Tag played right back at her.

"Sounds like it needs a little oil, Luce!" He chuckled.

"Just you wait, Mr. Boneher-from-behind, it'll soon be awash in oil and purring like a kitten!" She giggled girlishly. Then she rotated her hips a bit.

"I hope so!" Tag said. "Wouldn't want the tip chewed up now, would we?" He plunged to the base into her, pulled back and did it a few more times. Then he heard her say:

"Purrrrrrrr! Purrrrrrrr! Purrrrrrrr!" She rotated her ass with each purrrrrrrr, making small and sensuous, clockwise circles.

"Oooh!" Tag said as he plunged to the hilt once more. "That's one fine fucking pencil sharpener you have there, lady!" He moaned hoarsely. Then he plunged deeply in and out a dozen more times or so, her pencil sharpener rotating all the while.

With a firm grip on both her hips, he jackhammer fucked her. Small groans, deliberately toned down in decibels, came out of her. Although a room separated them from the outer front door, they both knew it was best not to take the chance of being heard. Then Tag slowed it down and finally stopped altogether, his cock half in and half out.

He watched, fascinated, as her pussy lips chewed their way along the cock shaft toward its base. It reminded him of a hairy mouth. She moved herself back and forth this way for a few hearty nibbles and, sensing he wasn't moving at all, said, "Just like a man, a fucking man at that, let momma do all the heavy work!"

"Ha ha!" he said as he helped momma out by pushing it all the way in, his groin slapping into her fleshy buttocks, and then all the way out. Poppa was back to work.

"Ooh, daddy, I'm glad I woke you!" Lucy spit out breathlessly. They continued this way for a dozen or more eight hunka-dunka-inch- deep plunges by him . . .