Madison Page was studying his computer screen when he heard the blast. Like everyone else at the convention who happened to be on the mezzanine, his eyes sought and found the office with the door blown half off. Page and a security guard moved fast but Saul King was closer, and he stepped inside first.

Page ran up as the sheet which said "Judges Only" fell off the door and Saul came out. A Whiter Shade of Pale, Page thought, seeing his face.

King said, "He's dead", and then vomited. Page turned to the security guard, a kid in his twenties who was staring at his radio for inspiration.

"You'll want to call the cops and seal the building," Page said, putting a hand on his shoulder. "And keep everybody out of this office."

They stopped talking when Page opened the door. It was a small conference room, filled mostly with a rectangular oakish table and four people hunched nervously around it. Page was pleased to smell fresh coffee, saw the pot on a tray in the corner.

They'd all met the day before the convention started when he showed them how to use the LoopCon computer network. One PC of which, Page thought ruefully, is now rusting in peace. Pieces? But now they, and he, were suspects for murder, so he took a closer look at each of them, one by one, and thought about the common thread that linked them, and which had brought them here.

Five years before, Reginald King, the author of the long-running and extremely popular series of Julius Loop mysteries, had died. When the publisher, Deerstalker Books, looked for a successor to carry on the series, hundreds of writers sought the job but only one was chosen. Three of the "losers", and one other, were in this room.

Alice Roche's blonde hair was shorter than Page preferred and the lines under her eyes hinted at her age but he couldn't see anything wrong with the rest of her. She'd lost the fight to write Julius Loop mysteries but the publicity had boosted sales of her first novel, Thou Shalt Not Kill. Now she was four books into her own very successful series.

Randy Musselman was nineteen and president of the Julius Loop Fan Club. He, too, had been one of the writers/fans who submitted sample novels to Deerstalker. At fourteen, Randy hadn't a chance; since then he'd sold a few short stories and been a script consultant for the first Loop TV movie. Now he slouched in his chair, grimacing at Page through glasses halfway down his nose. Skinny, short and geeky, Randy Musselman was cruelly misnamed.

Saul King, Ph.D., hadn't been interested in carrying on his famous father's mystery series, but he'd done well on his own, starting with a controversial thesis at Harvard. When he expanded the thesis into a book the sales had surpassed all expectations. He was still pale, Page noticed, but the movie-star face that captivated the public when he hosted the PBS special on his book was recognizable again.

The last writer in the room was Dr. James D. Tryor. Tryor was, like King, a "serious" author. Considered America's greatest living poet, he had only to die to take his place alongside Poe and Whitman, or so Page's artsy friends had told him.

Five years ago Saul King had argued for Tryor to succeed his father in writing the Julius Loop mysteries, but Deerstalker's editorial board vetoed him. Dr. Tryor had let slip the fact he had no desire to continue the series; instead, he wanted to write one -- and only one -- mystery epic, in which the detective Loop and his assistant Avery Compman aged and actually died.

Collectively, they were the panel, minus one, of "celebrities" paid to appear at the first annual Julius Loop Mystery Convention, aka LoopCon. They would give talks, sign their own books, participate in online chats and judge entries in the Julius Loop pastiche contest.

"Minus one" because James Townsend, who for five years had been writing new Julius Loop books for Deerstalker, had been killed an hour ago by a bomb in a locked office to which only the judges and Page had keys.

It hadn't taken long for the state police and FBI to take over. Nobody could leave the convention center and IDs and statements were being taken for everyone inside. The officer in charge decided to put the judges in a single office until they could be questioned, and that was the office to which Page had just been escorted.

Randy Musselman spoke first. "How's the air up there?"

Page wished he had a megabyte of RAM for every time somebody had asked him that. He smiled and poured himself a cup of coffee.

Dr. James Tryor studied him. "What is Madison Page, computer consultant, doing in a room full of killers?"

"He's a suspect too," Randy pointed out, grinning.

Page grinned back and took the fifth chair, next to Saul King, sliding his briefcase under the table. "That's right. But I didn't do it. How about you?"

"It couldn't have been any of us," said Saul. "Thousands of people ... lot of nuts out there."

Alice shot him a look. "Careful. Some of those 'nuts' are my fans."

"I'm sorry." He wiped his brow. "I found him, you know. I'm still a little shook up."

Tryor scratched his white beard. "But you have a point. Events such as this draw publicity. Publicity invites the unstable."

Page spoke, careful of what he should, and shouldn't, give away. "I don't think the bomb was there this morning. They're saying it was in the desk somewhere? Well, I came in to replace the monitor at 7:00. I installed a 21", like you asked, Dr. Tryor. I had to move the PC and route cables under the desk."

Tryor nodded. "Thank you. That first screen was hard on these old eyes, you know." He paused. "So you were in that office today."

"Guess all of us were."

"No." He shook his head. "Yesterday we met and planned a schedule so we would each have ample time to use the computer in the judge's office. Each of us was allotted an hour and a half.

"Mr. ---excuse me, Dr. --- King was first, at 9:00. Miss Roche next, at 10:30. Mr. Musselman at noon, the late Mr. Townsend at 1:30, and I last, at 3:00. Of course, we know what happened to poor Townsend. So I missed my spot."

"Who else could have..." Page began.

"Excuse me." Alice was looking uncomfortably at Tryor. "You went in as I was leaving, remember?"

Tryor's expression was inscrutable.

Randy pushed his glasses up with one finger. "Yeah. I saw your ID on the JUDGE PC today, too."

Tryor turned toward Randy. "What in the world are you talking about?"

"With the 'Net Users' command." Randy looked at Page for support. "Like Mr. Page told us."

"You mean like this." Page hefted his briefcase onto the table, flipped the snaps.

Alice flinched.

Slowly, Page opened it and pulled a printout from the top.

She laughed. "I'm sorry, Madison. I write mysteries, remember?"

He laughed with her, to show he approved of the first-name basis, and unfolded the pages. "Randy's right. I printed this the other day after I set up Login ID's for you and got you all logged on."

It read:

Page pointed to the first column. "Every person has to have an ID unique to the system and the computer can only understand names up to eight letters long. And it doesn't like spaces. That's why you have funny names. See, I'm MADPAGE."

Randy jumped in enthusiastically. "You open a DOS window and type 'Net Users'. You can see if somebody you're looking for is logged on and what computer they're using. Then you can send them messages. That's how I met Nancy."

"Nancy?"

"Nancy Parker. She's a nerd, like me. She was on PC4." He said it fondly, a detail to treasure. "She wanted to know if I was the Randy Musselman whose stories were in Underground Detective. So we went for lunch."

Saul had regained some color. "That's why you were late getting back," he said, amused.

"We got to talking and I forgot the time. So I didn't actually get into the Judges' office until 12:30. Then there were a ton of questions for me on the internet site Mr. Page set up for us. I didn't let Mr. Townsend in..." He gulped. "I didn't let him in until almost 2:00."

Page stared at James Tryor. "So we're all suspects."

"I suppose I had forgotten, but I did want to check that computer screen."

"Well, maybe one of you lent your key to somebody else. Like your friend Nancy?"

Randy lost his grin. "Of course not!"

"Not me," said Alice. "Unethical."

Tryor and Saul made it unanimous.

"I guess I'm sunk," Page admitted. "It's this big briefcase. You could put a nuke in it if you really wanted to, and I've been carrying it all day. I don't guess any of you had anything like that."

"Mine is even larger," said Saul. "I don't have it now. The police took it."

In fact they all had briefcases, except for Alice.

"I carry a humongous old backpack I've had since school." She sighed. "Right now it's full of manuscripts from budding writers who want my advice. I'm a soft touch."

"I guess it's bad taste to ask, but who'll write Loop mysteries now?"

Only Tryor spoke: "I vote for Mr. King."

Nobody, including Saul King, understood.

"Of course, someone else would have to actually write the stories... Mr. King would simply lend his famous name to the enterprise. A ghost writer would be necessary." He laughed. "Perhaps Mr. Townsend!"

Saul King winced.

Even Randy seemed appalled and changed the subject. "I'm sorry for Mr. Townsend. But I'm sorry for the fans, too."

Alice agreed. "A lot of them have looked forward to this for a long time."

Randy paused. "No disrespect for Townsend ... but it might end up helping the series."

"We were talking about this before you came in," Alice explained, to Page. "Townsend's books aren't as good as the originals."

"That's not a cut on Townsend," Randy put in. "Reginald King was a tough act to follow."

"With due regard for the deceased, I agree," put in Tryor. Page wondered where his regard had been a moment before. "It's one thing to break the rules of the genre. All the greats have done it to advantage. But Townsend broke rules he didn't understand. He drags the reader through a mire of clues and characters which have nothing to do with the solution."

"Exactly," agreed Alice. "Who wants to search an attic all day and then find your earring on the kitchen table?"

"Depends on what you find in the attic," Page said.

"Can I use that?" Randy asked. He pulled a pen and pad from a shirt pocket. "It's just what Avery Compman, the man-of-action, would have said."

Page took a long sip of his coffee. "Did the four of you know each other before?"

Saul shook his head.

"Miss Roche and I corresponded for a while," Randy said hesitantly.

She nodded. "About writing."

Page looked at Randy. "You could write the Julius Loop books now."

"Someday," he agreed. "Not yet. I haven't lived enough."

Tryor cleared his throat. "I have already written the next Julius Loop novel."

They all stared at him.

"Did you think I'd forget the idea just because some fatuous executives couldn't find a pigeonhole for it? Bah. It's the best work I've ever done. It will redefine the American detective genre. Nothing in the field approaches it. It may not be published in my lifetime, but that's not what I care about. We write for posterity. Those of us who write, that is."

Page looked at Alice. "What about you?"

"Sure. I'd love to do the series."

Randy smirked. "She's running out of Commandments."

"I wouldn't kill anybody for the chance. But I'd liven it up."

"It's too radical," Randy objected. Noticing Page's expression, he explained: "She wants to kill off Avery Compman. Then have Jill, his girlfriend, replace him, moving into the spare room in Loop' house ..."

"To solve Avery's murder..."

"Yeah, but then she stays on to be the girl-of-action." He shook his head. "It'd kill the series."

"The death of Julius Loop," mused Saul.

"Loop needs a fresh approach," Alice countered. "Let's face it: mystery is a woman's genre now. Anyway, the possibilities for subtle romance between Jill and Julius are very interesting."

"Especially living in the same house," Page agreed.

"You're asking a lot of questions," Saul noticed. "What about you?"

Page frowned. "Well, I took Creative Writing in eighth grade, but ..."

"That's not what I meant! Maybe you had something against Townsend."

"You're right," Page confessed. "I'm the detective with a new gimmick: I'm the murderer. I solve cases by framing somebody else. And this time it'll be one of you."

Randy retrieved his notepad. "Can I use that?"

There was something Page hadn't told them. As a free-lance computer consultant one of his best clients had been the local police. Not as often as in the good old days of the eighties, when the average person couldn't even turn on a PC, let alone search its disks for criminal evidence, but he still got an occasional call. That's why he knew the officer in charge of the investigation, had known her well for seven years. He got to keep his briefcase, after she took a look (for his safety, of course), and was allowed to wait with the judges before making his statement.

Later, when the police questioned him, he found out some things too. There's more than one kind of networking in this business, he reflected.

Thus he knew, by the time he was allowed to leave the convention center, that the bomb had been under the desk; that it had been detonated by remote control, and that the triggering device had already been found, in a trashcan inside the building; that it had imploded the $2000 monitor he had rented for Dr. Tryor's tired old eyes; that the office door had showed no signs of previous tampering; that the rest of his computer system, including the fifteen other PCs he'd set up around the center, was seized as evidence and wouldn't be returned until the case was closed, if ever; and that there was no doubt that it was indeed James Townsend's body. His face had been intact.

The "keys" were the plastic credit-card type, ruling out copies made at a hardware store.

It didn't take a Bill Gates to figure out that the hot suspects were the four judges and Madison Page. Page didn't like being a suspect and didn't like having his computers blown up.

He intended to find out who had planted that bomb.

He stopped at the library on the way home for a bagful of research materials. Back home, he called his lawyer and insurance company. Then he started a pot of coffee and considered the situation.

Alice Roche needed a new series. Tryor had written the ultimate Julius Loop book and probably wanted it published. Saul King received royalties from paperback editions of his father's books, and those were increased by the success of James Townsend's follow-ons; he had much to lose from Townsend's death, presumably nothing to gain. Randy Musselman thought he would be a better writer than them all. Someday.

If the bomb had been on a timer, the equation would be different. Especially since the judges' pre-arranged schedule had been disrupted after lunch. But it was detonated remotely. The killer had chosen the precise moment of explosion.

Page sighed and opened the bag. First was Dr. Saul King's book, The Marlowe Hypothesis. The ideas were brilliant, the research meticulous. That's what the jacket said, anyway. Page read enough to get the gist: another playwright, believed dead, had written all of Shakespeare's work and the Bard had been just a front man. The jacket also mentioned the award-winning PBS series, hosted by King, and the "companion" CD-ROM.

Next was an issue of Underground Detective with two stories by Randy Musselman. They were okay if you like that violent stuff, Page decided. He didn't.

Dr. Tryor's book was the type you flatten folded paper with. Page read until he was depressed, which didn't take long. And the poems don't even rhyme!

And Alice Roche ... another day, he might have liked her book. But now it seemed to merge with the whole grisly day, mock it somehow. Murder, murder, murder. Like a word to be savored, something fun, not deadly; as when her heroine casually mentioned she'd just killed someone.

The telephone rang.

"Madison Page?"

"Hi. Just enjoying your book."

She laughed. "You sound sarcastic."

"Sorry. Bad day for a murder mystery, I guess."

"I called to warn you. You can't fool me anymore. The police told me you asked to speak with us today. How come you didn't mention that?"

"Forgot. How come cops will answer questions for anybody else but me?"

"It helps if they're fans of your books. Oh, I forgive you. Actually, I'd like to study you. It'd be fun to research a computer detective."

"I don't have a spare room."

"So we'll get a big house. With a big office and desks for each of us. You be the man of action and I'll lie on a couch, solving crimes."

"Right now I'm the man of inaction. I should be studying you. With all the mysteries you've written, you could solve this in your sleep."

"Oh, crap. Mysteries aren't real life."

"But you must have some idea. Had to have been Randy or Tryor. Or Saul King."

"Honestly, I can't see it. I can imagine them doing it. But that's imagination. Saul had too much to lose. Even if Randy planned it, he's too much in love today to have killed anyone. You can see that."

Page couldn't argue with her.

"And Tryor? No way. Writers don't need revenge. They kill whomever they want, without hurting a fly, in their writing. I do it all the time."

"Hope I'm not in your next book."

"Cute. You're stepping around suspect number four, Alice Roche. I'm as likely as any. I really am dying to publish a Julius Loop story."

"So why don't you? Just write it."

"I'm not as patient as Tryor. I have to pay the rent."

Page hesitated.

"Go ahead," she said breathlessly. "Interrogate me."

"Just one question, really."

"Why did I kill him? Easy. I didn't."

"No. Why do people read mysteries? Especially cops. Don't they get tired of it?"

She paused. "It's not the mystery. Nobody cares about mystery. It's the solution they crave. The idea that a piece of this messy world can be ordered. That justice gets done. That when a terrible thing happens some heroine will seek the truth. People read mysteries because it gives them back something the daily news has taken away: faith."

"You make it sound religious."

"It is, in a way. It's no coincidence that so many detectives are religious figures." She giggled. "I can't imagine the kind of mystery an atheist like Tryor would write."

"So did Tryor kill Townsend?"

She whistled. "Cute. Tell me you had one question so I let my guard down. Then throw the one you really want to ask."

"He lied today. You pointed it out."

"True... I guess he thought I'd let it pass. Then again, maybe he's afraid I saw something." Her voice became playful. "I could be in danger right now. You should come over and protect me."

"Maybe some other time. When it's not so dangerous."

She sniffed. "Some hard-boiled detective you are. I'll call you if I see men in my closet."

Page almost had his concentration back when the thing went off again.

It was Dr. James Tryor, writer of depressing poetry.

"I felt I should let you know that someone told you something today which was not accurate, Mr. Page," he said.

Page waited.

"It has been a number of years. But when Saul King said that he didn't know any of us, it was not entirely true. In fact, he and I met often while he was doing his thesis at Harvard. My background is in Elizabethan literature. It was only natural he should consult me."

"You didn't say anything about it."

"I hardly wanted to cause a tiff. He might not have remembered."

"So why don't you two get along?"

"I can't imagine. I bear no animosity toward Mr. King. He has always been supportive of my dream to publish a Julius Loop story."

"You say 'always'. Since when?"

"I meant ... I suppose I first mentioned the idea when he was struggling with his thesis. It's been a long time. This old mind forgets."

"So I noticed. Tell me, who do you think did it? It had to be Alice or Randy or Saul, of course."

"I think it's obvious, Mr. Page. Mr. Musselman has the character."

"Randy?"

"Yes. He's clearly knowledgeable in computers. Explosives would be easy for such a person. You heard him today. He cares more for that series than for real people."

"Thanks for the tip."

"I'm full of tips." He chuckled and hung up.

Page put everything he knew about the case into a program he'd been experimenting with. Its purpose was to tally all the facts about a crime and calculate a statistical probability of guilt for each suspect. Unfortunately, it didn't tell him anything useful. No matter what people say about computers, Page reflected, mankind was still the only thing around with anything approaching intelligence. Unless you counted cats.

Page was playing solitaire when the phone rang.

"Madison?"

"Yeah. Saul King?" The professor who looked like a movie-star.

"Yes. How are you doing?"

"Great. How about you?"

"All right, thanks." They were buddies. "That was horrible today. I guess you could see I was shaken."

"A little."

"You see, Mr. Townsend had done a fine job with my father's series. I've asked around a bit and I understand you've worked with the police here before. You're probably helping them out now. I want you to know you have my support."

"Appreciate it."

"Any help I can give."

"I'll let you know."

He paused. "I know who did it."

"Who?"

"Alice Roche."

"You're kidding."

"No. Have you read her second book? Thou Shalt Not Bear False Witness?"

"No. Just started Covet Not Thy Neighbor."

"Then you probably don't know this. In False Witness the killer uses a bomb. Strapped to the bottom of the victim's computer, detonated by radio signal."

"Wow," Page said, sincerely.

"Alice Roche is notorious for her meticulous research. So she knows all about bombs."

"I don't know ... she didn't seem the type."

"She's tough. That's what I've heard. When she wants something she gets it."

"I'll remember that."

"There's another reason I called. There's something I ought to confess."

Page waited.

"Today I said I didn't know any of them before. That wasn't exactly true. I met Dr. Tryor years ago, in school. You see, he knew my advisor. He called and offered some suggestions on my thesis. Mostly useless, I'm afraid. He thought my premise laughable."

"The Shakespeare thing?"

"Yes. Tried to talk me out of it."

"Why didn't you say so today?"

"I didn't think it was relevant. And I was afraid he'd become difficult. You saw how he is. He doesn't like me."

"Why is that?"

"I haven't a clue. Unless it's jealousy. It's his subject, too, you know."

Page noticed by the clock on his computer's screen that it was two a.m. "Well, this has been valuable."

"So you see it was probably Alice."

"I'll keep an eye on her. For now, I suggest you keep your doors locked."

"Oh." He sounded alarmed. "Yes, I certainly will!"

Page hung up the phone and lost another game before shutting off the PC.

"Oh, I ... excuse me!" She moved to shut the door.

"It's okay," Page said. "You're in the right place." He made no move to introduce the other person present, a young woman wearing a business suit and a no-nonsense smile.

Puzzled, Alice Roche entered the office. "I got e-mail," she explained. "The vice-president of Deerstalker said to meet her here at 8:00 a.m. to talk about writing a Julius Loop mystery." She added, "I'm interested. But if they want to do a publicity campaign that exploits this bomb thing I'll tell them where to stick it. What are you doing here?"

"I had a similar note on my machine," Page said, in complete honesty.

"Are you with Deerstalker?" Alice asked the other woman.

"Mrs. Roche, I'd like to ask that you wait until everyone is present," was the no-nonsense answer.

Randy Musselman, looking sleepy, arrived with a friend he introduced as Nancy. She was short, skinny and geeky. Saul King showed up a few minutes later, carrying a briefcase and glancing at his watch. All did the same double-take as had Alice and described receiving a similar note.

Page could tell that Alice Roche smelled a rat. She didn't look surprised when, at 8:25, the door opened a final time and Dr. James Tryor stepped in. Tryor stared slowly at the room and its occupants, ignored the request from Page's friend to sit down, and turned to Page.

"Why are we here?" he asked.

Page stood, knowing one of the few advantages of height was the command it can give of a tough situation. He needed that now.

"Why are we here?" he echoed. "To see that justice gets done. To bring order to a small piece of a messy world. Or maybe just to redefine the detective genre."

Tryor scowled at him.

"Those notes weren't from Deerstalker, were they?" Alice demanded, her eyes flashing. "Mr. Page, if you've falsified e-mail, that's a criminal offense and my lawyer---"

"Forget it, Alice," said Randy, grinning. "This guy's good. I bet you'd never trace any of those notes back to him."

Page lamented briefly the loss of first-name status and went on. "I know which of you killed James Townsend. Miss Squire here is a homicide detective from the state police. If everybody's willing, I'd like to discuss it. Nobody has to stay. Anybody that wants to leave can do so now."

Squire showed her identification and confirmed Page's statement.

Nancy rolled her eyes, but nobody left. Wearily, Tryor sat.

"Dr. Tryor," Page said, "I know why you killed Townsend."

Tryor's eyes widened.

"You've written your best book. You say you're happy it'll be published after you're gone but you're lying. Your work isn't the writing of a man who believes in an afterlife. When you die that's it. Just void. Nada.

"You wanted it published. But as long as James Townsend's books were selling the publisher wouldn't consider yours. And Townsend was young and healthy. So you killed him.

"But there was another reason you had to publish that novel. To escape the shame."

"Shame?" Tryor asked, surprised.

"You've been jealous since a younger man solved the problem you couldn't."

Suddenly Tryor was angry. "You can't possibly---"

"Yes. The true identity of Shakespeare. You couldn't solve it but Dr. Saul King did. You told him to forget it. But he was smarter than you."

"He's not."

"There's no point in lying, Saul already told me. He said it was a dumb idea, didn't he, Saul?"

Saul took a second to realize Page was talking to him. He nodded.

"And he was jealous of you for figuring it out?"

Saul hesitated. "Yes, probably."

Tryor's face was reddening. "I want to call my attorney."

"You killed a man who was a better writer than you. Because a smarter man solved the mystery you couldn't."

"Rubbish. I gave him the idea!"

"You're lying."

Tryor took a breath, calmed himself. "No. It had been my research hobby for years. I didn't publish it because the academic world might say I was senile. 'James D. Tryor, significant poet of the twentieth century, minor expert on Elizabethan literature. Late in life advanced controversial theories regarding Shakespeare's identity which are universally discounted'. He begged me for an idea for his thesis. So I tossed it to him."

"Tossed?"

He sighed. "All right. Traded. I wanted to write a Loop book and he promised to talk the publisher into it after his father died."

"That fell through ... he's been paying you since?"

He nodded. "Ten thousand a year. For additional research."

"And to keep quiet?"

Tryor looked around guiltily. "I don't get paid as well for my books as you might think. They aren't popular, just good. So I was glad to receive part of what was, in fact, mine. But I did not murder James Townsend."

"I know," Page admitted. He turned to King, who was paler now than the day before.

"You screwed up," Page told him. "You were gonna get rid of Tryor because he might tell that he, not you, came up with the Marlowe theory. You didn't want to pay him anymore.

"You'd do it in a way that would implicate another person. Somebody who had written a book about people killed by bombs under their computers.

"So you got a bomb, somehow. Then you made sure you had access to the office before Tryor. Alone in the office, you taped the bomb to the bottom of the desk.

"You had the schedule. You knew when Tryor would be there. And you knew how to verify it. In fact, I showed you.

"But you screwed up. You logged on to one of the computers and typed 'Net Users'. When you looked at the list, you saw that the ID of the person using the judges' computer was JAMESOT. It looked like JAMESDT. Just one letter different, and D and O look awfully similar on a PC screen. You were in a hurry. Somebody might be watching. So you pressed the button."

King swallowed. He raised his hands as if to rub his eyes, then covered his movie-star face and started to sob.

Detective Squire moved to the door and started working her radio.

Randy was scribbling furiously in his notepad.

Page turned to take a seat. Then he heard the clicks of King's briefcase.

When he turned King had a gun and was pointing it at Detective Squire, who had not brought hers.

Madison Page had often been glad of the martial arts training he'd taken years before to overcome awkwardness. But never as glad as now. It helped that King hadn't taken the safety off, but Page still sighed with relief when he turned the gun over to Squire. She pocketed it and quoted the Miranda warning while handcuffing King, who would recover from a blow to the stomach in a few minutes.

The next year Deerstalker simultaneously published three new Julius Loop mysteries, each of which sold respectably, by: Randy and Nancy Musselman, writing as a team; Alice Roche; and James D. Tryor.

Page wrote two letters of apology to Tryor but hasn't received an answer yet.

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