Fletch's newfound son Jack has just heard from an old flame who's about to marry a billionaire's son--that is until her future father-in-law suffers several near-fatal accidents.
The potential victim--the inventor of the perfect mirror, which allows people to see themselves exactly as others do--lives in his own secluded compound, so Jack gets a job as pool hand on the estate to get closer to the action.
Now Jack's life may be in danger, and he will need his inimitable father's help to discover--before it's too late--whose reflection hides a killer's heart.
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April 10, 2006
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Excerpt from Fletch Reflected by Gregory Mcdonald
1 "Faoni." In fact, he was answering the telephone at Andy Cyst's desk in the huge Global Cable News building in Virginia. He had no desk, or telephone, of his own. The switchboard knew he was working with Andy Cyst. "Fletch?" "Who is this?" The young woman's voice said, "Is this Fletch?" "Yeah. Jack. Faoni. Fletch." "I know your name is Jack Faoni. The weekend we spent together you had me call you Fletch." "When was that?" "Skiing. In Stowe, Vermont. A few years ago. We met there. At The Shed. You were with some other guys from a lumber camp. Playing your guitar. People were buying you beer to keep you playing. Well, I sort of kidnapped you. First, I kidnapped your guitar." Her voice was low, and warm. "When you pursued me to the parking lot to get your guitar back, I grabbed you. It was snowing. You were very hot. I ripped your shirt. I pulled it down off your shoulders. Do you remember the snowflakes falling on your sweating shoulders while we kissed? You sizzled." "Good grief! Whoever you are, woman, you just elevated my temperature by more than a little. I'm hot now." Sticking a finger inside his shirt collar, Jack scanned the huge, brightly lit, colorful, air-conditioned room filled with journalists' workstations. "I wasn't a minute ago." "You were very playful. Silly. You don't remember me?" "I do." She had coal black hair, very wide-set coal-black eyes . . . And her name was? "I remember you weren't there when I woke up." "I had to meet my father early for Belgian waffles. It really wasn't a weekend we spent together. Just a few lovely hours." "I remember it was a cold morning and I had to run through the snow in a flannel shirt torn to shreds. Thanks for leaving me my guitar, anyway." "You use your hands beautifully." "Why didn't you come back? Leave a note? Something?" "I had to ski with my father. Then he drove me back to Poughkeepsie." "I waited." He had not waited long. The snow was pure powder, the skiing too good to miss. "I wasn't sure you weren't a dream." "Anyway, I've been seeing your name on GCN the last few days. Those great stories about The Tribe." "Thanks. I guess." "You're working for GCN now?" "I guess so. I'm here. They've used everything I've brought them." "That's great. But they never showed your face on television. If it was your story, why didn't they use you on camera?" "One doesn't do that." "One doesn't? A lot do." "People come to recognize you. Then you can't do the kind of stories I want to do." "Oh. You must have been working on that story a long time." "It took a long time to set up. Once it got going, it went quickly. Very quickly." "So guess where I am." "You like games, don't you?" "Yeah. I do." "Let me think . . . You're in jail?" "No." "You're in hospital with some horrible disease the doctor says you must tell me about?" "No." "I give up." Jack rearranged some papers on Andy Cyst's desk. "Why don't you remind me of your name, if you ever shared it with me in the first place, tell me where you are, if that's relevant to the conversation, then tell me why you called. You've talked so long I'm beginning to need a shower." "We didn't do all that much talking, as I remember. We went at each other like bear cubs." "I don't care who you are. I don't care where you are. I don't care why you're calling. Good bye.&quo