C Is for Corpse Read Free

faintly. "Don't sweat it."
    We turned left, moving toward the parking lot.
    "Sorry I lost my temper," he murmured.
    "Quit that. I don't give a shit."
    "I wasn't sure you'd take me seriously," he said.
    "Why wouldn't I?"
    "My family thinks I've got a screw loose."
    "Yeah, well that's why you hired me instead of them."
    "Thanks," he whispered. He tucked his hand through my arm and I glanced over at him. His face was suffused with pink and there were tears in his eyes, He dashed at them carelessly, not looking at me. For the first time, I realized how young he was. God, he was just a kid, banged up, bewildered, scared to death.
    We walked back to my car slowly and I was conscious of the stares of the curious, faces averted with pity and uneasiness. It made me want to punch somebody out.

Chapter 2
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    By two o'clock that afternoon, the contract was signed, Bobby had given me a two-thousand-dollar advance against fees, and I was dropping him off outside the gym, where he'd left his BMW before lunch. His disability entitled him to the handicapped slot, but I noticed he hadn't used it. Maybe someone else was parked there when he arrived, or maybe, obstinately, he preferred to walk the extra twenty yards.
    I leaned across the front seat as he got out. "Who's your attorney?" I asked. He held the door open on the passenger side, his head tilted so he could look in at me.
    "Varden Talbot of Talbot and Smith. Why? You want to talk to him?"
    "Ask him if he'd have copies of the police reports released to me. It would save me a lot of time."
    "O.K. I'll do that."
    "Oh, and I should probably start with your immediate family. They might have a theory or two about what's going on. Why don't I give you a call later and find out when people are free?"
    Bobby made a face. On the way to my office, he'd told me his disabilities had forced him to move back into the family home temporarily, which didn't sit well with him. His parents had divorced some years ago and his mother had remarried, in fact, this was marriage number three. Apparently, Bobby didn't get along with his current stepfather, but he had a seventeen-year-old stepsister named Kitty whom he seemed to like. I wanted to talk to all three. Most of my investigations start with paperwork, but this one felt different from the outset.
    "I have a better idea," Bobby said. "Stop by the house this afternoon. Mom's having some people in for drinks around five. My stepfather's birthday. It'll give you a chance to meet everyone."
    I hesitated. "You sure it'll be all right? She might not want me barging in on a special occasion like that."
    "It's fine. I'll tell her you're coming. She won't care. Got a pencil? I'll give you directions."
    I rooted through my handbag for a pen and my notebook and jotted down the details. "I'll be there about six," I said.
    "Great." He slammed the car door and moved off.
    I watched him hobble as far as his car and then I headed for home.
    I live in what was once a single-car garage, converted now to a two-hundred-dollar-a-month studio apartment maybe fifteen feet square, which serves as living room, bedroom, kitchen, bathroom, closet, and laundry room. All of my possessions are multipurpose and petite. I have a combination refrigerator, sink, and stovette, a doll-sized stacking washer/dryer unit, a sofa that becomes a bed (though I seldom bother to unfold it), and a desk that I sometimes use as a dining-room table. I tend to be work-oriented and my living quarters seem to have shrunk, year by year, to this miniature state. For a while, I lived in a trailer, but that began to feel too opulent. I'm often out of town and I object to spending money for space I don't use. It's possible that one day I'll reduce my personal requirements to a sleeping bag that I can toss in the backseat of my car, thus eliminating altogether the need for paying rent. As it is, my wants are few. I don't have pets or houseplants. I do have friends, but I don't entertain. If I have any hobbies