Sue Grafton - C is for Corpse

The Frakers' den exhibited a shocking lack of hiding places. No drawers, no cabinets, no end tables with cupboards underneath. The two chairs were chrome with leather straps. The coffee table was glass with narrow chrome legs, sporting a decanter of brandy and two snifters on a tray. There wasn't even a carpet to peek under. Jesus, what kind of people were they? I was reduced to touring the bookshelves, trying to divine their hobbies and avocations from the volumes on hand.

People do tend to hang on to hardbacked books, and I could see that Nola had gone through interior design, gourmet cooking, gardening, needlework, and personal beauty hints. What caught my attention, however, were the two shelves lined with books on architecture. What was that about? Surely, neither she nor Dr. Fraker was commissioned to design buildings in their spare time. I took out an oversized volume called Architectural Graphic Standards and checked the flyleaf. The engraved bookplate showed a lithograph of a seated cat staring at a fish in a bowl. Under the Ex Libris, the name Dwight Costigan was scratched in a masculine hand. A reminder bell tinkled at the back of my brain. I thought he was the architect who designed Glen's house. A borrowed book? I checked three more in rapid succession. All of them were "from the library of Dwight Costigan. That was odd. Why here?

I heard Nola tapping back in my direction and I slipped the book into place, then eased over to the window and acted as though I'd occupied my time by looking out. She came into the den with a smile that went on and off again like a loose connection. "Sorry you had to wait. Have a seat."

I hadn't really given a lot of thought to how I was going to handle this. Every time I rehearse these little playlets in advance, I'm brilliant and the other characters say exactly what I want to hear. In reality, nobody gets it right, including me, so why worry about it before the fact?

I sat down in one of the chrome-and-leather chairs, hoping I wouldn't get lodged in the straps. She sat down on the edge of a white linen love seat, resting one hand gracefully on the surface of the glass coffee table in an attitude that suggested serenity, except that she was leaving little pads of perspiration at her fingertips. I took in the sight of her at a quick glance. Slim, long-legged, with those perfect apple-sized breasts. Her hair was a paid-for shade of red, framing her face in a tumble of soft waves. Blue eyes, flawless skin. She had that clear ageless look that comes with first-rate cosmetic surgery, and the black jumpsuit she wore emphasized her lush body without being vulgar or crass. Her manner was solemn and sincere, and struck me as false.

"What can I help you with?" she asked.

I had a split second in which to make a judgment. Could Bobby Callahan truly have gotten involved with a woman as phony as this? Oh hell, who was I trying to kid? Of course!

I gave her a fifteen-watt smile, resting my chin on my fist. "Well, I have a little problem, Nola. May I call you Nola?"

"Certainly. Glen mentioned you were investigating Bobby's death."

"That's true. Actually Bobby just hired me a week ago and I feel like I ought to give him his moneys worth."

"Oh. I thought maybe there was something wrong and that was why you were looking into it."

"There might be. I don't know yet."

"But shouldn't the police be doing that?"

"I'm sure they are. I'm conducting a… you know, an auxiliary investigation, just in case they're on the wrong track."

"Well, I hope somebody figures it out. Poor kid. We all feel so bad for Glen. Are you having any luck?"

"As a matter of fact, I am. Somebody told me half the story and all I have to do is figure out the rest."

"It sounds like you're doing pretty well, then." She hesitated delicately. "What kind of story?"

I suspect she didn't really want to ask, but the nature of the conversation dictated that she must. She was pretending to cooperate so, of course, she had to feign interest in a subject she'd probably prefer to ignore.

I let a moment pass while I stared down at the tabletop. I thought it lent a note of credibility to the lie I was about to tell. I looked back at her, making significant eye contact. "Bobby told me he was in love with you."

"With me?"

"That's what he said."

The eyes blinked. The smile went off and on. "Well, I'm astonished. I mean, it's very flattering and I always thought he was a sweet kid, but really!"

"I didn't find it that astonishing."

Her laugh conveyed a wonderful combination of innocence and disbelief "Oh, for heaven's sake. I'm married. And I'm twelve years older than he is."

Shit, she was quick-shaving years off her age without pausing to count on her fingers or anything. I'm not that fast at subtraction so it's probably fortunate that I don't lie about how old I am.

I smiled slightly. She was pissing me off and I found myself using a mild, deadly tone. "Age doesn't matter. Bobby's dead now. He's older than God. He's as old as anybody's ever going to get."

She stared at me, cuing in to the fact that I was mad. "You don't have to get nasty about it. I can't help it if Bobby Callahan decided he was in love with me. So the kid had a crush on me. So what?"

"So the kid had an affair with you, Nola. That's what. You got your tit in a wringer and the kid was helping you out. The kid was murdered because of you, ass eyes. Now, shall we quit bullshitting each other and get down to business on this or shall I call Lieutenant Dolan down at Homicide and let him have a chat with you?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," she snapped. She got up, but I was already on my feet and I clamped a hand around that dainty wrist so fast she gasped. She gave a little jerk and I released her, but I could feel myself expand with anger like a hot-air balloon.

"I'm telling you, Nola. You've got a choice. You tell me what was going on or I'm going to start leaning on you. In fact, I may do that anyway. I'll whip on down to the courthouse and I'll start going through public records and newspaper accounts and police files until I get a little background information on you and then I'm going to figure out what you're hiding and then I'm going to find a way to stick it to you so bad you'll wish you'd blabbed the whole sfbry out right here."

That's when I got the jolt. In the back of my brain, I heard a sound like a parachute catching air. Thwunk… it opened up. It Was one of those extraordinary moments when automatic recall clicks in and a piece of information pops up like a flash card. It must have been the adrenaline pumping through my head because I suddenly retrieved some data from my memory bank and it appeared on my mental screen just as clear as could be… not the whole of it, but enough. "Wait a minute. I know who you are. You were married to Dwight Costigan. I knew I'd seen you somewhere. Your picture was in all the papers."

Her face drained of color. "That has nothing to do with this," she said.

I laughed, primarily because sudden recollection does that to me. A mental leap has a little chemical component to it that gives a quick rush.

"Oh come on," I said. "It does connect. I don't know how yet, but it's all the same tale, isn't it?"

She sank back down on the love seat, one hand reaching for the glass tabletop to steady herself. She breathed deeply, trying to relax. "You would do well to let this pass," she said, not looking at me.

"Are you nuts?" I said. "Are you out of your tiny mind? Bobby Callahan hired me because he thought somebody was trying to kill him and he was right. He's dead now and he's got no way to rectify the situation, but / do and if you think I'll back off this sucker, you don't know me."

She was shaking her head. All the beauty was gone and what remained seemed drab. She looked, then, like we all look in fluorescent lighting-tired, sallow, shopworn. Her voice was low. "I'll tell you what I can. And then I beg you to drop the investigation. I mean that. For your own good. I did have an affair with Bobby." She paused, searching for the path she wanted to take. "He was a wonderful person. He really was. I was crazy about him. He was so uncomplicated and he had no history. He was just young and healthy, vigorous. God. He was twenty-three. Even the sight of his skin. He was like a-" Her eyes came up to mine and she broke off with embarrassment, a smile forming and faltering, this time from some emotion I couldn't read… pain or tenderness, perhaps.