Soon after, almost at a signal, people started getting into their good-bye behavior. Glen stood by the archway to the living room, being hugged, having her hands pressed in sympathy. Everyone said the same thing. "You know we love you, sweetie. Now you let us know if we can do anything. "
She said "I will" and got hugged again.
Sufi was the one who actually walked them to the door.
I was on the verge of following when Glen caught my eye. "I'd like to talk to you if you can stay on for a while."
"Sure," I said. I realized for the first time that I hadn't seen Derek for hours. "Where's Derek?"
"Taking Kitty back to St. Terry's." She sank into one of the couches, slouching down so she could rest her head on the back. "Would you like a drink?"
"Actually, I could use one. Shall I fix you one while I'm at it?"
"God, I'd love it. There's a liquor cabinet in my den if we're low out here. Make it Scotch. Lots of ice, please."
I crossed the hall and went into the den, fetching an old-fashioned glass and the bottle of Cutty Sark. When I reached the living room again, Sufi was back and the house was mantled in that dull quiet that follows too much noise.
There was an ice bucket on the end of the buffet table and I plopped a couple of cubes into the glass with a set of those sterling-silver ice tongs that look somehow like dinosaur claws. It made me feel sophisticated, like I was in a 1940s movie wearing a suit with shoulder pads and stockings with a line up the back.
"You must be exhausted," Sufi was murmuring. "Why don't I get you into bed before I take off?"
Glen smiled wearily. "No, that's all right. You go ahead."
Sufi had no other choice but to bend down and give Glen a buss and then find her purse. I handed Glen the glass with ice, pouring Scotch into it. Sufi made her final farewells and then left the room with a cautionary look at me. A few moments later, I heard the front door shut.
I pulled a chair over and sat down, propping my feet up on the couch, cataloguing my current state. The small of my back ached, my left arm ached. I finished off the wine in my glass and added Cutty Sark.
Glen took a long swallow of hers. "I saw you talking to Jim. What did he have to say?"
"He thinks Bobby had a seizure and that's why he ran off the road. Some kind of epilepsy from his head injuries in the first accident."
"Meaning what?"
"Well, as far as I'm concerned, it means if that accident was really a murder attempt, it finally paid dividends.'"
Her face was blank. She dropped her gaze. "What will you do now?"
"Hey, listen. I still have money left from the retainer Bobby gave me. I'll work 'til I find out who killed him."
She met my eyes and the look she gave me was curious. "Why would you do that?"
"To settle accounts. I believe in clearing the ledger, don't you?"
"Oh yes," she said.
We stared at each other for a moment and then she raised her glass. I lifted mine and we drank.
When Derek came in, the two of them went upstairs and, with Glen's permission, I spent the next three hours in a fruitless search of her den and Kitty's room. Then I let myself out and went home.
Chapter 14
By Monday morning at eight o'clock I was in the gym again, working out. I felt like I'd been to the moon and back. Without even thinking about it, I looked for Bobby, realizing a millisecond later that he was gone and wasn't ever going to be there again. It didn't sit well with me. Missing someone is a vague, unpleasant sensation, like gnawing anxiety. It isn't as concrete as grief, but it's just as pervasive and there's no escaping it. I kept moving, working out hard, as though physical pain might blot out its emotional counterpart. I filled every minute with activity and I suppose it worked. In some ways, it's like rubbing Ben-Gay on a sore back. You want to believe it's doing you some good, but you can't think why it would. It's better than nothing, but it's no cure.
I showered, got dressed, and headed over to the office. I hadn't been there since Wednesday afternoon. There was several days' mail piled up and I tossed it on the desk. The message light on my answering machine was blinking, but I had other things to attend to first. I opened the French doors and let some fresh air circulate, then made a pot of coffee for myself. I checked the half-and-half in my little refrigerator, sniffing at the carton spout. Borderline. I'd have to replace that soon. When the coffee was done, I found a clean mug and filled it. The half-and-half formed an ominous pattern on the surface, but it tasted O.K. Some days I drink my coffee black, some days with cream for the comfort of it. I sat down in my swivel chair and propped my feet up, punching the replay button on the answering machine.