C is for Corpse (Kinsey Millhone 3)

"What makes you think she wants anything? Maybe the two of them are just interested in a little companionship. Henry's very handsome, if you ask me."

"I didn't ask you! He's very handsome, He's good fellow too. So why does he need companionship with that little snake?"

"Like they say, Rosie, there's no accounting for taste. Maybe she has redeeming qualities that aren't immediately evident."

"Oh no. Not her. She's up to something no good. I'm gonna talk to Mrs. Lowenstein. What's the matter with her, renting to a woman like that?"

I rather wondered about that myself, walking the half-block home. Mrs. Lowenstein is a widow who owns considerable property in the neighborhood. I couldn't believe she needed the money and I was curious how Lila Sams had arrived at her doorstep.

When I got back to my place, Henrys kitchen light was on and I could hear the muffled sounds of Lila's voice, shrill and inconsolable. The encounter with Rosie had apparently upset her thoroughly and all of Henry's murmured reassurances were doing no good. I unlocked my door and let myself in, effectively shutting out the noise.

I read for an hour-six thrilling chapters from a book on burglary and theft-and went to bed early, wrapping myself up in my quilt. I turned off the light and lay there for a while in the dark. I could have sworn I still heard the faint rise and fall of Lila's wine, circling my ear like a mosquito. I couldn't distinguish the words, but the tone was clear… contentious and ill-humored. Maybe Henry would realize she was not as nice as she pretended to be. Maybe not, though. I'm always startled at what fools men and women make of themselves in the pursuit of sex.

I woke at seven, had a cup of coffee while I read the paper, and then headed over to Santa Teresa Fitness for my Wednesday workout. I was feeling stronger and the two days of jogging had left my legs aching pleasantly. The morning was clear, not yet hot, the sky was blank as a canvas being prepared for paint. The parking lot at the gym was almost full and I snagged the one empty space. I spotted Bobby's car two slots over and I smiled, looking forward to seeing him.

The gym was surprisingly populated for the middle of the week, with five or six two-hundred-and-eighty-pound guys lifting weights, two women in tights on the Nautilus equipment, and a trainer supervising the workout of a young actress whose rear end was spreading out like slowly melting candle wax. I caught sight of Bobby doing bench presses on a Universal machine near the far wall. He'd apparently been there for a while because his T-shirt was ringed with sweat and his blond hair had separated into damp strands. I didn't want to interrupt him so I simply stashed my gym bag and and got down to business myself.

I started my workout with some bicep curls, using dumbbells with hardly any weight, beginning to concentrate as I warmed up. By now, I knew my routine and I had to fight a certain mounting impatience. I'm not a process person. I like goals and closure, the arrival instead of the journey itself. Repetition makes me rebellious. How I manage to jog from day to day I'm never sure. I proceeded to wrist curls, mentally leaping ahead through my routine, wishing I was at the end of it instead of two exercises in. Maybe Bobby and I could have lunch again if he was free.

I heard a clatter and then a thump and looked up in time to see that he'd lost his balance and stumbled against a stack of five-pound plates. It was clear he hadn't hurt himself, but he seemed to catch sight of me for the first time and his embarrassment was acute. He flushed, trying to scramble to his feet again. One of the guys at the next machine leaned over casually and gave him an assist. He steadied himself self-consciously, waving aside any further help. He limped over to the leg-press machine, his air brusque and withdrawn. I went on working out as though I hadn't seen anything, but I kept a discreet eye on him. Even at that distance, I could see that his mood was dark, his face tense. A couple of people sent looks in his direction that spoke of pity, veiled as concern. He mopped at his chin, his attention turned inward. His left leg was going into muscle spasms of some sort and he clutched at his knee with frustration. The leg was like a separate creature, jumping fitfully, defying containment or control. Bobby groaned, pounding angrily at his own flesh as though he might subdue it with his fist. I struggled with an impulse to cross the room, but I knew it would only make things worse. He'd been pushing himself and his body was vibrating with fatigue. Just as suddenly as it had begun, the spasm seemed to fade. He dashed at his eyes, keeping his head low. As soon as he was able to walk again, he snatched up a towel and headed for the locker room, abandoning the rest of his regimen.

I hurried through the rest of my workout and showered as quickly as I could. I expected to find his car gone, but it was still parked in the slot where I'd seen it. Bobby sat with his arms encircling the steering wheel, his head resting on his arms, his shoulders convulsing with dry, hacking sobs. I hesitated for a moment and then approached the car on the passenger side. I got in and closed the door and sat there with him until he was done. I didn't have any comfort for him. There wasn't anything I could do. I had no way to address his pain or his despair and my only hope was to let him know by my presence that I did feel for him and I did care.