C is for Corpse (Kinsey Millhone 3)

I took out a Kleenex and blew my nose. "I just realized how much I envy you," I said.

He smiled ruefully. "That's a first."

We got back in the car. There'd been no blinding recall, no sudden recollection of forgotten facts, but I'd seen the miry pit into which he had been flung and I'd felt the bond between us strengthened.

"Have you been up here since the accident?"

"No. I never had the nerve and no one ever suggested it. Made me sweat."

I started the car. "How about a beer?"

"How about a bourbon on the rocks?"

We went to the Stage Coach Tavern, just off the main road, and talked for the rest of the afternoon.

Chapter 8

When I dropped him off at his house at five, he hesitated as he got out of the car, pausing as he'd done before with his hand on the door, peering back in at me.

"Know what I like about you?" he said.

"What," I said.

"When I'm with you, I don't feel self-conscious or like I'm crippled or ugly. I don't know how you do that, but it's nice."

I looked at him for a moment, feeling oddly self-conscious myself "I'll tell you. You remind me of a birthday present somebody's sent through the mail. The papers torn and the box is damaged, but there's still something terrific in there. I enjoy your company."

A half-smile formed and disappeared. He glanced over at the house and then back to me. He had something else on his mind, but he seemed embarrassed to admit to it.

"What," I coaxed.

He tilted his head and the look in his eyes was one I knew. "If I were O.K… if I'd been whole, would you have thought about having a relationship with me? I mean, boy-girl type?"

"You want the truth?"

"Only if it's flattering."

I laughed. "The truth is if I'd run into you before the accident, I'd have been intimidated. You're too good-looking, too rich, and too young. So I gotta say no. If you were 'whole,' as you put it, I probably wouldn't have known you at all. You're really not my type, you know?"

"What is your type?"

"I haven't figured that out yet."

He looked at me for a minute with a quizzical smile forming-

"Would you just say what's on your mind?" I said.

"How can you turn it around and make me feel good that I'm deformed?"

"Oh God, you're not deformed. Now, quit that! I'll talk to you later."

He smiled and slammed the car door, moving back then so I could make the turn-around and head out the far side of the driveway.

I drove back to my place. It was only 5:15. I still had time to get a run in, though I wondered at the wisdom of it. Bobby and I had spent the better part of the day drinking beer and bourbon and bad Chablis, gnawing barbecued spareribs and sourdough bread tough enough to tug your dentures out. I was really more in the mood for a nap than a run, but I thought the self-discipline would serve me right.

I changed into my running clothes and did three miles while I went through the mental gymnastics of getting the case organized. It felt like iffy stuff" and I wasn't quite sure where to start. I thought I better check with Dr. Fraker in the Pathology Department at St. Terry's first, maybe pop in and see Kitty at the same time, and then try the newspaper morgue and go through the tedious business of checking back through local news prior to the accident just to see what was going on at the time. Maybe some event then current would shed light on Bobbys claim that someone had tried to murder him.

I went over to Bosie's at seven for a glass of wine. I was feeling restless and I wondered if Bobby hadn't set something in motion somehow. It was nice having someone to pal around with, nice to while away an afternoon in good company, nice to have someone whose face I looked forward to seeing. I wasn't sure how to categorize our relationship. My affection for him wasn't maternal in any way. Sisterly, perhaps. He seemed like a good friend and I felt for him all the admiration one feels for a good friend. He was fun, and being with him was peaceful. I'd been alone for so long that a relationship of any kind seemed like seductive stuff

I snagged a glass of wine at the bar and then I sat in the back booth and surveyed the place. For a Tuesday night, there was a lively crowd, which is to say, two guys arguing nasally at the bar, and an old couple from the neighborhood sharing a big plate of pancakes layered with ham. Rosie remained at the bar with a cigarette, smoke drifting up around her head in a halo of nicotine and hair spray. She's in her sixties, Hungarian and bossy, a creature of muumuus and dyed auburn tresses, which she wears parted down the center and plastered into place with sprays that have sat on the grocery-store shelves since the beehive hairdo bumbled out of fashion in 1966. Rosie has a long nose, a short upper lip, eyes that she pencils into narrow, suspicious-looking slits. She's short, top-heavy, and opinionated. Also she pouts, which in a woman her age is ludicrous, but effective. Half the time, I don't like her much, but she never ceases to fascinate.