C is for Corpse (Kinsey Millhone 3)

I sat in the matching plaid chair. "How are you doing?"

"Not that well. I find myself spending much of the day up here. Just sitting. Waiting for Bobby."

Her eyes strayed to mine. "I don't mean that literally, of course. I'm far too rational a person to believe the dead return. I keep thinking there's something more, that it can't be over yet. Do you know what I mean?"

"No. Not quite."

She stared at the floor, apparently consulting her inner voices. "Part of it is a feeling of betrayal, I think. I was brave and I did everything I was supposed to. I was a trouper and now I want the payoff But the only reward that interests me is having Bobby back. So I wait." Her gaze moved around the room as if she were taking a series of photographs. Her manner seemed very flat to me, despite the emotional content of her speech. It was curious, like talking to a robot. She said human things, but mechanically. "You see that?"

I followed her eyes. Bobby's footprints were still visible on the white carpeting.

"I won't let them vacuum in here," she said. "I know it's stupid. I don't want to turn into one of those dreadful women who erect a shrine for the dead, keeping everything just as it was. But I don't want him erased. I don't want him wiped out like that. I don't even want to go through his belongings."

"There's no need to do anything yet, is there?"

"No. I guess not. I don't know what I'll do with the room anyway. I have dozens and they're all empty. It's not like I need to convert it into a sewing room or a studio."

"Are you taking care of yourself otherwise?"

"Oh, yes. I know enough to do that. I feel like grief is an illness I can't recover from. What worries me is I notice there's a certain attraction to the process that's hard to give up. It's painful, but at least it allows me to feel close to him. Once in a while, I catch myself thinking of something else and then I feel guilty. It seems disloyal not to hurt, disloyal to forget even for a moment that he's gone."

"Don't get mean with yourself and suffer more than you have to," I said.

"I know. I'm trying to wean myself. Every day I mourn a little less. Like giving up cigarettes. In the meantime, I pretend to be a whole person, but I'm not. I wish I could think of something that would heal me. Ah, God, I shouldn't go on and on about it. It's like someone who's had a heart attack or major surgery. It's all I can talk about. So self-centered."

Again, she paused and then she seemed to remember polite behavior. She looked at me. "What have you been doing?"

"I went over to St. Terry's this morning to see Kitty."

"Oh?" Glen's expression was devoid of interest.

"Is there any chance you might stop by to see her?"

"Absolutely none. For one thing, I'm furious that she's alive while Bobby's not. I hate it that he left her all that money. As far as I'm concerned, she's grasping, self-destructive, manipulative-" She broke off, closing her mouth. She was silent for a moment. "Sorry. I don't mean to be so vehement. I never liked her. Just because she's in trouble now doesn't change anything. She's done it to herself. She thought there'd always be someone who'd bail her out, but it won't be me. And Derek's not capable of it."

"I heard he left."

She stirred restlessly. "We had a terrible fight. I didn't think I'd ever get him out of here. I finally had to call one of the gardeners. I despise him. Truly. It makes me sick to think he was ever in my bed. I don't know which is worse… the fact that he took out that ghoulish policy on Bobby's life or the fact that he hadn't the faintest sense how despicable it was."

"Can he collect?"

"He seems to think so, but I intend to fight him every step of the way. I've put the insurance company on notice and I've contacted a firm of lawyers in L.A. I want him out of my life. I don't really care what it costs, though the less of mine he gets the better. Fortunately, we signed premarital agreements, though he swears he'll challenge me on that if I thwart his insurance claim."

"Jesus, you're really drawing up battle lines."

She rubbed her forehead wearily. "God, it was horrible. I called Varden to see if I can get a restraining order out on him. It's lucky there wasn't a gun in the house or one of us would be dead."

I was silent.

After a moment, she seemed to collect herself. "I don't mean to sound so crazy. Everything I say comes out so manic somehow. Anyway. Enough of that. I'm sure you didn't come here to listen to me rave. Would you like some coffee?"