E is for Evidence (Kinsey Millhone 5)

Claudine arrived with a steaming plate of bacon and scrambled eggs, which she set down in front of me. Clau-dine is in her fifties, with a booming voice and calves knot-ted with varicose veins.

"Morning, Darcy. What'll you have today? We're out of cheese Danish, but I laid back a cherry in case you're interested."

"That's fine. And a small orange juice."

Claudine made a note and tucked her order pad in her apron pocket. "Just a second and I'll bring you a coffee cup." She was gone again before Darcy could protest. I could see her do a quick visual survey, looking for an empty seat. The place was filling up rapidly and it looked like she was trapped.

While I ate, I studied her in a manner that I hoped was disconcerting. She eased out of her coat, making a big deal out of standing up so she could fold it just so. She's one of those women a glamour magazine should "make-over" as a challenge to their in-house experts. She has baby-fine hair that defies styling, a high, bulging forehead, pale-blue eyes. Her skin is milky white and translucent, with a trac-ery of veins showing through like faded laundry marks. I'd heard Darcy's boyfriend was a mail carrier, dealing drugs on the side, and I wondered if he delivered junk mail and junk on the same run. I could tell I was ruining her day, which improved my appetite.

"I'm assuming you heard about the trouble I'm in."

"It'd be hard not to," she said.

I opened a plastic locket of grape jelly and spread half on a triangle of whole-wheat toast. "Got any ideas about who set me up?"

Claudine returned with a cup and saucer and the cof-feepot. Darcy judiciously elected to refrain from comment until her cup was filled and mine had been topped off. When Claudine departed, Darcy's expression turned prim and her coloring altered like a mood ring, shifting down a grade from woeful to glum. Actually, the change was not unappealing. She's big on pastel shades, imagining, I sup-pose, that washed-out colors are somehow more flattering to her than bold ones. She wore a pale-yellow sweater about the hue of certain urine samples I've seen where the prognosis isn't keen. The pink in her cheeks gave her back an air of health.

She leaned forward. "I didn't do anything to you," she said.

"Great. Then maybe you can help."

"Mac told us specifically not to talk to you."

"How come?"

"Well, obviously, he doesn't want you to get informa-tion you're not supposed to have."

"Such as?"

"I'm not going to discuss it with you."

"Why don't I tell you my theory," I said sociably. I half expected her to stick her fingers in her ears and start sing-ing aloud to drown me out, but I noticed that she was not completely uninterested and I took heart from that. "I suspect maybe Andy 's at the bottom of this. I don't know what he's getting out of it, but it's probably some form of financial gain. Maybe somebody's throwing business his way, or giving him a kickback. Of course, it crossed my mind that it might be you, but I don't really think so at this point. I think if you'd done it you'd be friendly, to convince me of your goodwill, if nothing else."

Darcy opened a paper sugar packet and measured out half a teaspoon, which she stirred into her coffee. I went right on, talking aloud as if she were a pal of mine and meant to help.

"CF hires other outside investigators so I'm imagining that any one of us could have been implicated. It was just my dumb luck that I was up at bat. Not that Andy wouldn't take a certain satisfaction from the fact. He's never been fond of me and he always hated it that Mac let me have office space. Andy wanted to knock the wall out and take that corner for himself. At any rate, I have to assume Lance Wood is the real focus of the frame, though I don't know why yet. What I'll probably do is try working both sides of the street here and just see where all the paths intersect. Should be fun. I've never worked for me before and I'm looking forward to it. Cuts down on the paper-work."

I checked her reaction. Those pale eyes were focused on mine and I could see that her mental gears were en-gaged.

"Come on, Darcy. Help me out," I coaxed. "What do you have to lose?"

"You don't even like me."

"You don't like me either. What's that got to do with it? We both hate Andy. That's the point. The guy's a shit-heel."

"Actually he is," she said.

"You don't think Mac had anything to do with it, do you?"

"Well, no."

"So who else could it be?"