thought for the day. I ate a hasty sandwich, then left the house.
I have two clients on Thursday afternoons, and I felt it had been a very long day when I left the last one, a travel agent’s office, at six-thirty. The last thing in the world I wanted to see was Claude Friedrich at my doorstep.
You’d think he has the hots for me, I thought sardonically.
I parked the car in the carport and walked around to the front door instead of entering by the kitchen door, as I usually did.
“What do you want?” I asked curtly.
He raised his eyebrows. “Not very polite today, are we?”
“I’ve had a long day. I don’t want to talk about the past. I want my supper.”
“Then ask me in while you fix it.” He said this quite gently.
I couldn’t think of what to do, I was so surprised. I wanted to be alone, but I would sound peevish if I told him to go away—and what if he didn’t?
Without answering, I unlocked the door and walked in. After a minute, he walked in behind me.
“Are you hungry or thirsty?” I said, fury just underneath the words.
“I’ve had my supper, but I’d appreciate a glass of tea if you have some,” Friedrich rumbled.
Alone in the kitchen for a moment, I put my arms on the counter and rested my head on them. I heard the big man’s footsteps sauntering through my spotless house, pausing in the doorway of my exercise room. I straightened and saw that Friedrich was in the kitchen, watching me. There was both sympathy and wariness in his face. I got a glass out of the cabinet and poured him some tea, plonking in some ice, too. I handed it to him wordlessly.
“I’m not here to talk about your past. I’ve had to check up on everyone connected to Pardon, as you can understand. Your name rang a bell…. I remembered it, from the newspapers. But what I’m here to talk about today…a client of yours was in to see me,” Friedrich said. “He says you can verify his story.”
I raised my eyebrows.
“Tom O’Hagen says he came in from playing golf on his day off, Monday, at about three o’clock.”
He waited for my reaction, but I had none to give.
“He says that he then went over to Albee’s apartment to pay his rent, found the apartment door ajar, looked inside, and saw that the area rug was rumpled up, the couch pushed crooked, and no one answered his call. He left his rent check on the desk right inside the door and left.”
“So you’re thinking Pardon may already have been dead at three o’clock.”
“If Tom’s telling the truth. You’re his corroborating witness.”
“How so?”
“He says he saw you going into the Yorks’ apartment as he came down the stairs.”
I thought back, trying hard to remember a perfectly ordinary day. I hadn’t known until I was coming home from my night walk that it would be a day I needed to remember in detail.
I closed my eyes, attempting to replay that little stretch of time on Monday afternoon. I’d had the bag in my hand with the supplies the Yorks had wanted me to put in their apartment, anticipating their return. No, two bags. I’d had to put them down to fish out the right key—poor planning on my part. I remembered being peeved at my lack of foresight.
“I didn’t hear anyone walking across the hall, but I did hear someone coming down the stairs, and it may have been Tom,” I said slowly. “I was having trouble getting the right key separated from the bunch on my key chain. I went in the Yorks’ place, put down the bags…put some things in the refrigerator. I left the other things out on the kitchen counter. I didn’t need to water the asparagus plant because it was still very wet, and the shades in the bedroom were already open—I usually open them for the Yorks—so I left.” I replayed locking the door, turning to leave….
“I did see him! He was walking away from Pardon’s apartment to go to his own and he was hurrying!” I exclaimed, pleased with myself. Tom O’Hagen isn’t my favorite person, but I was
I have two clients on Thursday afternoons, and I felt it had been a very long day when I left the last one, a travel agent’s office, at six-thirty. The last thing in the world I wanted to see was Claude Friedrich at my doorstep.
You’d think he has the hots for me, I thought sardonically.
I parked the car in the carport and walked around to the front door instead of entering by the kitchen door, as I usually did.
“What do you want?” I asked curtly.
He raised his eyebrows. “Not very polite today, are we?”
“I’ve had a long day. I don’t want to talk about the past. I want my supper.”
“Then ask me in while you fix it.” He said this quite gently.
I couldn’t think of what to do, I was so surprised. I wanted to be alone, but I would sound peevish if I told him to go away—and what if he didn’t?
Without answering, I unlocked the door and walked in. After a minute, he walked in behind me.
“Are you hungry or thirsty?” I said, fury just underneath the words.
“I’ve had my supper, but I’d appreciate a glass of tea if you have some,” Friedrich rumbled.
Alone in the kitchen for a moment, I put my arms on the counter and rested my head on them. I heard the big man’s footsteps sauntering through my spotless house, pausing in the doorway of my exercise room. I straightened and saw that Friedrich was in the kitchen, watching me. There was both sympathy and wariness in his face. I got a glass out of the cabinet and poured him some tea, plonking in some ice, too. I handed it to him wordlessly.
“I’m not here to talk about your past. I’ve had to check up on everyone connected to Pardon, as you can understand. Your name rang a bell…. I remembered it, from the newspapers. But what I’m here to talk about today…a client of yours was in to see me,” Friedrich said. “He says you can verify his story.”
I raised my eyebrows.
“Tom O’Hagen says he came in from playing golf on his day off, Monday, at about three o’clock.”
He waited for my reaction, but I had none to give.
“He says that he then went over to Albee’s apartment to pay his rent, found the apartment door ajar, looked inside, and saw that the area rug was rumpled up, the couch pushed crooked, and no one answered his call. He left his rent check on the desk right inside the door and left.”
“So you’re thinking Pardon may already have been dead at three o’clock.”
“If Tom’s telling the truth. You’re his corroborating witness.”
“How so?”
“He says he saw you going into the Yorks’ apartment as he came down the stairs.”
I thought back, trying hard to remember a perfectly ordinary day. I hadn’t known until I was coming home from my night walk that it would be a day I needed to remember in detail.
I closed my eyes, attempting to replay that little stretch of time on Monday afternoon. I’d had the bag in my hand with the supplies the Yorks had wanted me to put in their apartment, anticipating their return. No, two bags. I’d had to put them down to fish out the right key—poor planning on my part. I remembered being peeved at my lack of foresight.
“I didn’t hear anyone walking across the hall, but I did hear someone coming down the stairs, and it may have been Tom,” I said slowly. “I was having trouble getting the right key separated from the bunch on my key chain. I went in the Yorks’ place, put down the bags…put some things in the refrigerator. I left the other things out on the kitchen counter. I didn’t need to water the asparagus plant because it was still very wet, and the shades in the bedroom were already open—I usually open them for the Yorks—so I left.” I replayed locking the door, turning to leave….
“I did see him! He was walking away from Pardon’s apartment to go to his own and he was hurrying!” I exclaimed, pleased with myself. Tom O’Hagen isn’t my favorite person, but I was
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