Dead Folks' blues

over it. I settled back in the chair as the answering machine began reciting.

Message number one was from my old newspaper: “Hey, listen, friend. I know we’re probably the last people on earth you want to talk to, but we could sure use an interview with you on the Fletcher killing.” The voice was Ed Gibson’s, the city editor. Ed had been sorry to let me go; had, in fact, always been decent to me. He was told to fire me. They made him do it. He’s got three kids, was only doing his job. I understood.

Screw him.

The second message was from Channel 4, the third from Channel 2, the fourth from Channel 2, the fifth from Channel 2, the sixth from Channel 5, which finally got through when Channel 2 gave up.

Three more messages from the media types, then Rachel’s voice: “Where have you been? I’ve been trying to reach you all day, and you’re phone’s either busy or I get this blasted machine. Please call me.”

I opened my notebook and flipped through the Fs. I punched her number in, then waited through two rings.

“Hello?”

“Yes, Rachel Fletcher, please.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Fletcher’s unavailable right now.”

I could hear the voice fade as the hand on the other end of the line headed toward a hangup.

“Wait!” I yelled. “Could you tell her it’s Harry Denton. I’m returning her call.”

Too late. A loud click, then a dial tone. Wonder who that was? Sounded like an older woman. Probably figured I was another reporter. My mail was still in a pile on the floor where the postman had stuffed it through the mail slot. I’d picked up the stack: my liability insurance bill, phone bill, and six pieces of junk mail. Whoopee …

Nothing to do but deal with it. For some reason or other, I was hesitant to go to Rachel’s house. Maybe it’s because I failed her. Maybe Walter was right; she was available now. Was I sleazy enough to go after a grieving widow? Or maybe she wasn’t grieving at all. I didn’t want to think about that alternative.

The prospect of climbing back to the top of the Mount Everest of parking garages was no erotic fantasy either. But it was nearing late afternoon, and the rule around here is that rush hour starts right after lunch, and the longer you wait, the worse the traffic’s going to be.

I threw my coat over one shoulder and walked back out into the heat. At the intersection, the play was still the same, only the actors had changed. I slithered between the bumpers and the blaring horns and made my way over to the parking garage. The Ford had been there barely long enough to cool down. And now we were going out into the mother of all traffic jams.

It wasn’t that bad, actually. Thirty minutes later, I made the turn off Hillsboro road onto Golf Club Lane. This part of town was my old hangout, back when I was married and had a job making steady money. That seemed like a hundred years ago, and I realized that one of the reasons I’d been putting off seeing Rachel was that I simply no longer felt comfortable on this side of the tracks.

The houses lining Golf Club Lane aren’t mansions, but try telling that to the Laotian families on the other side of the river who live fifteen to a two-bedroom duplex that doesn’t meet codes. I slowed, watching the numbers on the houses, until I got to a huge black mailbox with the Fletcher’s address in proper chrome figures.

Holy Hannah, doctors do well, don’t they? A long black driveway stretched maybe two hundred feet up a well-coiffed lawn to a three-story brick house with a chimney at each end. A screened-in front porch on the left side of the house was bigger than my whole apartment. Wrought-iron yard furniture off to the left sat in the middle of a tiny, well-kept English garden. Something the Newport crowd would appreciate.

There were a half-dozen cars in the jet-black driveway, not a single one of them a six-year-old, oil-burning Ford Escort. The tackiest car in the lot-mine excepted-was about a twenty-five-thousand-dollar Buick. Probably the cleaning lady’s.

I wondered if they’d call the police before I had a chance to identify myself. I pulled all the way up the driveway, figuring they’d be less upset if I parked behind the house where my car wouldn’t be visible from the street. I only hope I didn’t drip too much crankcase oil on the asphalt; that would be the automotive equivalent of breaking wind on a crowded elevator.

Then I saw it, a white Crown Victoria, one with unmarked car written all over it. If they wanted to call the cops on me, they wouldn’t have far to go.

The Ford’s door made a screeching sound as I pushed it open. I looked back over the wooded back lot, maybe twenty yards to an eight-foot-high fence that ran around the back. A combination carriage house-garage- office was just behind the house, with a stone and brick courtyard between it and the back door to the main house. All in all, some mighty nice digs.

I debated going around front, then decided it would be okay to enter through the kitchen. I jumped the two steps to the door and knocked once. The huge wooden door with stained-glass insets swung open to reveal the glowering stare of a Green Hills dowager.

“And what do you want?” she demanded. She had a deep aristocratic Southern accent, a faint hint of orange in her thinning hair, and makeup caked on so thick it was cracking in places. She stood tall, though, and was determined to put me in my place.

“I’m Harry Denton,” I explained. “I came to see Rachel.”

“Mrs. Fletcher is not speaking to the news media today. You could have saved yourself a trip by phoning first.”

“I did, and you hung up on me. But I’m not with the newspaper. I’m a friend of hers. She left a message on my answering machine.”

A painted-on eyebrow rose. Diamond earrings bobbed. “I’ll go see if Mrs. Fletcher is willing to see you. Step in here.”

I stepped into the kitchen. “Stay right there,” Madame Dowager ordered.

I stood at attention. “Yes ma’am.”

My maternal grandmother had that effect on people; could, in fact, drop you in your tracks with a change in tone. It gave me a shudder to think about it.

I looked around the kitchen: Garland stove taking up a good part of one wall; stainless-steel restaurant refrigerator just short of walk-in; butcher’s block island the size of a twin bed; polished Mexican clay tile on the floor. This was a lifestyle that would be hard to support on the income of an established surgeon late in his career. Wonder what it was like for a guy my age? Conrad was doing all right, but how was he managing to pay for all this? Especially with a so-called gambling problem.

My questions were interrupted by Rachel’s entrance. Her face was drawn, her hair pulled behind her tightly. Madame Dowager hovered behind her, like she expected me to run up and hump Rachel’s leg. And she had the wadded-up newspaper ready.

“Harry,” she said, her voice tense, strained. “Where have you been? The police are here. It’s been awful.”

She lunged and was in my arms in a second. I hugged her close, tighter than I would have expected. Her hair was freshly shampooed; everything about this woman was clean, scrubbed, still young after all these years.

“I saw their car. Sorry it took me so long to get here. The police kept me most of the night, and I’ve been putting out fires ever since.”

She pulled back, looked me directly in the eyes. “Are you all right?” She tipped my head toward her. “I heard you got hit.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m okay. No stitches or anything. It was just a long night.”

Rachel looked at the back of my head. “God, it’s a nasty cut. But it looks like you’ll be okay. I’m so relieved.”

I stepped back, put my hands on her shoulders. “Rachel, I can’t tell you how sorry I am about Conrad. If there was anything I could have done to stop it, I would have. But it was too late when I found him.”

Her eyes welled, as if for a moment she’d been able to stop thinking about him, and now I’d brought it all back. “You did everything you could have, Harry. I realize that.”

“Rachel, there are a few matters we need to discuss.”

“Later,” she whispered. “After the police leave.”

She turned around to the dowager and held out a hand toward her. “Harry, this is my neighbor, Mrs.