A is for Alibi

tell."
    "A real gentleman," I said.
    Scorsoni shot me a warning look.
    "I'm not being facetious," I said hastily. "I've heard he kept his mouth shut about the women in his life. That's all I meant."
    "Yeah, he did. He played everything close to his chest.
    That's what made him a good attorney too. He never tipped his hand, never telegraphed. The last six months before he died, he was odd though, protective. There were times when I almost thought he wasn't well, but it wasn't physical. It was some kind of psychic pain, if you'll excuse the phrase."
    "You had drinks with him that night, didn't you?"
    "We had dinner. Down at the Bistro. Nikki was off someplace and we played racquetball and then had a bite to eat. He was fine as far as I could tell."
    "Did he have the allergy medication with him then?"
    Scorsoni shook his head. "He wasn't much for pills anyway. Tylenol if he had a headache, but that was rare. Even Nikki admitted that he took the allergy cap after he got home. It had to be someone who had access to that.
    "Had Libby Glass been up here?"
    "Not for business as far as I know. She might have come up to see him but he never said anything to me. Why?"
    "I don't know. I was just thinking that somebody might have dosed them both somehow at the same time. She didn't die until four days later but that's not hard to explain if the caps were self-administered."
    "I never heard much about her death. I don't even think it hit the papers here. He was down in Los Angeles though, I do know that. About a week and a half before he died."
    "That's interesting. I'm going down there anyway. Maybe I can check that out."
    He glanced at his watch. "I better let you go," he said, getting up. I got up and ambled to the door with him, oddly reluctant to see him go.
    "How'd you lose the weight?" I said.
    "What, this?" he asked, slapping his midsection. He leaned toward me slightly as though he meant to confide some incredible regimen of denial and self-abuse.
    "I gave up candy bars. I used to keep 'em in my desk drawer," he murmured conspiratorially. "Snickers and Three Musketeers, Hershey's Kisses, with the silver wrappers and the little paper wick at the top? A hundred a day."
    I could feel a laugh bubble up because his tone was caressing and he sounded like he was confessing to a secret addiction to wearing panty hose. Also because I knew if I turned my face, I'd be closer to him than I thought I could cope with at that point.
    "Mars Bars? Baby Ruths?" I said.
    "All the time," he said. I could almost feel the heat of his face and I slid a look up at him sideways. He laughed at himself then, breaking the spell, and his eyes held mine only a little longer than they should. "I'll see you," he said.
    We shook hands as he left. I didn't know why – maybe just an excuse to touch. Even a contact that casual made the hairs stand up along my arm. My early-warning system was clanging away like crazy and I wasn't sure how to interpret it. It's the same sensation I have sometimes on the twenty-first floor when I open a window – a terrible attraction to the notion of tumbling out. I go a long time between men and maybe it was time again. Not good, I thought, not good.

Chapter 8
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    When I pulled up in front of K-9 Korners at 6:00, Gwen was just locking up. I rolled down my car window and leaned across the seat. "You want to go in my car?"
    "I better follow you," she said. "Do you know where the Palm Garden is? Is that all right with you?"
    "Sure, that's fine."
    She moved off toward the parking lot and a minute later she pulled out of the driveway in a bright yellow Saab. The restaurant was only a few blocks away and we pulled into the parking lot side by side. She had stripped off her smock and was brushing haphazardly at the lap of her skirt.
    "Pardon the dog hair," she said. "Usually I head straight for a bath."
    The Palm Garden is located in the heart of Santa Teresa, tucked back into a shopping complex, with tables outside and the requisite palms in big wooden tubs. We found a small table off to one side and I ordered white wine while she ordered Perrier.
    "You don't drink?"
    "Not much. I gave that up when I got divorced. Before that I was knocking back a lot of Scotch. How's your case?"
    "It's hard to tell at this point," I said. "How long have you been in the dog-grooming business?"
    "Longer than I'd like," she said and laughed.
    We talked for a while about nothing in particular. I wanted time to study her, hoping to figure out