Blue Dahlia

and an ergonomic keyboard.
    He cleaned off the chair, dumping everything unceremoniously on the floor. “Hang on one minute.”
    As he dashed out, she lifted her brows at the half-eaten sandwich and glass of—maybe it was tea—among the debris on his desk. She was somewhat disappointed when with a crane of her neck she peered around to his monitor. His screen saver was up. But that, she supposed, was interesting enough, as it showed several cartoon figures playing basketball.
    “I hope tea’s all right,” he said as he came back.
    “That’s fine, thank you.” She took the glass and hoped it had been washed sometime in the last decade. “Dr. Carnegie, you’re killing that plant.”
    “What plant?”
    “The dieffenbachia in the window.”
    “Oh? Oh. I didn’t know I had a plant.” He gave it a baffled look. “Wonder where that came from? It doesn’t look very healthy, does it?”
    He picked it up, and she saw, with horror, that he intended to dump it in the overflowing wastebasket beside his desk.
    “For God’s sake, don’t just throw it out. Would you bury your cat alive?”
    “I don’t have a cat.”
    “Just give it to me.” She rose, grabbed the pot out of his hand. “It’s dying of thirst and heat, and it’s rootbound. This soil’s hard as a brick.”
    She set it beside her chair and sat again. “I’ll take care of it,” she said, and her legs were an angry slash as she crossed them. “Dr. Carnegie—”
    “Mitch. If you’re going to take my plant, you ought to call me Mitch.”
    “As I explained when I contacted you, I’m interested in contracting for a thorough genealogy of my family, with an interest in gathering information on a specific person.”
    “Yes.” All business, he decided, and sat at his desk. “And I told you I only do personal genealogies if something about the family history interests me. I’m—obviously—caught up in a book right now and wouldn’t have much time to devote to a genealogical search and report.”
    “You didn’t name your fee.”
    “Fifty dollars an hour, plus expenses.”
    She felt a quick clutch in the belly. “That’s lawyer steep.”
    “An average genealogy doesn’t take that long, if you know what you’re doing and where to look. In most cases, it can be done in about forty hours, depending on how far back you want to go. If it’s more complicated, we could arrange a flat fee—reevaluating after that time is used. But as I said—”
    “I don’t believe you’ll have to go back more than a century.”
    “Chump change in this field. And if you’re only dealing with a hundred years, you could probably do this yourself. I’d be happy to direct you down the avenues. No charge.”
    “I need an expert, which I’m assured you are. And I’m willing to negotiate terms. Since you took the time out of your busy schedule to speak to me, I’d think you’d hear me out before you nudge me out the door.”
    All business, he thought again, and prickly with it. “That wasn’t my intention—the nudging. Of course I’ll hear you out. If you’re not in any great rush for the search and report, I may be able to help you out in a few weeks.”
    When she inclined her head, he began to rummage on, through, under the desk. “Just let me ... how the hell did that get there?”
    He unearthed a yellow legal pad, then mined out a pen. “That’s Rosalind, right? As You Like It ?”
    A smile whisked over her mouth. “As in Russell. My daddy was a fan.”
    He wrote her name on the top of the pad. “You said a hundred years back. I’d think a family like yours would have records, journals, documents—and considerable oral family history to cover a century.”
    “You would, wouldn’t you? Actually, I have quite a bit, but certain things have led me to believe some of the oral history is either incorrect or is missing details. I will, however, be glad to have you go through what I do have. We’ve already been through a lot of it.”
    “We?”
    “Myself, and other members of my household.”
    “So, you’re looking for information on a specific ancestor.”
    “I don’t know as she was an ancestor, but I am certain she was a member of the household. I’m certain she died there.”
    “You have her death record?”
    “No.”
    He shoved at his glasses as he scribbled. “Her grave?”
    “No. Her ghost.”
    She smiled serenely when he blinked up at her. “Doesn’t a man who digs into family histories believe in