C Is for Corpse

on, Reva. What harm can it do? You said yourself the police –"
    She turned abruptly and went back inside. Phil shoved his hands down in his pockets with embarrassment. "Nuts. She's been like that ever since it happened. Things set her off. I haven't been a joy to live with myself, but this thing has torn her heart out."
    "I should be on my way," I said. "But I would like for you to do one thing if you would. I've been trying to figure out what could possibly have been going on back then and I'm not having much luck so far. Did Rick give you any indication that Bobby was in trouble or upset? Or that he might have had some kind of problem himself?"
    He shook his head. "Rick's whole life was a problem to me, but it didn't have anything to do with the accident. I'll ask Reva, though, and see if she knows anything."
    "Thanks," I said. I shook his hand and then fished a card out of my bag so he'd know how to get in touch with me.
    He walked me down to the road and I thanked him again for lunch. As I got in my car, I glanced up. Reva was standing on the porch, staring down at us.
    I headed back into town. I stopped by the office to check my answering machine for messages (none) and my mail, which was all junk. I made a fresh pot of coffee and hauled out my portable typewriter, detailing the notes on my investigation to that point. It was painstaking stuff given the fact that I'd turned up absolutely nothing. Still, Bobby was entitled to know how I'd spent my time and at thirty bucks an hour, he was entitled to know where the money went.
    At three o'clock, I locked the office and walked over to the public library, which was two blocks over and two blocks up. I went downstairs to the periodicals room and asked for the previous September's newspapers, now consigned to microfilm. I found a machine and sat down, threading in the first reel. The print was white on black, all of the photographs looking like negatives. I had no idea what I might spot so I was forced to skim every page. Current events, national news, local political issues, fire, crime, storm systems, folks being born and dying and getting divorced. I read the lost-and-found column, the personals, society, sports. The mechanism for advancing the film was somehow out of whack, so that paragraphs jerked onto the nine-by-twelve screen with the focus slightly skewed, generating a motion sickness of sorts. Around me, people were browsing among the magazines or were seated in low chairs, reading newspapers attached to upright wooden lances. The only sounds in the room were the drone of the machine I was using, an occasional cough, and the rustle of newsprint.
    I managed to check the papers for the first six days of September before my resolve faltered. I'd have to do this in small doses. My neck felt stiff and my head was starting to ache. A glance at my watch showed that it was nearly five and I was bored to death. I made a note of the last date I'd scanned and then I fled into the late-afternoon sunshine. I walked back to my office building and retrieved my car from the parking lot without going upstairs.
    On the way home, I stopped off at the supermarket for milk, bread, and toilet paper, doing a quick tour with my cart. There was so much lyrical music playing overhead, I felt like the heroine in a romantic comedy. Once I'd found what I needed, I moved to the express lane, twelve items or less. There were five of us in line, all surreptitiously counting the contents of each other's carts. The man in front of me had a head too small for the size of his face, like an under-inflated balloon. He had a little girl with him, maybe four years old, wearing a brand-new dress several sizes too big. Something about it spelled "poor," but I don't know why. It made her look like a midget; waistline at her hips, the hem down around her ankles. She held the man's hand with perfect trust, giving me a shy smile so filled with pride that I found myself smiling back.
    I was tired by the time I got home and my left arm ached. There are days when I scarcely remember the injury, other days when I feel drained by a constant dull pain. I decided to skip my run. To hell with it. I took a couple of Tylenol with codeine, kicked my shoes oft; and crawled into the folds of my quilt. I was still there when the phone rang. I awoke with a start, reaching automatically for the receiver. My apartment was dark. The unexpected shrill blast of sound had sent a jolt of adrenaline through me and my heart