C Is for Corpse

referred to was Kitty Wenner, cokehead, currently residing in the psycho ward at St. Terry's. "Kitty?" I said.
    He shifted in his seat. "I was surprised too, of course. From what Varden tells me, Bobby made out a will when he came into his inheritance three years ago. At that point, he left everything to Kitty. Then sometime after the accident, he added a codicil, so that a little money would go to Rick's parents as well."
    I was about to say "Rick's parents?" as if I were suffering from echolalia, but I clamped my mouth shut and let him continue.
    "Glen won't be back until late, so she's not aware of it. I'd imagine she'll want to talk to Varden in the morning. He said he'd make a copy of the will and send it over to the house. He's going to go ahead and file it for probate."
    "And this is the first anybody's heard of it?"
    "As far as I know." He went on talking while I tried to figure out what it meant. Money, as a motive, always seems so direct. Find out who benefits financially and start from there. Kitty Wenner. Phil and Reva Bergen.
    "Excuse me," I said, cutting in. "Just how much money are we talking about?"
    Derek paused to run a hand up along his jaw, as though deciding if he was due for a shave. "Well, a hundred grand to Rick's parents and gee, I don't know. Kitty probably stands to gain a couple mill. Now, you're going to have inheritance tax..."
    All of the little zeros began to dance in my head like sugar plums. "Hundred grand" and "couple mill," as in a hundred thousand dollars and two million of them. I just sat and blinked at him. Why had he come in here to tell me this stuff?
    "What's the catch?" I asked.
    "What?"
    "I'm just wondering why you're telling me about it. Is there some problem?"
    "I guess I'm worried about Glen's reaction. You know how she feels about Kitty."
    I shrugged. "It was Bobby's money to do with as he saw fit. How could she object?"
    "You don't think she'd contest it?"
    "Derek, I can't speculate about what Glen might do. Talk to her."
    "Well, I guess I will when she gets back."
    "I'm assuming the money was put in some kind of trust fund since Kitty's just seventeen. Who was named executor? You?"
    "No, no. The bank. I don't think Bobby had a very high opinion of me. To tell you the truth, I'm a little worried about how this might look. Bobby claims someone's trying to kill him and then it turns out Kitty inherits all this money when he dies."
    "I'm sure the police will have a chat with her."
    "But you don't think she had anything to do with Bobby's accident, do you?"
    Ah, the subtext of his visit.
    I said, "Frankly, I'd find it hard to believe, but Homicide might see it differently. They might also want to take a look at you while they're at it."
    "Me?!" He managed to pack a lot of punctuation into one syllable.
    "What if something happens to Kitty? Who gets the money then? She's not exactly in the best of health."
    He looked at me uncomfortably, probably wishing he'd never come in. He must have harbored the vague notion that I could reassure him. Instead, I'd only broadened the basis for his anxieties. He wound up the conversation and got up moments later, telling me he'd be in touch. When he turned to go, I could see that the golf shirt was sticking to his back and I could smell the tension in his sweat.
    "Oh, Derek," I called after him. "Does the name Black-man mean anything to you?"
    "Not that I know. Why?"
    "Just curious. I appreciate your coming in," I said. "If you find out anything else, please let me know."
    "I will."
    Once he was gone, I put in a quick call to a friend of mine at the telephone company and asked about S. Blackman. He said he d check into it and call me back. I went down to the parking lot and hauled out the cardboard box I'd picked up from Bobby's garage. I went back up to the office and checked the contents, taking the items out one by one. It was all just as I remembered it: a couple of radiology manuals, some medical texts, paper clips, ballpoint pens, scratch pads. Nothing of significance that I could see. I hauled the box back out and shoved it into the backseat again, thinking I'd drop it back at Bobby's house next time I was there.
    What to try next? I couldn't think of a thing.
    I went home.
    As I pulled into a parking place out front, I found myself scanning the walk for signs of Lila Sams. For a woman I'd only seen three or four times in my life, she was looming large, spoiling any sense of serenity I'd come to attach to the notion of "home." I