Death Notes

telegrams over there? Recording companies. They want to reissue all his albums. The phone’s been ringing off the hook. Agents are calling me to do a book. Everybody wants to deal. Now he’s important.’
    She wasn’t exactly tearing her hair out with grief.
    ‘This is how it should have been,’ Sharon said, and set her mouth with determination. ‘I want it to stay like this.’
    I couldn’t fault her for that but I still didn’t see where I fit in.
    ‘Mrs Margolis, I—’
    She tossed the newspaper back into the pile on the table and said, ‘Not here, honey. Let’s talk in the living room.’
    I followed her through to the next room while I tried to figure her out. Sharon had steered Match around like a doddering old piece of property Saturday night and now, less than forty-eight hours after his brutal murder, she was beaming like she’d just hit the Lotto. My guess was that theirs was a marriage of convenience - hers.
    Before either of us could sit, a phone rang down the hall.
    ‘I’d better get that,’ she twittered. ‘It could be Hollywood!’
    I wandered around the room, marveling at how absolutely ordinary the house was. Nothing screamed ‘jazz genius’ like I’d expected.
    The place was sparsely furnished in gold and green brocade fabric over blocky furniture that filled up the small space. Cheap oil paintings hung on each of the four walls and the carpet on the floor looked like it’d missed its last ten scheduled shampoos. There was a roll-top desk over in one corner with a tiny brass key jutting out of it, a bar in another comer, and two large fake Tiffany lamps at either end of the couch. The only clue that somebody special belonged here was a framed metallic disc - a Blue Note Award from 1975 - over the mantel.
    Sharon bustled back in.
    ‘I unplugged the phone so we won’t be bothered,’ she announced, then pointed a painted fingernail at the green brocade chair and sat down in the matching one opposite. I guess it hadn’t been Hollywood calling.
    She sucked in her fleshy cheeks and narrowed her eyes behind a ton of mascara like she was trying to size me up.
    ‘Tell me something, honey. I’ve never hired a private investigator before. Is everything I tell you confidential?’
    I hate it when people call me ‘honey,’ but I hate it even more when they start talking confidentiality. It’s always a bad sign. No job’s ever perfect, though.
    I said, ‘If you want it to be.’
    ‘Thank God!’ She sighed and sort of fell back into her chair. ‘What a load off. I was worried about that one.’
    She leaned forward conspiratorially. The cloth of her dress swished as it brushed over her stockings.
    ‘I heard some people talking Saturday night. They said Match whispered something to you right before he fell. Is that true, honey, or did they just make it up?’
    ‘I wish he had, Mrs Margolis. Maybe we’d know who murdered him then.’
    Her pencilled-in eyebrows furrowed.
    ‘You’re not just saying that, are you?’
    ‘Mrs Margolis—’
    ‘I have a right to know - I’m his wife, you know.’
    As abrasive and obnoxious as she was, I felt sorry for her.
    ‘Not a word, Mrs Margolis.’
    She stared at me with hard black eyes. I could tell she wanted me to keep talking but I didn’t have anything else to say. I stared right back at her.
    ‘Would you tell me the truth even if the cops asked you not to?’
    ‘I don’t know,’ I answered honestly. ‘But they didn’t.’ I cleared my throat. ‘If that’s all you wanted to discuss, I’ll...’ I stood up.
    ‘No, wait!’
    Her chunky little body shot out of the chair. She moved faster than I thought she could move.
    ‘I was just curious, honey, so I had to ask. But that’s not what I want to talk to you about. There’s something else. Sit down, honey. We haven’t even got started yet.’
    I made a point of glancing at my watch, then sat down again. I didn’t have any place else to go but I wanted her to think I had appointments lined up from here to next week.
    She didn’t even seem to notice, though. All she did was sink back into her seat with an unconscious grunt and pin little pig-like eyes on me.
    ‘Did your parents teach you about breaking into people’s houses?’ she asked.
    I didn’t even bother to hide my annoyance.
    ‘What’s your point, Mrs Margolis?’
    ‘I want a burglar alarm for the house, honey. Lucius told me you’re the best. That’s why I called - I need one by