Death Notes

Sharon was someplace else entirely. She couldn’t seem to take her eyes off the smashed chunk of metal in front of her.
    ‘Mrs Margolis?’ Post said, then raised his voice. ‘Sharon!’ That reached her. She lifted her eyes and wailed, ‘What am I going to do about the museum?’
    Then she slumped into her chair and started to cry.
    Post mouthed the word shit, ran his hand across his forehead, and shot me a desperate look. Then he pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket.
    ‘Here,’ he said gruffly, then rolled his eyes at me when Sharon buried her face in it and made snorting, hiccuping noises.
    We sat there for a few uncomfortable moments while she sniveled into the hankie, thinking she’d pull herself together, but instead of easing up, she just got louder and messier. Blue mascara stained her cheeks and Philly’s plaid handkerchief.
    ‘Look, you want some water or something?’ I finally asked. ‘Can she have some water here?’
    ‘Yeah, yeah.Water.’ Post picked up the phone and barked a terse command into it. ‘That’s right, Kendall, water.'
    Ten seconds later the obsequious Kendall showed up with a tiny styrofoam cup in his hand. He knocked timidly at the door, then waited for somebody to tell him what to do next. There was no place to put the cup - Philly’s desk was a rat’s nest of papers except for the cleared spot where the saxophone lay - and nobody told him who the water was for. I guess it was too much to expect him to figure it out.
    ‘Give me that.’
    Post grabbed the cup, splashing water on the dirty linoleum, then shoved it under Sharon’s nose. She kept sniveling until Post set an awkward hand on her shoulder to get her attention.
    Kendall hovered unassumingly by the door, then cleared his throat softly.
    ‘Anything else, sir?’
    Post waved him angrily out of the room while Sharon sipped water, wiped her face with the soiled handkerchief, and tried to compose herself. All I could think was it was too bad she couldn’t work herself up like this over Match instead of over some damned piece of metal. Sure, it was his, but why couldn’t she break down like this over him?
    ‘The museum,’ she mumbled. ‘I just... I just...’
    Her solid little shoulders shuddered and tears welled up in her eyes again. If somebody didn’t say something fast, she was going to go into it all over again.
    ‘Where’d you say they found it?’ I asked Post.
    He glared at me at first, then seemed to catch on. ‘Outside the Riff Club, in the alley out back. Last night.’
    I turned to Sharon. ‘What do you think, Sharon? Any ideas who could do something like this?’
    She lowered her eyes and dabbed at them. ‘They must be doing this to get to me ,’ she said, almost to herself.
    Post was on her in a flash. His heavy eyebrows lifted for a split second, just long enough to show his fox-like eyes. ‘Who’re they, Mrs Margolis?’
    She seemed bewildered by the question. Obviously she hadn’t realized she’d spoken out loud. ‘W-w-what?’
    ‘You said “they” just now. Who are you talking about?’ Sharon shot him an exasperated look.
    ‘Who do you think, Lieutenant? The jerks who’re doing this to me.’
    She sniffed indignantly and wiped at her nose. ‘I wanted this comeback more than anything I’ve ever wanted before. They took that away from me. Now the museum...’
    Somehow, I could have had more sympathy for her if she would have said, ‘This would have killed Match,’ or something like that. But all she was worried about was the damn museum deal. I watched her stuff Philly’s hankie into her purse, then sit up.
    ‘I don’t know what I’m...’
    She trailed off while her eyes lingered on the mangled saxophone. I could almost see the wheels turning. After a moment she glanced over at me, then at Philly Post, and finally back to the instrument.
    ‘Unless...’ she began, her voice sounding stronger. ‘I could be jumping to conclusions.’
    Post looked alarmed. ‘What do you mean?’
    Sharon suddenly leaned forward and stared hard at the saxophone.
    ‘Lieutenant, I’m just not sure.’
    Philly circled back to his chair and shot me a what’s-she-up-to? look. I shrugged. She caught the movement and smiled uncertainly.
    ‘What’s the matter, honey? Do you think you know Match’s sax better than I do? I’m too worked up over this to think straight, that’s all. Nothing wrong with that, is there?’
    She hefted herself out of her chair, then leaned over the banged-up