M Is for Malice

always working," I said.
    "Did you want to talk to me?" His jacket creaked when he walked. He headed into the restaurant.
    I followed. "How goes construction? It's looking pretty good," I said. It looked like a bomb crater, but I was kissing butt. Our footsteps echoed as we crossed the raw concrete floor.
    "Construction's slow."
    I said, "Ah. What's your target for opening?"
    "April, if we're lucky. We have a lot of work to do."
    "What kind of restaurant?"
    "Cajun and Caribbean. We'll have salads and burgers, too, very reasonably priced. Maybe jazz two nights a week. We're really aiming for the singles' market."
    "Like a pickup bar?"
    "With class," he said. "This town doesn't have a lot going on at night. Get some dance music in here weekends, I think we're filing a niche. A chef from New Orleans and all the hot local bands. We should pull crowds from as far away as San Luis Obispo."
    "That sounds rowdy," I said. We'd reached the office by then and I saw him flick a glance at his answering machine. I was only half listening, trying to think how to keep the conversation afloat. "Any problem with parking?"
    "Not at all," he said. "We'll pave the lot next door. We're in negotiations at the moment. There's room for thirty cars there and another ten on the street."
    "Sounds good," I said. He had an answer for everything. Mr. Slick, I thought.
    "I'll comp you some tickets for the grand opening. You like to dance?"
    "No, not really."
    "Don't worry about it. We'll get you in and you can cut loose. Forget your inhibitions and get down," he said. He snapped his fingers, dipping his knees in a move meant to be oh so hip.
    My least favorite thing in life is some guy encouraging me to "cut loose" and "get down." The smile I offered him was paper-thin. "I hope this business with Jack has been resolved by then."
    "Absolutely," he said smoothly, his expression sobering appropriately. "How's it looking so far?"
    "He can't account for his time, which doesn't help," I said. "The cops are claiming they found a bloody print from his shoe on the carpet up in Guy's room. I won't bore you with details. Lonnie wanted me to ask where you were."
    "The night of the murder? I was club-hopping down in L.A."
    "You drove to Los Angeles and back?"
    "I do it all the time. It's nothing. Ninety minutes each way," he said. "That night, some of the time I was on the road."
    "Did you have a date?"
    "This was strictly business. I'm trying to get a feel for what works and what doesn't, sampling menus. You know, listening to some of the L.A. bands."
    "I'm assuming you have credit card receipts to back you up."
    A fleeting change of expression suggested I'd caught him out on that one. "I might have a few. I'll have to look and see what I've got. I paid cash in the main. It's easier that way."
    "What time did you get in?"
    "Close to three," he said. "You want to come in the back? I've got some beer in a cooler. We could have a drink."
    "Thanks. It's a bit early."
    "Where you going?"
    "Back to the office. I have a meeting," I said.
    On the way back to the office, I stopped off at a deli and picked up some soft drinks and sandwiches. Dietz had said he'd be joining me as soon as he'd finished his research. I stashed the soft drinks in the little refrigerator in my office and dumped my handbag on the floor beside my chair. I put the sack of sandwiches on the file cabinet and grabbed the folder full of clippings, which I tossed on my desk. I sat down in my swivel chair and assembled my index cards, the typewritten letters, and the sample I'd just taken from Bennet's machine, lining everything up in an orderly fashion. In the absence of definitive answers, it's good to look organized.
    I turned on the desk lamp and pulled out my magnifying glass. The type was no match. I was disappointed, but I wasn't surprised. I took Guy's last letter from my handbag and read the contents again. Aside from his invitation to Disneyland, which I'd have accepted in a flash, I realized that what I was looking at, in essence, was a holographic will. The letter was written entirely by hand and he'd specified in the postscript what he'd wanted done with his share of his father's estate. I didn't know all the technicalities associated with a holographic will, but I thought this might qualify. The handwriting would have to be verified, but Peter Antle could do that when I saw him next. I knew Guy had received a disturbing letter late that Monday afternoon, and whatever its contents, he