M Is for Malice

bookshelf to steady myself. Under me, the whole house shifted back and forth, perhaps no more than an inch, but with a movement that felt like a sudden gust of strong wind or a train rocking on a track. I didn't feel any fear, but I was alert, wondering if I'd have time to clear the premises. An old house like this must have survived many a temblor, but you never quite knew what was coming with these things. So far, I pegged it in the three – or four – point range. As long as it didn't go on and on, it shouldn't do much damage. Lights flickered faintly as if wires were loose and touching one another intermittently. The strobe effect sparked a series of jerky pale blue images, in the midst of which a dark shape appeared across the room. I peered, blinking, trying to see clearly as the shadow moved toward one corner and then blended into the wall.
    I made a small sound in my throat, paralyzed. The trembling gradually ceased and the lights stabilized. I clung to the bookshelf and leaned my head weakly on my arm, trying to shake off the frosty feeling that was creeping down my spine. Any minute, I expected to hear Enid calling from the kitchen stairs. I pictured Myrna on her feet, the three of us comparing notes about the earthquake. I didn't want either one of them coming up to search for me. I snagged my handbag and crossed the room. I moved out into the hall, looking quickly in both directions. I locked the door behind me, cranking the key in the lock so hard it nearly bent under my hand.
    I ran down the hall on tiptoe, making a hasty detour into Bader's room. I put the key back in the door where I'd found it, then crossed swiftly into his home office. I opened a file cabinet and shoved the folder between two unrelated files where I could find it later. I crossed the room again and went out into the corridor. I walked quickly toward the heavy drapes at the end of the hall, pushed my way through the arch, and hurried along the back corridor. I clattered down the stairs and into the kitchen. There was no sign of Myrna. Enid was calmly pouring a thick yellow batter into the springform pan.
    I put my hand on my chest to still my breathing. "Jesus. That was something. I thought for a minute there we were really in for it."
    She looked up at me blankly. I could tell she didn't have the faintest idea what I was talking about.
    I stopped in my tracks. "The temblor," I said.
    "I wasn't aware of any temblor. When was this?"
    'Enid, you're kidding. Don't do this to me. It must have been at least four points on the Richter scale. Didn't the lights flicker down here?"
    "Not that I noticed." I watched her use a rubber spatula to sweep the last of the batter from the bowl into the pan.
    "The whole house was shifting. Didn't you feel anything?"
    She was silent for a moment, her gaze dropping to her bowl. "You hang on to people, don't you?"
    "What?"
    "You have trouble letting go."
    "I do not. That's not a bit true. People tell me I'm too independent for my own good."
    She was shaking her head before I reached the end of the sentence. "Independence has nothing to do with hanging on," she said.
    "What are you talking about?"
    "Ghosts don't haunt us. That's not how it works. They're present among us because we won't let go of them."
    "I don't believe in ghosts," I said, faintly.
    "Some people can't see the color red. That doesn't mean it isn't there," she replied.
    When I reached the office, Dietz was sitting in my swivel chair with his feet up on the desk. One of the sandwich packets had been opened and he was munching on a BLT. I still hadn't eaten lunch so I reached for the other sandwich. I removed a soft drink from the refrigerator and sat down across from him.
    "How'd you do at the Dispatch?"
    He laid the four Maddison obituaries on the desk so I could study them. "I had Jeff Katzenbach dig through the files. Mother's maiden name was Bangham, so I went over to the library and checked the city directory for other Banghams in the area. None. Three of those obits I've verified at the Hall of Records, checking death certificates. Claire's still a question mark."
    "How so?" I popped the top on my soda can and began to pick at the cellophane and plastic packet in which my sandwich was sealed.
    Dietz was saying, "There's no suggestion how she died. I'd be interested in seeing if we can get the suicide confirmed just to put that one to bed. I got the name of a P.I. in Bridgeport, Connecticut, and left a lengthy message with her