W is for Wasted (Kinsey Millhone Mystery)

sounds like one. Her name’s Letitia Beaudelaire. I notice she didn’t invite me to call her Letty, so maybe that’s reserved for tenants who’re paid in full. I told her we wanted to pick up Pete’s files.”
    “Was she receptive?”
    “Actually, she was. I thought she’d put up a fuss, but she said come ahead.”
    “You did mention money.”
    “So I did. Clever me,” he said.
    As it turned out, the real estate company that handled Pete’s lease was in the same building, one floor up. We passed the empty office again on our way to the entrance and couldn’t help but notice the For Lease sign had been removed. Inside we could see a painter at work on the interior walls; drop cloths, a ladder, and all the attendant paraphernalia.
    Dietz said, “Hope she’s got a new tenant. That might make her receptive to a negotiation.”
    A woman came close on our heels as Dietz pushed open the glass door to the lobby. We entered and Dietz paused to hold the door for her. She was short and round, dressed in a business suit and spike heels, a ribbon of perfume streaming in her wake.
    We crossed to the elevators and he pushed the button for the second floor. We got in, the doors closed, and the three of us rode up in silence. I watched her fumble in her purse, apparently looking for a pack of cigarettes, which she found. She shook one loose and put it between her teeth, where it tilted at a jaunty angle while she searched for a light. Her lipstick was bright red and she wore a matching shade of polish on her short blunt-cut fingernails.
    When the doors opened on 2, she got off the elevator, firing up her cigarette while she walked. Smoke rose above her head and drifted back at us. Dietz paused to study the directional arrows, indicating which office numbers were to the left and which to the right. “Two-thirteen’s the one we want,” he said. We ended up turning left as she had.
    Meanwhile, the woman had stopped in front of an office door, topped with half a panel of opaque glass.
    As we caught up with her, Dietz said, “Are you Letitia?”
    “I wondered when you’d figure that out. You’re my nine-thirty appointment.”
    “I am, indeed,” he said.
    “I pictured you alone. Who’s your friend?”
    “This is Kinsey. She’s a private eye like me. You two should get along fine. She’s tough as nails.”
    Letitia removed the cigarette from her lips, appraising me with a long look as she unlocked and opened the door. She placed her bag on a desk and crossed to the window, where she opened the Venetian blinds. I was hoping she’d grace us with fresh air, but I guess she didn’t want to dilute the effect of all the secondhand smoke.
    The office consisted of two adjoining rooms with a short hall leading to what I was guessing was a third room with the door currently shut. It was unclear how many people the company employed. The furniture wasn’t arranged to accommodate a receptionist and boss or even two equal partners. Too many chairs and not enough working space. I counted three phones, two of which were unplugged. Most of the surfaces, including the windowsills, were stacked with office supplies. Ten mismatching file cabinets had been jammed into a space better suited for eight. The last two were angled so none of the drawers would open to the full.
    When Letitia removed her coat, I could see that what I’d thought was a business suit was really a wool skirt and matching vest with big mother-of-pearl buttons down the front. The fit was tight and I was betting she was in denial about the extra thirty pounds she’d gained the day she reached menopause. The skirt waist had inched up her midriff, which shortened the hem to a coquettish three inches above her knees. The lapels on her vest no longer met in the front, but that might have been due to the size of her breasts, which threatened to topple her.
    In her smoke-husky voice, she said to Dietz, “How’d you get tied up with Pete Wolinsky? You know he’s a deadbeat.”
    “That’s our Pete,” Dietz said, equably. “On the other hand, his wife’s a lovely woman who’s now facing the mess he left.”
    That netted him no response.
    Dietz allowed his gaze to skirt the room. “What happened to his office furniture? Ruthie intended to have it moved to the house.”
    “And I was supposed to know this how? She hasn’t even bothered to get in touch.”
    “A call from you might not have been out of line. She had a lot on her mind.”
    “I sold his stuff