W is for Wasted (Kinsey Millhone Mystery)

nearly irresistible urge to create another, better explanation for Pete’s death, but I resisted. Once I’m convinced B follows A and that Y precedes Z, it doesn’t matter what I’m looking at, that’s what I see. I’d developed a theory about Pete’s relationship to Linton Reed and I made sure everything fit . . . which, I realized now, was much the same thing Linton Reed was doing with his data trimming, only without the loss of life.
    I wondered (belatedly, I grant you) if I’d been using this entire enterprise as a way of avoiding anxiety about the sudden drop in business. I’d been thinking of these past weeks as unpaid vacation time, immersing myself in the issues of Dace’s last will and testament so I could feel busy and productive when in fact I had no money coming in. I was not without ample savings, but I didn’t want to go through my rainy-day funds. I’m cheap. I grew up in pinched circumstances. Financial excess is good. Penury is not.
    I lifted my head and realized I was hearing a steady stream of cat talk outside. Ed had probably been chatting for some time, but I hadn’t been tuned in. I went to the door and peered out the porthole, angling my gaze so I could see the doormat. Sure enough, Ed was sitting there, the two rows of potted marigolds forming a runway on either side of him.
    I flipped on the porch light and opened the door, saying, “How do you manage this? I know Henry didn’t leave you out.”
    He said something that I didn’t get. He came in, possibly to inspect the premises. He began a leisurely tour, making sure all was in order.
    “Hang on,” I said.
    Maybe Anna had been careless. More likely, the cat had some secret means of ingress and egress.
    I grabbed Henry’s keys, picked Ed up, and tucked him under one arm, flipping the thumb lock to the unlocked position before I closed the door behind me. My personal escort service might have been his scheme all along since he immediately began to purr. I unlocked Henry’s back door and dropped the cat inside. I returned to my place, crossing the patio, which was washed in weak light from my porch lamp. I turned the doorknob and discovered that I’d locked myself out. Well, that was irritating. I must have locked the door when I thought I was unlocking it. My handbag and keys were inside and I was stuck outside. I assessed the situation and realized it was a minor inconvenience easily remedied. I could either let myself into Henry’s kitchen and snag his spare keys, which included one for my door, or I could trot up to Rosie’s, suffer Anna’s company, and have him buy me a glass of wine. I opted for the wine.
    It wasn’t until I turned to leave that I realized Linton Reed was standing in the shadow of the driveway. He wore a dark overcoat. He looked completely out of place in the midst of such familiar sights. The Adirondack chair and the aluminum lawn chair were still pulled close together, as though William and I hadn’t finished talking. There was a trowel on Henry’s potting bench that he might have left there two minutes ago instead of the hours it had probably been. Clay pots of marigolds awaited placement around the edges of the patio.
    Linton Reed had his hands in his coat pockets and he was completely still. This seemed odd to me. Charming people, like great white sharks, are always in motion. Their charm depends on sleight of hand; a smile, a tone, anything to suggest they have an active inner life that fuels the public image. They depend on motion to give them breath. It’s because they’re dead inside that they work so hard to maintain the illusion that they have souls.
    “Hi, Dr. Reed,” I said. “Anna said you might stop by.” I moved toward him, showing what a friendly little thing I was.
    His reply was late in coming by two beats. “Did she now.” His tone wasn’t accusatory. It was thoughtful, as though he were contemplating the possibility.
    “She said you wanted to pick up that bottle of pills.”
    Again, the slow response. “When we spoke, you didn’t tell me you had them.”
    “Because I didn’t at that point. After you talked about the danger of unidentified medications in circulation, I asked a couple of Dace’s friends if they knew what he’d done with his pills. As it happens, he’d given them to a homeless fellow, who turned them over to me. I threw them in the trash. I hope that was all right.” He’d triggered the chatty side of my nature, which often comes to the