W Is for Wasted

affiliated with the university. You want information about Dr. Reed’s work, talk to him. In the meantime, if you’re hoping I’ll sink to the level of rumor and gossip, you’re out of luck.”
    She turned on her heel.
    I stopped in my tracks and watched her walk away from me.
What
had she said? If I was hoping she’d “sink to the level of
rumor and gossip
”?
    “What rumors?” I called after her.
    No answer.
    •   •   •
    I wasn’t giving up on this. Henry had said that if I met with Reed and didn’t feel he’d leveled with me, I should talk to someone else. Obviously, in approaching Eloise Cantrell I was searching too far afield. Anything she knew would be hearsay. I needed someone more directly involved with him. The obvious answer was Mary Lee Bryce. She’d know what was going on behind the scenes. The problem was, I had no way to get to her without going through Willard. I could call her directly, but how would I explain who I was or why I was so interested in the work she did? I only knew about her because Willard had hired Pete. The notion of approaching him created a mild thrill of uneasiness. It wasn’t my job to keep his dealings with Pete a secret from his wife. I wasn’t responsible for protecting either of them. Willard wasn’t my client and Pete was dead. There was a certain, subterranean moral code in play, but surely, I could think of a way around that old thing.
    When I got home, I sat down at my desk and pulled out the two folders. After a brief search, I found Willard’s address scratched on a piece of paper. Cherry Lane in Colgate. I locked the studio, hopped in the Mustang, and headed for the 101.
    Next thing I knew, I was knocking on Willard’s door. I carried a clipboard, looking (I hoped) like my business was legitimate. In my heart of hearts, I did pray Mary Lee wouldn’t answer the door. I wanted to talk to her, but I had other matters to cover first. I knew nothing about Willard. I’d seen photos of Mary Lee, but none of him.
    The man who responded to my knock struck me as strange the minute I laid eyes on him. His complexion was ruddy and his skin looked dry. His ginger-colored hair was clipped close to his skull and the tips of his ears were pink. I’d once seen a litter of newborn mice who’d exhibited the same naked characteristics. His eyes were pale blue and his lashes light; white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, baggy trousers.
    He rested his weight on forearm crutches and one leg was gone. “Yes?”
    “Mr. Bryce?”
    He didn’t own up to it but he didn’t deny it, so I moved right along. I held up my clipboard. “I’m a former colleague of Pete Wolinsky’s.”
    Again, no verbal response but his complexion shifted, white patches appearing on a ground of pink. His mouth must have been dry because he licked his lips. I hoped the man wasn’t a serious poker player because I could see now he might be a textbook study in physiological tells. “You knew Pete was killed?”
    “I read about it in the papers. Too bad.”
    “Terrible,” I said. That out of the way, I went on. “His wife asked me to go through his business files for tax purposes and I came across his report. I wonder if you could answer some questions.”
    He shook his head. “I can’t help. I don’t have anything to say.”
    “But you were a client of his.”
    “Um, no. Not really. I mean, I knew him and we talked a couple of times, but that was it. More like friends.”
    Baffling, wasn’t it? I looked down at the paper on my clipboard and allowed that little crease to form between my eyes. “According to his records, he collected approximately . . . I can’t read his writing here. It looks like two thousand dollars, which you paid him to follow your wife . . .”
    He glanced over his shoulder and then eased out the door.
    I leaned sideways and peered over his shoulder. “Oh, wow. Is she home?”
    “No, she’s out. I don’t want to talk about this. My wife doesn’t know anything and I’d just as soon she not find out.”
    “Is she at work?”
    “She quit her job, if it’s any business of yours. She’s off at the supermarket. Look, I’ll tell you what I can, but you have to be gone by the time she gets back.”
    “Then we better be quick about it. In Reno, she met twice with a man named Owen Pensky. I gather he’s an old high school friend. Do you have any idea what they talked about?”
    Lines appeared on Willard’s forehead, and his upper lip