W Is for Wasted

recognized the value of what he’d heard. Given the way his mind worked, how could he not? That’s when he must have done his homework, picking up background on Linton Reed and information on Glucotace. I assumed he set up an appointment with Reed afterward so the two could have a cozy heart-to-heart talk.
    What I couldn’t see was where I might go with this. Linton Reed was wily. He was a cool customer and all he had to do was sit tight. Whatever he’d been up to at work, he was never going to be caught out. If Pete was onto him and had hit him up for money, how would the facts come to light? Pete was dead. The tape would never be admissible in a court of law. Now what?

33
    Late Friday afternoon, my curiosity finally got the better of me. I drove to Colgate and parked outside the apartment complex where Willard and Mary Lee lived. I knocked, this time hoping to catch her at home instead of him. She opened the door and regarded me briefly without saying a word.
    She was small. Her face was a perfect oval, her features fine. Her red hair was straight, chin-length and cut jaggedly. Her forehead was high. A fine haze of red freckles gave her complexion a ruddy hue. Pale brows, blue eyes with no visible lashes. Very red lips. She was a slip of a thing, so delicately built that it made her feet look too big for her slender frame. “You’re the private detective who was here.”
    “Yes.”
    Her smile was pained. “You’ll be happy to know Willard told me everything. Full confession.”
    I wasn’t sure what to say. I had no guarantee he’d actually told her the whole truth and nothing but the truth so I was reluctant to interject a comment. “Can I have a few minutes of your time?”
    “Why not? I’m leaving, so it’s lucky you caught me when you did. We can talk while I pack.”
    I followed her into the apartment. Willard was clearly somewhere else so I didn’t bother asking about him. She proceeded to the bedroom, which was small and painted white. The bed was neatly made and a big soft-sided suitcase was sitting open on the spread. This was a room where the couple didn’t seem to spend much time. Tidy, but no books. No easy chair, no reading lamp, and no photographs. The closet doors were open, and I could see that the space had been divided democratically: a quarter for him, three quarters for her.
    I took a position at the foot of the bed while she resumed her packing. She removed a pair of slacks from a hanger and folded them neatly before she placed them in the right half of the open suitcase. She had a packet of tissue paper on the bed, and she’d stuffed a sheet into the toe of each shoe before she tucked the pair in along the sides. She’d already packed underwear and sweaters.
    I said, “Where will you go?”
    “A motel for the next few days. After that, I don’t know.”
    “Did Willard explain why I was here?”
    “Because you’re a friend of the detective he hired.”
    “Not a friend. He was someone I’d worked with in the past.”
    “He sure had Willard wrapped around his little finger. I still can’t believe he hired a guy to follow me. What was going on in his head?”
    “I guess he was feeling insecure.”
    “He’s an idiot. I wish I’d realized it earlier.”
    “He told me you quit your job.”
    “That’s a move I’ll live to regret,” she said. “Jobs are scarce. I’ve been putting out résumés for two months and getting no response. From now on I’ll mind my own business, assuming I ever work again.”
    She returned to the closet, picked two hangers off the rod, and returned to the bed. She removed a dress from each of the hangers and folded them, using tissue paper to minimize wrinkling.
    “Pete taped a telephone conversation between you and Owen Pensky.”
    “That’s nice. Did he plant cameras in the apartment so he could watch my every move?”
    “He probably would have if he thought he could get away with it.”
    She moved to the chest of drawers behind me and checked the first and second drawers. The first was empty. From the second drawer she removed a stack of neatly folded T-shirts that she placed in the left side of her suitcase. “Why are you so interested?”
    “I’m distantly related to Terrence Dace.”
    She fixed a look on me. “I’m sorry. I forget sometimes that life is about more than just me.”
    “Do you believe Dr. Reed was responsible for what happened to Terrence?”
    “Are you asking if I believe it or if I can prove