Free Murder Can Cool Off Your Affair by Selma Eichler

there was the Don Juan of the elevators, and then this randy geriatric here. And all in one day, too! “Uh, that’s very thoughtful of you, Pop, but I’m afraid I don’t have the luxury of a social life right now.”
    “Well, I’ll give you a call anyways. You never can tell what’ll be.” And with this, he leaned over to kiss me. Fortunately, my reflexes are in much better shape than my body parts. Just in time I turned my head, and the kiss landed harmlessly on my cheek.
    Pop chuckled. “Okay, okay. But what was it that O’Reilly lady said?”
    “O’Reilly lady?”
    “I’m surprised at you! You never heard of Scarlett O’Reilly?” He wagged a finger in my face. “ ‘Tomorrow’s another day.’ That’s what she said.”

Chapter 10
    Safely on the other side of the door now, I leaned heavily against it, giving in to the strain this evening with Pop had produced. Not even the fact that the doorknob was boring into my lower back could induce me to move.
    I tried telling myself I should take some satisfaction from having done a good deed tonight—two of them, actually. I’d helped out a friend and made an old man happy. Then I recalled that familiar saying about no good deed going unpunished. From here on in—until Pop left for Florida, at any rate—the answering machine would have to screen every one of my calls.
    On reflection, however, I had to concede that this was really no big deal—and doubtless the price that all of us sex symbols had to pay.
     
    Well, I could say one thing for Pop: He’d managed to chase everything else from my thoughts.
    But later, after I’d finally unglued myself from that door and gone to bed, John Lander put in an appearance—figuratively speaking, naturally—refusing to let me sleep.
    I liked John. I really did. Of course, I make an effort to like all my clients, and for the most part, I succeed. The way I see it, when you’re favorably disposed toward someone, you tend to try a little harder for them, whether you’re aware of it or not. In John’scase, though, I know I’d have had those same positive feelings if I hadn’t been working for him.
    The man was intelligent, pleasant, low-keyed. And what impressed me most, he was fair-minded—although, to my way of thinking, foolishly so. Take his reluctance to accept that someone in line for Uncle Victor’s fortune could be the perpetrator. He even berated himself for entertaining the possibility that one of these “decent” people wanted him dead. (I, however, had no such guilt pangs about making this assumption. I mean, it certainly didn’t appear that anyone else stood to gain from the demise of both John and Edward.)
    Still, at present my admiration for my client was almost equaled by my anger toward him. How could he refuse to consider a bodyguard—especially now, when there’d been not one, but two attempts on his life? I’d been worried about the man from the beginning. But it was nothing like the fear that gripped me at this moment.
    Eventually I elected to evict John Lander from my head—a must if I had any hope of getting some sleep. But he refused to budge. My concern for John kept me throwing myself all over that bed for hours, at turns pounding the pillow and then burying my face in it. At last, when the morning light was already creeping in under the shade, he wandered away, allowing me to drop off—and head straight into a nightmare.
     
    The day was lovely—sunshiny and warm, but with a nice, cool breeze. John and Trudie were walking together in what I took to be a meadow. He was wearing dark pants and a crisp white shirt, unbuttoned to the middle of his chest. She had on a white peasant blouse and a long, billowy skirt in a lively red print, the skirt cinched by a wide black patent belt that emphasized the tiniest of waists. In my dream Trudie was younger, more carefree than the real thing. And John had a new energy, a lightheartedness about him. The two traipsed hand in hand through the