Free Aphrodite by Russell Andrews Page A

Westwood didn’t answer, the newspaper editor just said, “No. The last thing she wrote was an obituary. A horrible coincidence, isn’t it.”
    “What was the obit?”
    “One of the local old-timers passed away. Bill Miller, used to be an actor. Susanna was quite attached to him. She did volunteer work at the Home.”
    “The old-age home on the bay?”
    “Yup. The old boy died on Tuesday or Wednesday and she did the obit.”
    “Anything special about it?”
    “Yeah. She screwed up.” Westwood raised an eyebrow and the editor said, “She was too close to Miller and it turns out he was a gasbag. He exaggerated about his career and she printed it as if it were the gospel. It happens. We ain’t the
New York Times
, you know what I mean? But we got a crazy phone call from some guy, a movie nut, who caught the mistakes. Demanded a retraction. I sent Susie back to do some fact checking. That’s what she was doing, I think, when she got sick the other day.”
    “Sick?”
    “Yeah. She went out to lunch, didn’t come back. She called in sick. That was the day she …you know …”
    “Do you know where she called from?”
    “No. It wasn’t her apartment, though. Probably somewhere in town. I could hear street noise. Cars. She must’ve been on her cell phone.”
    “How crazy was the phone call, Mr. Corning? The one about the mistakes in the obit.”
    “From the movie nut? You don’t think—”
    “I can’t imagine killing someone because she got her facts wrong in an obituary. But I’d like to talk to him anyway, if you have his number.”
    “I gave it to Sue, but I’ve still got it somewhere. That was her punishment—she had to call the guy when she found out what was what.”
    “Did she?”
    “I don’t know if she found out, and I don’t know if she called him. I never got the opportunity to ask her,” he said sadly.
    Harlan Corning rooted around in his desk, shuffled through a stack of yellow Post-its. While he was looking, Justin said, “I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t put anything in the paper about this.”
    The editor looked up, surprised. “About what?”
    “The fact that we think Ms. Morgan’s death might not have been an accident.”
    “I have a responsibility—” Corning began.
    “I know you do. But so do I. If I’m right.”
    “So if you
are
right, you want whoever did it to keep thinking he’s home free.”
    Justin nodded. Corning went back to rooting through his desk until he found what he was looking for. “Here it is. Wally Crabbe.” He held up a scrap of yellow paper with a name, address, and phone number on it. “He lives mid-Island, about an hour from here. The town’s called Middleview.” The editor wrote down the information for Westwood. “You know,” Corning said slowly, “I also have a responsibility to report the facts. You don’t know if your theory is fact, do you, Detective?”
    “No I don’t,” Justin said.
    “And Susanna was a good friend. I have a responsibility to her, too—don’t you think?”
    “Yes I do.” “Then it would be irresponsible of me to say anything. At least for now.”
    “Thank you,” Justin said.
    “But you will let me know one way or the other, won’t you? When you have the facts, I mean.”
    “You’ll be the first, Mr. Corning. I promise.”
    Harlan Corning handed Justin the piece of paper with the scribbled information. As they shook hands, he said, “Good luck with this guy, Detective. You’re in for quite a treat.”

6
    Wallace P. Crabbe was irate.
    This was nothing unusual, because Wallace P. Crabbe was almost always irate. But he always kept his anger deep inside him. Always. On the surface—at work dealing with incompetent co-workers, on dinner dates with women whom he found unattractive and uninteresting, at meetings with authors whose manuscripts he copyedited, catching the most minute grammatical and factual errors—he was civil and polite, hardworking and trouble free. He was never the life of the