Free Claire and Present Danger by Gillian Roberts

if close-reading my expression.
    “I’m pretending sickness,” she said. “I look worse than I am,” she said. “People think—they’ll believe, but I’ll be around for years.”
    “Of course.” If force of will had anything to do with longevity, she’d outlast me.
    “When we know what’s true, I’ll recover. Up to you.”
    56
    CLAIRE AND PRESENT DANGER
    I nodded, painfully aware of how many people’s happiness, and perhaps lives, now depended on my nonexistent investigative expertise.
    “Until then . . .” She put her finger to her mouth.
    She was being remarkably considerate. She was suspicious with cause and worried on behalf of her son, but unwilling to taint his relationships—with his fiancée and with her—with her fears.
    “He’s happy,” she whispered, underlining and emphasizing my thoughts.
    She was a complicated woman: a considerate and worried parent, a meddling, autocratic harridan; a woman with a sly wit and an imperious attitude, Batya’s inhumane slave-keeper. All of the above and who knew how much else?
    Her daughter-in-law-to-be was all charm and grace, mildly ditsy and vague and/or a conniving gold digger and murderer. So far.
    This wasn’t what I wanted. When I read fiction, I wanted characters as complicated as they are in real life. In real life, however, particularly in this real-life new job, I wanted no ambiguity. I wanted a comic book world, with 100 percent bad villains and my good guys spotless. And while I was at it, I wanted X-ray vision and the knowledge, flat out, whether to like or trust somebody or not.
    I put the studio portrait of Emmie Cade into my briefcase along with the anonymous notes. I paused as I added the snapshot of the two women smiling into the sun. “Do you know who the second woman is in this picture?”
    “Victoria. Victoria Baer.”
    “Does she live in the city?” I would have staked my day’s income that she did not. Given that Emmie’s first rental was in Villanova, my bet was that her one friend in the area lived nearby in the suburbs. Besides, she looked Main Line. She had that classic look, so understated as to be barely audible, reflecting the utter fear of flashiness or trend-following.
    She looked like my sister Beth’s wardrobe.
    57
    GILLIAN ROBERTS
    “Bryn Mawr,” Claire Fairchild said.
    I’d find Victoria Smith Baer in a flash. Even though she and Emmie Cade would be younger than Beth, I was willing to bet I’d get a leg up via the suburban matron’s six degrees of separation.
    The hardest boiled gumshoes relied on confidantes, pipelines, and snitches. Those are guy words for gossips. I knew gossips.
    “Then that’s it for now.” I briefly outlined whatever I could think of as to when we’d report back to her, and while I spoke, I tidied the pages she’d given me and the photographs. She passed me the manila envelope and I was ready to refill it when I remembered something. “Didn’t you say you’ve received half a dozen of these notes?”
    She nodded.
    “I have five.” I recounted to be sure.
    She pulled back in surprised confusion and shook her head.
    I looked around and didn’t see any more pages. Then I looked inside the manila envelope and saw it. “It got itself stuck.”
    She watched as I pulled it out, then put her hand to her mouth and nodded.
    This page was different, red construction paper, onto which black bold oversized letters spelled out:
    AND THERE’S MORE DEAD!!!!!
    That was all. The letters looked clipped from happy ads. This one got to me viscerally. I looked up and was startled to see a smirk on Claire Fairchild’s face.
    “Hate that, don’t you?” she said.
    “What’s that?”
    “Having to change your mind.” She squinched up her mouth, but couldn’t control the slightly malevolent grin.
    “About what?”
    “Witches and crones and meddlers. Evil mothers-in-law.”
    “I have no idea what you’re talking about, ma’am.” I stood up.
    “I’ll let myself out.” I didn’t want to