Free Philly Stakes by Gillian Roberts

he said. “There’s a new lead.” He did not sound thrilled. “Probably as useless as the last few thousand.” He’d been working on a particularly revolting homicide involving a John Doe found, bit by bit, in several dumpsters in Oak Lane. I heard him sigh slowly, with feeling. Well, a night alone avoided further ethical dilemmas. I didn’t want to talk about whether Laura was an arsonist, whether her compositions meant anything, what she had told me today. By tomorrow, it would all be over, declared an unfortunate accident, and we’d all live happily ever after.
    “And a postscript,” he said. “An update for your ears only. We are trying to keep it out of the news for a while.” I wished I hadn’t learned to work the machine, because I was suddenly sure I didn’t want to hear what came next. “There’s no ash in Clausen’s throat.”
    I turned off the burner and left my soup. Macavity stalked back to his own dinner.
    “Which means he wasn’t breathin’ by the time of the fire. So it wasn’t a cigarette killed him, which is good news for the tobacco lobby.” He took a deep breath and then continued. “Unfortunately, not so good for us. Tests bein’ as slow as they are, compounded by holiday schedules, and such, we’re gonna have a while to ponder the little but nagging question of what, and who, did in Santa.”

Five
    SATURDAY WAS THE SORT OF MORNING THAT MAKES ME WISH I COULD PAINT, or at least be in a better mood. Knife-edged winter light slanted across the living room and lit it from within. I tried to warm myself in a beam, but I still felt chilly and gray.
    Alexander Clausen had probably been murdered. Unless he had a conveniently timed heart attack while smoking, pulled down the Christmas tree, ran to the sofa and died before the cigarette ignited the boughs—he was murdered.
    Laura Clausen insisted she had murdered him.
    I was pretty sure that I alone knew both these things. What I didn’t know was what to do about them.
    So I took up residence in that shaft of sunlight and drank coffee, giving inspiration time to reach me. Three cups later, I was wired, but the caffeine connections sputtered and failed before reaching my brain. I had no idea what to do. I needed a second opinion. More accurately, I needed a first.
    Sasha’s answering-machine message was infuriating. “I’m off doing something so marvelous,” she said, “it would make you sick with jealousy to hear about it, so don’t even ask. Instead, leave your—”
    I hung up. Just as well. Sasha is empathetic, quirky and bright, but apt to sacrifice discretion for the sake of a good story.
    I didn’t have anyone to tell. I was alone with my questions and caffeinated bloodstream.
    So I housecleaned. Cleanliness is not next to godliness in my book. It is, in fact, way down below world peace and brotherhood, lagging behind courtesy and compassion. And trailing even small civilities. But while cleaning was not an inspired option, it was virtuous and full of motion and purpose. I could fool myself that I was getting somewhere as I pulled furniture away from walls, books off shelves, cans out of kitchen cabinets and impressive mold growths off refrigerator containers.
    But disposing of sprouted carrots and dust bunnies couldn’t help Laura. I needed to talk to her.
    I looked up Aunt Alma. There were enough Learys to populate a hamlet, but none were Alma. No initial A, either, that feminine disguise which is about as protective and as transparent as the emperor’s new clothes. I wondered if C.K. Mackenzie got lots of phone calls from heavy breathers and peddlers of obscene dreams.
    I was determined to find Laura, so I began Leary-dialing. One after another. Alphabetically. The Learys, I learned, were a mixed group. There were cordial Learys, snarling Learys, Learys who were out promptly on this last Saturday before Christmas and slugabed Learys who were not overjoyed by my wake-up call.
    Midway through the alphabet, I found an