Free Partners In Crime by Katy Munger Page B

answered
reluctantly.
    "Then we must assume he was stabbed after
attending your retirement party." She stared at him
impassively.
    "You sound as if this makes me guilty of
something," he protested.
    "You are guilty of drinking too much at your
party at a time, it turns out, when your memory could have proved
crucial. But we'll see what we can do about that."
    "What? What are we looking for?" He was
catching her zest for the hunt, but lagging behind in ingenuity.
The effect was annoying, as though he were in a parlor game and the
only one who did not know the rules, thus doomed to fail from the
start.
    "We're looking for clues, Theodore. For
god's sake. Haven't you ever read a detective novel?"
    "One or two." In truth, he'd read hundreds.
"Have you?"
    "Maybe," she said vaguely. T.S. was relieved
to see she was her same overtipping self as she signed her credit
slip and scribbled in the gratuity quickly, her mind having
automatically computed the amount as she spoke. She opened her bag
and scraped the pile of assorted junk back in, snagging a napkin in
her haste. T.S. watched it disappear, without comment.
    "What are we waiting for?" she asked as she
rose and walked majestically through the now crowded dining area,
nodding to several patrons and waving at the staff.
    T.S. followed obediently, wondering where in
the world he was being led.

CHAPTER FOUR
     
    They sat at the dining room table in front
of the sliding glass doors that led to his thirty-fourth floor
terrace. York Avenue snaked before them, winding uptown through the
shadows of nearby highrises before disappearing into the fog. T.S.
had to be content with the view through glass, for Auntie Lil
refused to set foot on the actual terrace, convinced that she might
fall, be propelled off by a gust of wind or be seized by a sudden
impulse to jump. She was a great believer in the theory that the
human race functioned largely according to impulse and was
constantly waiting for one to overcome her, unaware that no impulse
in the world had a chance next to her steely self-control.
    T.S. knew this well. He had yet to see her
take any action without a great deal of calculating forethought,
but he was not about to tell her that. Besides, the truth was that
the great height and endless lights stretching under his feet made
him a little bit dizzy himself. He was far more content to stay
within the cozy confines of his apartment.
    His personal life was, of
course, as meticulously organized as his professional existence.
Each room in his apartment had a purpose and was carefully
furnished to fulfill that purpose in as expeditious a manner as
possible. The living room was spare and uncluttered—a large blue
rug covered the floor as his sole concession to fashion. He
preferred the simplicity of bare wood because it was easier to
clean. There was a low-slung, sleek couch stretched along one wall
with two matching armchairs arranged on each side. He'd chosen a
special gray upholstery fabric that was guaranteed to repel dirt,
dust, cat hairs and other foreign objects for either his lifetime
or the lifetime of the couch, he never could remember which. He
liked to keep his copies of Personnel
Manager Monthly neatly arranged on the
coffee table in vertical rows that were offset by corresponding
rows of The New Yorker and Cat Fancy. The ashtrays were banished to a special drawer lined with
cedar chips. T.S. usually found smoking messy and intrusive,
depending on the smoker, and made guests ask before they were
allowed to taint his carefully humidified air.
    Since he was a man of simple tastes and
rarely had company, the kitchen was tiny. His one indulgence was
bottled water and an entire shelf of black olives stuffed with
anchovies, a brand available only in Spain. The local grocer
brought T.S. a carton each time he returned from visiting his
family there. T.S. had invested some of his relative wealth in a
coffee machine that looked as if it required a license to operate,
plain bone china,