Free Wicked Fix by Sarah Graves Page A

design fabrics; he tried
    out his ideas on actual pieces of cloth, to see what
    effects he could achieve before the work went into
    larger-scale trials.
     
    "Also," I said, "jerk that he is, Victor didn't kill
    Reuben. And I'd say an unjust murder conviction is
    going a little far." In the personal revenge department,
    I meant; Paddy knew that my history with Victor
    wasn't exactly silk-lined.
     
    He glowered, still deciding whether to talk to me at
    all. Meanwhile I thought again how much of a Renaissance
    man it was still possible to be, here in Eastport.
    Basic design, dye experiments, fabric tests: with no one
    around to tell him that he couldn't do it all, Paddy just
    went ahead and did.
     
    It was, I'd gathered, an unconventional way of
    working. But stubborn, pugnacious Paddy had made a
    success of it; from his small Maine island studio here at
    the back of beyond, he did business with clients in Europe,
    South America, and Japan, as well as in the
    United States.
     
    In one corner of the studio hung the big weight bag
    and the punching bag that Terence worked out on
    when he wasn't jogging or bicycling. His ten-speed
    leaned against the wall nearby.
     
    "And Wade," I finished, "has got a mad-on at himself
    about something. I don't know what, but I know
    it's to do with Reuben."
     
    I faced Paddy. "So are you going to help me or
    not?"
     
    He still looked unhappy, pained and put-upon in
    the extreme, but no longer so flatly rejecting. "You
    were awfully useful, solving that little tax problem I
    had earlier this year," he conceded reluctantly.
     
    Paddy was good at earning money hand over fist,
    not so good at spending it on anything other than his
    beloved studio. Sending any of it to the government,
    for instance, was anathema to him. Thus his tax problems
    had ended up being soluble only by dint of my
    brushing off my tax-preparer credentials and going to
    Augusta, and falling on my very own personal knees in
    front of the revenue officials.
     
    "If I could just cast doubt on the theory," I said.
    "Show that somebody else is at least as good a suspect
    as Victor."
     
    Paddy eyed me over another stack of colored
    sketches. The patterns were for watered silk in shades
    of salmon and turquoise, the effect a pearly shimmer.
     
    "A suspect," he suggested thinly, "such as myself?"
    "No," I denied, although the thought had of
    course occurred to me. Paddy had been pretty vocal
    about his feelings, the night before. "Just ..."
     
    Terence Oscard looked up from a table where he
    was writing something in a spiral notebook. Lined up
    nearby with his writing things was a collection of potions,
    pills, lotions, ointments, and herbal remedies, all
    of which he used regularly to ward off real or imaginary
    ailments.
     
    "Paddy was with me all evening," he said firmly.
    "All," he emphasized, "evening."
     
    The big man waved at the open staircase leading to
    the top floor, where Paddy had put the living area.
     
    Mounted on each of the pillars under the stairs, and on
    other pillars dividing the whole area of the workspace,
    were bright red fire extinguishers.
     
    The effect was of little drops of blood sprinkled
    evenly on a background of snow. But the cylinders
    were also reassuring; if a fire got started here it could
    take the whole downtown with it, not to mention all of
    Paddy's investment.
     
    "I'm very glad to hear it," I told Terence. His left
    hand, I noticed, was wrapped in an Ace bandage he
    hadn't been wearing at La Sardina. But I paid little
    attention; probably it covered some minor wound that
    might, to a normal person, be worth a Band-Aid, or no
    treatment at all.
     
    "It means," I went on, "Paddy can tell me all he
    knows about Tate and anyone who might have wanted
    to kill him, without worry about incriminating himself."
     
    Which was not strictly true. If it came to these two
    having to alibi each other, I wouldn't've put much faith
    in it. But it hadn't come to that--at the time, I had