Free Blues in the Night by Rochelle Krich Page B

paprika on the chicken, which I placed on top of the veggies, then smothered everything with half a jar of sweet-and-sour duck sauce. It’s my sister-in-law Gitty’s recipe—easy and foolproof—and goes great with rice, which I planned to steam just before I delivered the meal.
    I covered the chicken with tinfoil and set the pan into the oven. I phoned Connors again.
    “What now?” he grumbled when he came on the line.
    “I just remembered something else Lenore told me.”
    Connors sighed. “Why am I not surprised?”
    “When I asked her if she remembered trying to cross Laurel Canyon, she said everyone was asking her the same thing. You, her mother, Robbie. Why would Robbie care unless he was worried about himself? And when did he ask her, if he didn’t visit her?”
    “Okay. Interesting.” Connors’s tone was grudging. “Is that it?”
    “When I asked Lenore about her fight with Robbie, she said she promised not to tell.”
    “This just came to you, did it? Or are you undergoing hypnosis?”
    “Did Saunders say why Lenore was in his house, Andy?”
    “Yeah, he did.”
    “But you’re not going to tell me.”
    “They say women are intuitive. I guess they’re right.”
    “Come on, Andy. Give.”
    “The man’s entitled to his privacy, Molly. I know that’s hard for you to accept.”
    “Her car wasn’t there. So how did she get there unless Saunders picked her up?”
    “She told him she took a cab.”
    “In her nightgown?”
    “Can you drop the effing nightgown, Molly?”
    I could sense that he was this close to hanging up again. “The fiancée wasn’t there Saturday night, and Lenore shows up in a nightgown. What does that tell you, Andy?”
    “That Saunders is a popular guy?”
    “Did you tell him she killed herself?”
    Connors sighed. “Yeah, I did. For what it’s worth, he seemed genuinely upset.”
    Especially if he drove her to it, I thought.

twelve
    Half an hour later the duck sauce was perfuming my apartment and I located Nina Weldon. I’d spoken to seventeen Weldons the night before, none of them Ninas, and had left my name and phone number for three women whose answering machine messages hadn’t revealed their names. Now one of them had called back.
    “What’s this about?” she asked, more curious than anything else.
    I couldn’t tell her age from her voice, which was tentative and soft. “I’m calling about Lenore Saunders. Her mother said she was going to call you?”
    “God, it’s horrible, isn’t it?” she said. “First the hit-and-run—I just
knew
something was wrong when she didn’t show up Sunday night. And now this. I can’t believe she’s dead. I just can’t.” She started crying, quiet, whimpering sounds like the bleats of a lamb.
    “I’m so sorry. Lenore told me the two of you were close.”
    “We were
best friends
. I don’t know what I’m going to do now that she’s gone.” She sniffled.
    “How long did you know her?”
    “A little over a year. What’s your name again?”
    “Molly Blume.”
    “Did you just meet her? Because she’s never mentioned your name.”
    Something new in her voice puzzled me. Not suspicion . . . “I visited Lenore in the hospital. Actually, she said I should talk to you. I’m a freelance reporter.”
    “Oh, is this about Dr. Korwin’s project?”
    She sounded relieved, and I realized what I’d heard before: jealousy. “What project is that?”
    “Dr. Korwin has a clinic for women who are depressed. He’s doing a major study on it. That’s how Lenore and I met. We were in group together.”
    “Do you think I could meet with you, Nina? I’d like to talk to you about Lenore, and what happened.”
    She hesitated. “I don’t know much. Lenore was hardly able to talk when I visited her in the hospital. Are you planning to write a story about her?”
    “Possibly. I’m interested in your impressions. Is today good for you?” I pressed before her hesitation could take root. “I can make it any time until