Free Till the End of Tom by Gillian Roberts

the girl I loved in high school; find out if my husband-who-I-know-is-cheating-on-me really is; find my child who has run away; find out who’s stealing inventory or my daughter’s heart or state secrets; find out if this guy’s for real. Photos can be scanned and sent, documents faxed or attached, and much of our work is done without ever meeting the client.
    Visitors these days are mostly delivery boys bringing Ozzie his nightly pizza, but it was too early for that.
    Besides, the door wasn’t locked. I shrugged and went to open it.
    Instead of the acne-scarred pizza boy, I faced a tight-lipped woman in a leather blazer over a white shirt, tailored slacks, and chunky-heeled lizard shoes I immediately coveted. I gestured for her to enter, at which point I was able to see her handbag, which I also coveted. And while we were at it, I wouldn’t have minded the jacket, either. It looked so soft, it was just this side of melting off her.
    “I’m looking for”—she pulled a news clipping, that story again, out of her pocketbook and checked it—“Amanda Pepper.”
    I identified myself, and invited her to sit down. I decided, partly wishful thinking, that she wasn’t from a newspaper. Her wardrobe suggested she had more money than most journalists, and her behavior lacked their self-possessed pizzazz.
    She seated herself and found a paper-free corner of my desk, where she placed and smoothed the news story. “You found him,” she said.
    “If you mean Mr. Severin, yes. And you are?”
    “Penelope Koepple.” It was an awkward name, made more so by her speech, which had a discreetly European flavor, though I couldn’t tell which country had spiced it.
    “How can I help you?” I asked.
    She smoothed the article again, unbuttoned her blazer, and leaned forward. “I believe I have information that might be valuable concerning Mr. Severin’s murder.”
    Forget what I’d said—this was a thirties novel, after all. Unfortunately, I had no homburg and wasn’t fond of mean streets, so I had to behave as if it was actually the present. “If that’s so,” I said, “you need to tell the police.”
    Her expression was stern and direct. I was sure I was supposed to quiver and quake under that fierce stare. “That isn’t possible,” she said. Her features and hair looked die-cut, and everything about her from the head down to those lizard shoes and the accent and modulation in between made it clear she was privileged, educated, and used to fine things. She seemed astounded to find herself here, in a poorly decorated, poorly maintained office. I was pretty surprised to find her here myself.
    “May I get you a cup of coffee?” I asked politely. It didn’t seem proper to mention how awful the house java was.
    She shook her head. “Thank you, but no. If you have tea—perhaps with the smallest dash of cream?”
    I offered up apologies, and thought of how Ozzie would view such a request. She was lucky he was still behind his office door.
    I buzzed Mackenzie. “I’d like my partner to sit in,” I said. “We handle our cases together.” That wasn’t true, but whatever she had to say concerned a murder investigation and those waters were too deep for the likes of me.
    When C.K. appeared, I made the introductions, and he pulled up another chair. “Ms. Koepple was about to explain her problem,” I said.
    “It isn’t my problem,” she corrected me. “Except in that I’m the one who perceives it as a problem.”
    We must have both looked blank because she nodded, as if agreeing that she hadn’t communicated anything clearly. “I am Ingrid Severin’s social secretary,” she said. “For the past fifteen years I have kept her calendar, though these days, in truth, Mrs. Severin requires more in the way of a companion. I still answer her mail, decline invitations on her behalf, and so forth, but Mrs. Severin is in decline, so she spends most of her time in seclusion.”
    I had been wrong about the thirties noir