Free An Equal Opportunity Death by Susan Dunlap Page A

from the bottle. I thought you would be home sooner.”
    “Well, I … paperwork. Sometimes you just don’t get it done. And nothing is so vital as paperwork. When you work part-time, they really raise a stink if everything’s not done.”
    “Vejay got suspended,” Paul announced, handing Patsy a glass. “Then she went and chewed out the sheriff.”
    I could see that these accomplishments were considerably less impressive to the sober listener. And even I didn’t have enough interest to recount them once more. I said, “We were just speculating about Frank. Maybe his death was somehow connected with drugs.”
    When she didn’t say anything, I prompted, “What do you think?”
    “I don’t know. Why would I know?”
    “I thought you might have heard of Frank when you were living in San Francisco.”
    “No.”
    “Paul said you might know if he did any dealing here.”
    She glared at Paul, then at me. “He didn’t. I wouldn’t know. I’ve had a rotten day and I’m in a rotten mood and this isn’t making it any better. I’m tired of people asking me about Frank. It’s really infuriating, for me and for Paul. Frank could have been selling land on the moon for all I know.”
    “I just thought you might have heard something about him dealing marijuana. It wouldn’t be unknown for a bartender to deal drugs.”
    “I left the drug scene in the city. I don’t know who deals what here. I just go to work and rent canoes.”
    I stood to leave.
    “And you know, Vejay,” Patsy added, “I don’t like all this pawing over Frank’s life. He’s dead. Don’t you care? Or are you just interested in seeing what kind of slime you can stir up?”
    I started to answer, to defend myself, but I could see Patsy’s eyes brimming. So I kept my mouth shut, nodded to Paul, and slunk out.
    It was well I had restrained myself from drinking more brandy. The parking lot outside Paul and Patsy’s was dark and wet; it would be hard to avoid its many potholes. Patsy’s van was about ten feet from me. She must indeed have had a rotten day to have overlooked my truck.
    Had my questions been abrupt to the point of rudeness? Had the brandy and Paul’s unsuspicious responses smothered my usual caution? Or had I hit a raw spot?
    I backed the truck slowly and pulled out of the parking lot, hitting only two potholes. South Bank Road was still above water, but one acacia leaned heavily and it was unlikely to survive another day.
    I crossed the bridge and hit the red light at the end. I was still thinking of Patsy and Frank, and of Frank and drugs, as I came to the turn for my house. I hesitated, knowing from ample experience that the house, which would have been cold at five, would be icy now. There was not enough time before bed to get it anywhere near warm.
    I turned left into town.
    I might have had Skip Bollo in the back of my mind. I don’t know. But when I saw the light on in his real estate office, I stopped.

CHAPTER 8
    H ENDERSON REALTY WAS IN the center of a short block of shops and offices built within the last ten years and raised well above the street level. There was a double walkway: one sidewalk at the normal level by the street, and a wooden walk four feet above that. In front of each shop eight steps connected the two. The shops were shingled and tasteful without being too cute. Skip Bollo had had a hand in the building of the block. It should have been a good investment.
    I climbed the steps, stood for a moment under the overhang, shaking the rain from my slicker, then walked in.
    Skip Bollo was sitting behind the last of three desks. The office was carpeted in a caramel brown that, as I recalled from a psychology class, was a color that people instinctively connect with home and security. The walls were beige, the furniture solid and substantial, and the large potted plants green and healthy. It was the office of a man whom you’d trust.
    “Hi, Skip,” I said.
    He pushed his file drawer shut and stood up. “This