Free Not Exactly a Brahmin by Susan Dunlap

except the door from the kitchen.”
    In unison we picked up our cups and drank.
    I said, “It points to Lois Palmerston. She had the opportunity and the motive and could have had the means. It’s just that, well, I can’t picture her dealing with anything as grubby as a car engine.”
    Howard laughed. “How fortunate for you to have such genteel suspects. In my cases, brake fluid would be like ambrosia. I think I’ve had enough of drug dealers and their foul relations. Even my big dealer, Leon Evans, with his college education and grand tour of the Far East—he’s still slime.” He stood up, suddenly grinning. “By the way, Jill, have you guessed what my costume is yet?”
    “Howard, it’s only been a little over twelve hours since we made this bet. Give me a chance.”
    “Having a hard time, huh? Doesn’t matter. You’ll never guess.”
    “Don’t be so sure. I know you. I know those strange byroads of your mind.”
    “Well, you’ve only got one day to drive down them. Tomorrow’s Halloween.” He was still grinning as he walked out.
    “What’s this contest?” Pereira demanded.
    “Howard bet me I couldn’t figure out what he’ll wear to his party.”
    “What do you get if you do?”
    “If I win, I get his parking spot. I spend so much time looking for a place to park now that I might as well have a part-time job.”
    Pereira whistled.
    “Yesterday I had to park nearly in Oakland. I’m not wearing running shoes for fashion.”
    “Still, Jill, a parking spot. That’s like finding gold.”
    “Well, Howard can get some more gold. All he needs to do is let the word out that he’s willing to park his car in one of the local lady’s driveways. They’ll be flooding the desk with offers. On the other hand, I’ll become a weatherbeaten hag running through the streets of Berkeley and never get offered a spot. This is my only chance.”
    “Speaking of the party,” Pereira said after a minute, “I got your costume.”
    “Are you sure it will fit me?”
    “Jill, with this type of thing, one size fits all.”
    “I suppose.”
    “I even got your magic wand.”
    “Thanks. Now listen, what I have for you is visits to Palmerston’s attorney and accountant. See if you can find anything suspicious in his will or his finances.”
    “Sure. What are you up to?”
    I stood up, prepared to make my exit. “I’m going to a health food restaurant.”
    Sunny Sides Up was located in one of the newly refurbished storefronts two blocks from campus. The building had housed a Greek take-out, a pizza parlor, and a bead shop several years ago before it burned. Then it had sat empty and boarded up for months before being rebuilt to house more gentrified shops.
    I had been past the restaurant but never inside. A place that specialized in eggs was too healthy for me, much less one that served only fertilized eggs. I pulled open the door and walked in. The small room was surprisingly quiet. I could still hear the trucks braking in the street and the students calling to their friends. Here, the loudest noise was subdued Bach. The floor was covered with brown indoor-outdoor carpet of distinctly better quality than the rough green mat Mr. Kepple had put on my floor. Pine tables were adorned with cloth napkins and fresh flowers. Along one wall were padded booths covered in red Naugahyde.
    And above each table was a sepia-toned photograph of the avenue at the turn of the century and an Art Deco light fixture. Brass railings separated the smoking and non-smoking sections. Sunny Sides Up was the early morning equivalent of a fern bar. I could see why Herman Ott had surmised that this restaurant was Adam Thede’s baby. Thede had spent thousands to make it charming. But students grabbing breakfast after class, intent on discussing Spinosa or tribal rites in Borneo, didn’t care about brass rails or old photos. For them, the funkier the better. And for health food addicts, once a spot mentioned five-bean salad and tofu