Free Edited to Death by Linda Lee Peterson

lonely, I may be a murder suspect,
     but I’m healthy. Quentin made me get tested before I moved in. He was pretty scrupulous
     for a guy who got around. If you know what I mean.”
    I did. I let my breath out. “Thank God. I mean, that’s good, that’s wonderful news
     about you.”
    He shrugged. “Yeah, well, thank whoever. Anyway, I’m not starting my new gig right
     away. Claire’s asked me to stay on until she sells this place. She’s Quent’s beneficiary.”
    “For everything?”
    “Well, for most of what there is. Which is surprisingly little. Quentin lived well,
     but Claire had most of the substantial assets. And they were in her name. According
     to Quent’s attorney, he’s left me a little bequest. Left you his books, by the way.”
    I tried to imagine Michael’s reaction to Quentin’s books taking up permanent residence
     in our house and couldn’t quite manage. I looked at Stuart’s tray. “Want me to run
     that around the room a little?”
    “No, thanks. Gives me something to do. Thanks for the talk, though.”
    “Any time.” Stuart picked up the tray and started out the kitchen door.
    “Stuart, wait a minute.”
    He turned. “Something’s been nagging at me, something Madame said when we found Quentin.”
     He rested the tray on the counter.
    “What?”
    This was awkward. “Well, I’m afraid Madame DeBurgos heard the quarrel that you and
     Quentin had.”
    He smiled wryly. “I see the cops’ little helper is back.”
    “Forget it,” I said.
    “No, I don’t care. Go ahead and be nosy. I told the cops anyway. Madame DeBurgos spilled
     to them, too.”
    “Well, she said she heard the door slam. That must have been when you went out for
     a run. But here’s the odd part. She said she heard loud music, rock music, after the
     door had already closed. That couldn’t have been Quentin playing that music, could
     it?”
    Stuart snorted, “Not likely. The fight started because I had the music on when he
     came out of the shower. He’s—he was—really quite a tyrant about music. He liked a
     lot of different stuff, but not what I liked. Not ever. So I used to get my music
     fix while he was gone, or a quick hit while he was in the shower.”
    “That explains why it was on before the fight. But not after. You didn’t come back
     until after Quentin was dead and Moon and his guys were here. So who put that music
     on?”
    Stuart frowned, “I don’t know. Quentin wasn’t expecting anybody but you and Bright.”
    “Oh, well,” I said lamely. “I just thought you might have a theory.”
    I followed Stuart out the kitchen door and bumped directly into a knot of people from
     the Small Town staff. Glen was with them, so he’d clearly returned from his kid-depositing errands
     around the city.
    I touched Gertie, Quentin’s assistant, on the arm. She turned. “Oh, Maggie, it’s so
     strange to be here without Quentin. I keep thinking he’ll walk in the door and, and.…”
    “Rearrange everythin’.” A graying man in a pocketed khaki shirt and trousers spoke
     up. I knew from Peter Wimsey novels—and from Quentin—that those dropped g’s meant
     a British public school background. The group laughed. “You know Quentin,” he said.
     “No matter how perfect things look, he could always improve them. Or try.”
    Gertie turned back to me, “Maggie Fiori, John Orlando.” We shook hands.
    “How do you know Quentin?” I asked.
    “Here and there,” he said. “Precisely like everybody else.”
    “Hey,” Gertie said, “We can ask Maggie about the poem. Quentin always said she was
     an expert on useless information. Art. Music. Baseball stats.”
    “Don’t forget how to get red wine out of linen tablecloths,” I said.
    “That’s out of character, dear heart,” said Glen. “It’s useful info.”
    “So what’s the question?” I said.
    Orlando spoke up. “That bit Stuart read at the service. Seemed like an odd choice
     for a poem. Minor Crane and all