Free Death by the Riverside by J. M. Redmann; Jean M. Redmann

things people pay me for is privacy, so I can’t and won’t trot out the cases that I’ve done for your approval. But I’ll bet I do more good than you do.” I stopped walking, forcing her to stop and face me.
    “Think so? Why don’t you come down to Charity Hospital some time and put your good against mine?”
    That shut me up. I was pissed, at both of us. I had walked into that one. Of course, she would be some nurse or doctor to outrank me on the do-gooder scale. But I had been the one to suggest ranking us. However, I bet she had no problem paying her bills. We stood silently glaring at each other. The kitten mewed.
    “He’s hungry,” I said. I wanted to say, How dare you judge me? You’ve lived your life under the umbrella of Holloway money. I wore hand-me-downs and haven’t stopped working since fifth grade when I had two paper routes. But there was no point in it. We didn’t want to understand, only to score points.
    “Yes, she is,” she answered.
    “She?” I questioned, just to put a hole in her surety.
    “Yes, she. I looked.”
    I shrugged to show that it wasn’t important. I turned back down the way we came.
    “I’ve got to get going,” I lied. “Thanks for the sparring match,” I added as I was walking away. I walked a few more yards, then couldn’t stop myself from glancing back. I caught sight of her disappearing around a bend in the path. The victorious lioness with her kitten.
    These shoes were hurting my feet. It was time to go home and change.
    When I got there, I kicked off my shoes and flung my gray suit in a heap on the floor. Hepplewhite, mistaking it for a new bed made just for her, snuggled in. I left her, even though I knew this was a dry-cleaning bill I couldn’t afford. I poured myself a drink and began listening to Beethoven’s Ninth. I put on headphones, turned the volume up, and sat thinking of things that I could have said. Beethoven’s Ninth is one of my favorite pieces of music and I don’t listen to it very often. I don’t ever want to get tired of it. It is a refuge, a place of solace. Soon, I stopped thinking and started listening to the music. I sat for a while even after it was over. When I finally got up, I noticed the light on my answering machine.
    It was Danny.
    “Kant’s categorical imperative,” was her message.
    “Damn it, Danny, I’ve tried to call you,” I said to the machine. Not very hard , my little voice answered.
    Kant’s second formulation of the categorical imperative, which is what I assume she was referring to, is, basically, to see people, including oneself, only as an end in themselves, never as the means to an end. Danny was hinting ever so subtly that I was coming up short in the means versus ends department, at least as far as our friendship was concerned. Perhaps there was a bit of truth in this. But not a truth I cared to ponder upon at the moment. I decided that I was out and didn’t get in until late and that I would deal with Danny’s phone call tomorrow.
    By the time I called her on Saturday afternoon, she wasn’t there. At first, I thought I had called the wrong number because the voice on the answering machine wasn’t hers. It was Elly’s. I hadn’t realized that they had been living together long enough to be changing not just messages but voices on their machine. It also made me realize that any message I left for Danny would not be private.
    “Hi, Danny, this is Michele. I called your office earlier, but you were out of town. Which formulation of the categorical imperative?” was the message that I left. I did owe her an apology, and I would give her one when I could talk to her personally. Perhaps Cordelia was right, perhaps we can find an excuse for anything.

Chapter 9

    It was Monday morning again. But this was the last Monday morning that I would have to deal with bright and early, at least for a while.
    Barbara and I had lunch together. She told me stories of Patrick’s play, with its missed cues and