Free Dark Waters (The Jeff Resnick Mysteries) by LL Bartlett

for being pissed about that.”
    Again, he shook his head. “She’s living in the basement of a goddamn mansion. That’s not so bad.”
    “It is if you have nowhere else to go.” I thought about it for a moment longer. “She loved the bastard. She never gave up hope that he would one day turn to her, but it was never going to happen.”
    “He saw her as an employee, nothing else?” Sam guessed.
    “Exactly. “
    “Poor lady.” He shook his head as though in commiseration. “I’ll call you tomorrow — or maybe Thursday.”
    “I’ll be around,” I said, and got out of his car. I hadn’t been lying when I said I had duties to perform. The laundry basket in the bottom of my closet was overflowing. As I climbed into my own car and started the engine, I wondered if it would be better to toss everything into a garbage bag and head for the nearest Laundromat, rather than head over to Richard’s to wash my stuff. If the pantry door to the kitchen was closed, I might not have to run into anyone. I could toss in a load and get out of there in a minute or so, then come back to throw them in the dryer half an hour later.
    With my plans made, I backed out of the drive and headed for home. The pocket that held the chalk seemed warm, and I hoped that later it would give up more of its secrets.

Chapter 8
    Brenda’s car hadn’t returned by the time I got home. I grabbed my dirty clothes and went directly to the dungeon that housed their laundry room. I kept my own supplies in a cabinet by the side of the washer, dumped in my clothes and the liquid detergent, and hit the power button. The cycle ran a full twenty-three minutes, so I headed back to my apartment over the garage, dodging the raindrops.
    Once back home, I set the timer on my microwave and then settled on my couch. I retrieved the chalk cube I’d set on the coffee table and rubbed it between my fingers. Before I had time to absorb anything, my cat Herschel jumped on my lap, head-butting my chin — a ritual I endured, yet enjoyed, at least a dozen times a day.
    While Herschel purred his brains out, I pressed the chalk to my forehead and again the hazy images of Morrow’s pool table surfaced — game in progress. I ground my teeth, willing the image to solidify, but instead an odd image of dull gray pebbles being tossed on a beige carpeted floor came to mind.
    That hadn’t made a damn bit of sense.
    The microwave timer pinged and I set Herschel down on the floor and headed for the door, stuffing the chalk into my pocket.
    Brenda’s car was still AWOL, so I hurried down to the basement and stashed my wet light-colored clothes in the dryer and hit the start button. I put my darks in the washer and got that load going, too. Settling my weight against the washer, I withdrew the chalk from my pocket, once again pressing it against my forehead.
    Again, the image of greasy dark pebbles were imprinted upon my mind. What the heck? I shook my head and tried again.
    Sam had said Morrow’s money could have been converted to other things, such as stamps, and sure enough I saw rows and rows of carefully preserved vintage stamps. Stamps with old airplanes. Stamps with silhouettes of heads of state. Stamps with flowers, faces, and everything in between. But where were they?
    I kind of got lost in the crazy array of images, for the next thing I knew the dryer buzzed, bringing me back to the here and now. I shook myself and opened the dryer door. I folded my clothes on autopilot, still thinking about stamps and wondering how much I could learn about their value online when the washer finished its cycle, and I transferred those clothes to the dryer.
    Again, I leaned against the washer and contemplated the images that worn out piece of chalk had already conveyed. Of course, all this psychic mental exercise started my head pounding. It was just too bad that physical pain seemed to be part of the process.
    I was staring at the chalk, turning it over and over, inspecting its every