Read Paper Doll for Free Online

counter and leaned forward and filled my glass.
    “Paul telephoned today,” she said. “He said he’d tried to get you but you were out.”
    “I know,” I said. “There’s a message on my machine.”
    “He says the wedding is off.”
    I nodded.
    “Did you know?”
    “He’d been talking as if it wouldn’t happen,” I said.
    “He had a difficult childhood,” Susan said.
    “Yeah.”
    “You disappointed?”
    I nodded.
    “You know how great I look in a tux,” I said.
    “Besides that.”
    “People shouldn’t get married unless they are both sure they want to,” I said.
    “Of course not,” Susan said.
    “Would have been fun, though,” I said.
    “Yes.”
    There was a fire in the living room fireplace. The smell of it always enriched the apartment, though less than Susan did. Outside the living room windows opposite the counter, the darkness had settled firmly into place.
    I took a small glass tray out of the refrigerator and put it on the counter.
    “Woo woo,” Susan said. “Red caviar.”
    “Salmon roe,” I said. “With toast and some creme fraiche.”
    “Creme fraiche,” Susan said, and smiled, and shook her head. I came around from the kitchen and sat on the other stool, beside her. We each ate some caviar.
    “You’re working on that murder on Beacon Hill,” she said.
    “Yeah. Quirk sent the husband to me.”
    “Because?”
    “The husband wasn’t satisfied with the police work on the case. Quirk had gone as far as he could.”
    “Was Quirk satisfied with the police work on the case?” Susan said.
    “Quirk doesn’t say a hell of a lot.”
    “He isn’t satisfied, is he?” Susan said.
    “The official explanation,” I said, “is that Olivia Nelson was the victim of a random act of violence, doubtless by a deranged person. There is no evidence to suggest anything else.”
    “And Quirk?”
    “He doesn’t like it,” I said.
    “And you?”
    “I don’t like it,” I said. Why.
    One of the many things about Susan that I admired was that she never made conversation. When she asked a question she was interested in the answer. Her curiosity was always genuine, and always engendering. When you got through talking with her you usually knew more about the subject than when you started. Even if it was your own subject.
    “She was beaten to death with a framing hammer. She had one bruise on her shoulder where she probably flinched up.” I demonrated with my own shoulder. “And all the rest the damage was to her head. That seems awfully careful for a deranged killer.”
    “Derangement can be methodical,” Susan said.
    I nodded and drank some champagne. I put some salmon caviar on a triangle of toast and spooned a little creme fraiche on top. I held it toward Susan, who leaned forward and bit off the point. I ate the rest.
    “And,” I said, “despite what people think, there aren’t that many homicidal maniacs roaming the streets. It’s never the best guess.”
    “True,” Susan said. “But it is possible.”
    “But it’s not a useful hypothesis, because it offers no useful way to proceed. The cops have already screened anybody with a record on this kind of thing. Beyond that all you can do is wait, and hope to catch him next time. Or the time after that.”
    The fire softened the room as we talked. Fire was the heart of the house, Frank Lloyd Wright had said. And if he didn’t know, who would.
    “But,” Susan said after she thought about it, “if you assume that it’s not a madman…”
    “Madperson,” I said.
    Susan put a hand to her forehead.
    “What could I have been thinking?” she said. “If you assume it is not a madperson, then you can begin to do what you know how to do. Look for motive, that sort of thing.”
    “Yes,” I said.
    Susan still had half a glass of champagne, but she added a splash from the bottle to reinvigorate it. While she did that I got up and added two logs to the fire.
    “Still there’s something else,” Susan said.
    “Just because