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said, “I got a flat tire halfway to Eric’s, for starters, so we were about fifteen minutes late getting there. But Grant didn’t show up at all, and he hadn’t called anyone to say he wouldn’t be there. Mr. Rothenberger didn’t say anything, but I don’t think he was too happy about it.”
    The reason for Grant’s absence was made abundantly clear by the next morning’s local news. The lead story opened with a shot of a reporter standing amidst police vehicles, an ambulance, and fire trucks, talking about a car explosion “…shattering windows in neighboring buildings.” The camera then panned across a debris field to a mangled car, most of which was hidden beneath a bright-yellow tarp.
    “The unidentified driver,” the reporter said, “was pronounced dead at the scene. The cause of the explosion is unknown.”
    I managed to recognize from the uncovered rear portion of the vehicle that the car had been a baby-blue Porsche.

Chapter 3
    Wednesday evening while Jonathan was at class, I spent a great deal of time answering calls for him from fellow chorus members. It’s human nature to be shocked and saddened when anyone dies, whether or not we particularly liked, or even knew, them. The predominant reaction seemed to be relief—apparently, Jonathan wasn’t the only one beginning to fear for the future of the group.
    The Wednesday night late news reported that the cause of the explosion that had killed Grant Jefferson, 27, was a bomb, which struck me as falling somewhat short of being a “stop the presses” revelation. I did find it interesting, however, that none of the news reports or the newspapers mentioned his being a nephew of Crandall Booth. Gee, I wonder why? Booth’s name, in fact, was not even mentioned.
    I’d made several more futile attempts to call the mechanic and was considering going over to Central Imports to try to talk with him, though I realized that might get him into trouble with Booth if he found out I was asking questions. I was curious as to who, among those who might have wanted Jefferson dead, might actually have done it, but figured that’s why the city has a police department.
    So, I was quite surprised, on Thursday morning at work, to receive a call from Donna Winters, Glen O’Banyon’s secretary.
    “Hi, Donna!” I said. “What can I do for you?” I was quite sure it had something to do with Grant’s death.
    “Mr. O’Banyon was wondering if you could come by this afternoon at one?”
    “Of course,” I said.
    “We’ll see you then,” she said, pleasantly.
    *
    A phone call from a potential client—the kind I call a “fisher,” since I knew from word one that he was shopping for the cheapest possible P.I. he could find—made me late in leaving the office, and traffic was blocked by a major intersection accident. I made it to Glen’s office at 1:10, the first time, I think, that I had ever been late for an appointment with him.
    I exchanged pleasantries with the receptionist and took a seat where I could look down the long hallway towards Glen’s office. A moment later, Donna appeared at the end of the hall and, seeing me, started toward me.
    Odd thing, protocol. I got up and could easily have headed down the hall to meet her, but sensed it might be violating some sort of office taboo. The hall and everything along it was, in a sense, off-limits to everyone but employees. As if to prove my point, Donna stopped just at the point where the hall opened onto the lobby. I joined her, and we exchanged greetings as she led me back down the hall to Glen’s office.
    Rapping lightly on the huge, highly polished double doors, she opened one half and stood aside for me to enter first.
    “Would you like some coffee?” she asked softly as I passed her.
    “No, thanks,” I said. “I’ll pass, this time.”
    She smiled and closed the door behind me.
    Glen sat behind his desk in his shirt sleeves, his suit coat spread on the back of his chair.
    “Sorry I’m late,” I