1 The Reluctant Dick - The Case of the Not-So-Fair Trader by Jim Stevens

bitch second wife of his who hated your husband enough to kill him?”
    “That bitch,” she repeats , “and everybody else.”
    “Thank you for narrowing things down.”
    “Those guys at the Board of Trade, their job is to put the other guy into the poor house.” Doris points a manicured finger my way. “Somebody take s your money, you’d hate th em, too.”
    “But that’s business , ” I say. “Or divorce.”
    “It’s money,” Doris says. “And money transcends all.”
    “Right on.”
    “Thank you for your input, Tiffany.”
    “You’re welcome.”
    “Were you divorced before you married Alvin?” My question will surely solidify her monetary policy.
    “Isn’t everyone?” she replies.
    I stand, mosey over to the window. The northern view from the fortieth floor is spectacular. “How long had you been in Palm Springs?”
    “Two weeks.”
    Tiffany zeroes in on Doris with a squint each time the woman speaks.
    “When was the last time you spoke with your husband?”
    “Two weeks ago.”
    “You didn’t call during your trip?”
    “No. Why would I?”
    “Maybe just to say, ‘Hey?’”
    “No.”
    “So, you didn’t speak?”
    “Only when we had to.”
    “How often was that?”
    “I can’t recall.”
    My ex used to give me the silent treatment for weeks and months at a time. All of a sudden she would clam up and treat me as if I wasn’t in the room, driving me nuts. She wouldn’t even pass the salt, if asked. Her silent treatment was the death knell of our marriage.
    “So, could we say the conversational element of your marriage had fallen into disrepair?”
    From what Doris answered, she and Alvin had four working cold shoulders, night and day. They shared their distaste for one another by not speaking, unless it was absolutely necessary, which was probably when Doris was asking for more money.
    I turn back from the view. “Do you know where Alvin was the night before he died?”
    “No.”
    “Where were you?”
    “In Palm Springs,” she snaps back.
    I raise an index finger to acknowledge my mistake. “Do you know where your husband may have been going on a Saturday morning dressed in a linen suit?”
    “He always dressed to go to the office.”
    “On a Saturday?”
    “He was funny like that.”
    I wait. She seemed to suddenly want to talk.
    “Alvin was peculiar in some ways,” Doris said in a calm tone of voice. “His idea of kicking back was a clean, pressed pair of slacks, a silk shirt, and a blue blazer. That might be a result of his upbringing, when he couldn’t afford a shirt. He also didn’t write checks - - kept a wad of cash on him at all times. He didn’t own a cell phone and didn’t use a computer. His underwear had to be ironed and his shoes had to be perfectly buffed.”
    “Nothing the matter with that,” Tiffany chimes in.
    “Was that because he had bad feet?”
    Doris was surprised. “How did you know that?”
    “Homework.”
    “Beside s his feet, did Alvin have any ailments?”
    “No.”
    “Who was his doctor?”
    “Didn’t have one.”
    “Did he do a lot of cardio?” Tiffany asks.
    Doris glares at Tiffany, as if she is an idiot in designer clothes.
    “What was the appeal of the rock garden?” I ask.
    “He’d spend hours out there, digging, designing, moving one, replacing another. I’m glad you couldn’t see it from the house; embarrassing to watch a grown man playing with his pebbles.”
    “Did he beat you?” Tiffany asked.
    “No.”
    I wasn’t sure what direction to go next after that sudden foray.
    Doris leaned towards Tiffany. There was very little movement in her face when she spoke. “When will the insurance pay out?”
    “I’m not sure.” Tiffany knows, but won’t tell.
    Doris knows Tiffany knows.
    “I’m not sure the policy is ready to be disbursed,” Tiffany says.
    “That’s my money.”
    “Ah,” Tiffany says, “ n ot yet.”
    A crack in her expression, Doris is pissed or surprised. Hard to tell