An Equal Opportunity Death by Susan Dunlap

toes stepped on. We work on the theory of the greater good. You can see that, can’t you?”
    “In part, but I can’t see why you had to be so specific with Mr. Bobbs.”
    “How do you mean?”
    “Was it necessary to your investigation to tell him I’d had not one but two drinks at noon? He already felt I was holding the utility company up to public ridicule by being out of bed on my sick day. But by having two drinks at an hour when decent people are only consuming tea, I moved into the category of a wicked woman, a wicked woman he employed.”
    Wescott laughed. “I am sorry. But let me assure you that that is solely your Mr. Bobbs’s designation. The sheriff’s department of Sonoma County does not list you among the ladies of questionable reputation.” He leaned back in his chair. “I guess there’s nothing I can say now except tell you I’m sorry for the problems this has caused you.”
    I hesitated. The apology came too suddenly, too easily. I needed more of a battle to sate my anger. But, logically, I got what I asked for, and probably any apology from a sheriff was a victory. “Okay,” I said.
    “Good.” He smiled. “As long as you’re here, there is some background information I’d like to get from you. Do you have a few minutes?”
    “I have two days.”
    He hesitated, looking just a bit taken aback. “I can still offer you some of that coffee. Of course, it’ll taste even worse by now.”
    “I’ll pass.”
    “Wise.” He leaned against the back of the chair so that it looked as if it were on the verge of tipping. In the bright fluorescent light, I noticed his eyes—blue, but clearer, sharper, and a bit lighter than the furniture around him. They gave the observer the illusion of looking deep into the depths of his soul.
    “So,” he said, “tell me about yourself.”
    His smile, I realized, was like Frank’s, an open yet very personal expression. It had done wonders for Frank.
    “Where would you like me to start?”
    “You came from San Francisco, right? How long ago was that?”
    “A little over a year. I got here just before the flooding last year. It wasn’t a bad flood then, not like this year’s should be, but it was enough to encourage me to buy a house on high ground.”
    “Why did you move here?” He had a pad propped between his desk and lap and, almost unobtrusively, he took notes.
    “I liked the area.”
    “And?”
    “I wanted to move out of the city.”
    “Why was that?”
    “I felt I needed a change.”
    He put the pad on the desk. “Is this making you nervous?”
    “Well, it’s not putting me at ease.”
    “I can set it aside. This isn’t an interrogation. I just find it convenient to jot down something I want to come back to; then I can concentrate on what you’re saying now. You see?”
    I nodded.
    “I lived in L.A. before coming here, so I do understand the lure of the area.” He leaned back in the chair again, picked up the pen, and glanced at me for compliance.
    Regardless of the reasons for the notes being taken, the process did make me edgy, but I felt foolish objecting. After all, I had nothing to conceal. “Okay,” I said. “I’ll give you a synopsis. I’m thirty-two years old. Originally I’m from the East. I lived in San Francisco for six years and worked in public relations. I married an account executive at the company. We had a superb apartment and made a fair amount of money. We were on the way up.”
    “And then, if that doesn’t sound too melodramatic?” He had put down the pen.
    “And then,” I said, “then it seemed to collapse from the inside. I can’t tell you what happened first. John and I divorced, but that was the outcome, not the beginning. I think the beginning was that I could never leave the bed unmade or the coffee cups on the table. What I mean is that the apartment was never mine or even ours. Nothing was. Our lives were devoted to rising in the company. We spent our money entertaining, dressing appropriately,