Dead to Me by Mary McCoy Page A

screeched, as though only the slightly dim-witted left notes in kitchens. “Well, never mind. You’d better come into the parlor and sit down.
We’ve all had a terrible shock this morning, haven’t we, Nick?”
    My father’s sigh was audible from the next room.
    “Don’t be melodramatic, Vivian.”
    Though it was well into the afternoon, my mother still looked fashionably idle in her peignoir, her blond pin curls pulled off her face with a pale blue headband. Only members of our immediate
family knew that even this purposely disheveled look would have required at least a full hour of primping.
    “Come with me, dear,” she said, and pulled me toward the parlor by my arm, a slightly crazed look on her face.
    I choked back a gasp as I entered the room. Sitting on the couch with a sweaty glass of iced tea, and looking very ill at ease, was Jerry Shaffer. He met my eyes only for a second, but even from
across the room, I could read his message clear as day:
Play dumb, kid.
    There might have been a bit of something else in his look, too.
Why aren’t you at the hospital?
I ignored it and shot him back a look of my own:
What are you doing here?
    My father motioned to the chair next to him, and I took it.
    “Alice, it seems we had a little break-in last night.”
    “Really?” I asked, trying my best to look as though I was surprised by this news.
    Jerry cleared his throat and looked to my father for permission to speak. He nodded his assent.
    “The burglar came in through your father’s office window. That’s the only room in the house that seems to have been disturbed.”
    “Did they take anything?” I asked.
    “Well, that’s just it,” Jerry said. “Your father and I have gone over the room from top to bottom, and can’t find a thing missing. Nothing valuable,
anyway.”
    My father motioned in Jerry’s direction. “Alice, this is Jerry Shaffer. He’s a private investigator. He helps us out at the studio from time to time.”
    My mother stood at the bar, mixing herself a sidecar. After stirring it with a swizzle stick, she flopped down dramatically on the chaise longue by the window and took an unladylike swig.
    “My nerves are just shattered,” she said, by way of apology for her afternoon drinking. “Nick, I don’t understand why you couldn’t just call the police about
this.”
    He scowled at her and said, “Vivian, you know how I feel about those people pawing around through our things. They stir up trouble. Besides, what crime is there to report?”
    “What crime?” she hooted. “We could have been butchered in our sleep. And what about your office? Vandalism! Trespassing! Breaking and entering! How are those for
crimes?”
    “Mrs. Gates,” Jerry said, speaking gently to her, “from the condition of your husband’s office, it seems that the perpetrator was looking for something in
particular.”
    She gave a grim laugh. “A particular perpetrator. What will they think of next?”
    “If that’s indeed the case,” he continued, “your husband believes that handling this quietly and privately might be the best way to determine what he or she was looking
for.”
    Was it my imagination, or did Jerry look right at me when he said “she”? Apparently, my mother settled on the same detail.
    “She?” she asked. “You think a woman did this?”
    “It’s possible, perhaps even likely,” Jerry said. “There’s a footprint in the dirt underneath the office window. A rather
small
footprint.”
    My parents exchanged uneasy, meaningful glances. My father cleared his throat and said, “Alice, would you excuse us, please? There are a few things your mother and I need to discuss with
Mr. Shaffer in private.”
    “Of course,” I said, turning to Jerry as I stood up. “It was very nice to meet you, Mr. Shaffer.”
    As I went up the stairs, I heard Jerry say, “Well, she’s got nice manners,” without even bothering to keep the smirk out of his voice.
    I went to my room, opened the