First Gravedigger by Barbara Paul Page A

even occur to you that you might be putting me in danger by coming here? Of course not. But it occurred to me—damn right it occurred to me. But I still didn’t kick you out . You’re here right now. Who else would do that for you? Who, Charlie?”
    He lifted his awe-stricken face. “Nobody, Earl. You’re the only one.”
    Once he understood that, I was halfway home. I kept hammering at him and hammering at him, and by the time the clock said 8 A . M ., he had agreed to kill Amos Speer.
    Charlie Bates was my long-distance weapon, my bomb. I’d primed him and put him on automatic timer. When the time came he’d self-destruct, and I’d be free of both Charlie and Amos Speer forever.
    I drove Charlie to Highland Park and told him to go look at the yaks in the zoo. I’d meet him there as soon as I got the gun.
    Good old Charlie Bates. All the time I kept telling myself I was crazy trying to get Charlie the loser to solve my problems for me. But an opportunity like this didn’t come along every day. And I was running out of time.
    The plan was simple. Charlie would take a cab to Speer’s home, go around back to the garden, shoot Speer, and then shoot himself. Victim, murderer, murder weapon, all right there together in one neat little package. The cops would find out the murder weapon belonged to the victim and wonder how Charlie got hold of it. And there wouldn’t be any clear motive for the killing, of course. But so many motiveless crimes are committed these days I was counting on the cops’ thinking Charlie was just one more crazy in a world of crazies. I didn’t let myself think of what would happen if Amos Speer decided he didn’t want to get his hands dirty digging in the ground today. But whatever happened, I’d better establish an alibi for myself.
    I drove to Speer Galleries and checked in with the guard at the door. The galleries used a combination of men, dogs, and computer-controlled electronics that made a break-in impossible, we’d been assured. (The insurance companies were satisfied.) I stood chatting with the guard for a minute so he’d remember me; I didn’t want to depend on his written records alone.
    I was just opening my office door when I heard a nasal voice say, “What’s this? Another long-distance runner on the Speer treadmill?”
    â€œHello, Wightman.”
    â€œYou surprise me, dear boy, you really do. Working on a Saturday. Even though Alice Ballard no longer sits upon your narrow shoulders. Such selfless devotion to labor is not a trait I’d have expected to find in your so-called character. Especially when the boss isn’t here.”
    I didn’t let myself rise to the bait. “Just a few odds and ends I want to get cleared up before Monday. But what about you? I thought weekends were your time to howl.”
    â€œAnd they are, O keen-eyed one, they are! Except that this weekend my fellow howler decided she really must go home to visit her sick mother—a story so patently flimsy I’ve already forgotten the poor girl’s phone number. Now she’ll never know what she’s missed. I weep for her.”
    â€œWell, better luck next time.”
    â€œNever fear. Resilience is my middle name. Some of us are born to survive, don’t you know.”
    â€œYes, I know. Well, I’d better get at it if I want to get finished today.”
    â€œTa-ta. Don’t strain yourself, dear boy.”
    That was a stroke of luck, running into Wightman—much better than depending on the guard’s records alone. Wightman was the perfect alibi. No one would ever suspect him of lying to protect me.
    I waited until Wightman was in his own office, right down the hall from mine. Then I moved cautiously toward Speer’s office, some distance away—peering around corners to make sure no guard or dog was patrolling nearby. I went through June Murray’s office into the inner