Forever by Judith Gould Page A

shining iridescently in the
lamplight. She picked it up to look at the label. But it was as if
she had already known.
    Lili Schneider.
    Of course, it would have to be.
    She replaced the CD in the disc drawer,
punched the PLAY button, and listened to it for some time. They
were songs from various light operettas . . . Lehar and Strauss and
Sieczynsky. But the voice ... Ah, but it was so unearthly clear and
sweet; pitch-perfect and unlike any other - a voice of such magic
that it instantly raised new gooseflesh along her arms and neck and
legs.
    A captivating voice, she thought, too
beautifully sweet for Nazis . . .
    Had Grandpa been listening to this when he'd
died? she wondered. But the stereo hadn't been on when she'd come
in. Or had someone shut it off? Pham? The police? Of course, it did
not matter. What mattered was that Grandpa was dead and gone and
lost to her forever.
    Her mind became a kaleidoscope of memories.
There were so many of them. She laughed again at the funny ones,
smiled at the good ones, and cried at the sad. She relived her life
with her grandfather - every emotion, all the happinesses and
sadnesses of a lifetime condensed into a single night.
    Time crept by.
    It was sometime in the hour before dawn,
while sitting on the sleigh bed, that she finally nodded off.
     
    She jerked awake to brilliant sunshine
flooding the bay. From outside, the sounds of the city intruded:
car horns honking, urgent sirens screaming, loud bursts of rap
issuing forth from a passing car. For a moment she was disoriented.
She had been dreaming about her grandfather. He had been sitting in
his swivel chair right here, in this very room, enjoying one of his
Monte Cristos - smug and mysterious about something he'd dug up for
the Schneider biography.
    The cigar!
    She sat suddenly bolt upright, wide awake
now.
    Of course! Why hadn't she thought of it
before? The cigar was the key, positive proof that Grandpa hadn't committed suicide! The police would have to listen to
her and start an investigation.
    Because Grandpa hardly ever smoked. He only
allowed himself to enjoy a good cigar on very, very special
occasions - when he was feeling exceptionally good about something.
And Pham had cleaned house the same day Grandpa and Sammy had gone
to see Dinorah ; in other words, he had cleaned house the
very day her grandfather was suspected of having committed suicide.
And Pham was nothing if not thorough. He took pride in his cleaning
and abhorred dirt with a personal vengeance. A nonsmoker, he
loathed dirty ashtrays most of all. Which meant the cigar butt
couldn't have been in that ashtray very long! Grandpa had to have
smoked it after Pham had cleaned - within twelve to twenty-four
hours of his death!
    The realisation bolted around inside her
like live bursts of lightning.
    The cigar proved that he must have been
feeling exceptionally good . . . and people who felt exceptionally
good did not loop belts around their necks and commit suicide!
Depressed people did that . . . despondent people who had nothing
left to live for.
    Galvanised, she decided she would talk to
the police.
    She consulted her wristwatch. It was past
seven o'clock.
    She got up and stretched. She felt stiff and
rumpled and dirty; she'd been wearing the same clothes since
yesterday morning. She decided it wouldn't hurt to get cleaned up
and look presentable.
    She went into her old pink bedroom, where
she kept some changes of clothing, and showered in the bathroom
that had once been hers.
    Afterwards, she immediately felt more alert
and less stiff. The shower had worked some of the kinks out of her
joints. From her closet, she chose a white blouse, long red pleated
skirt, matching back-pleated jacket, and black, medium-heeled
pumps. Applying makeup took a scant few minutes.
    She jolted herself even wider awake by
making and drinking a potful of coffee. Then she fed Waldo, filled
his water dish, and left for the police station.
    The morning air was brisk and there was