wonderful story.”
“Sarcasm causes wrinkles,” I said. “Makes your hair fall out.” Next to Julia, Pete grunted. I continued, “Libby has left her husband. For now anyway. She’s staying at a friend’s place in Bolton Hill.”
“And I take it you’ve seen her?”
I told her I had and I gave the two of them a rundown on my visit to Annapolis with Libby. Pete appeared to be only half listening. He seemed to be more interested in the play of molecules on the rim of his glass. But he looked up when I explained how Libby’s nanny had been fished out of the Severn River and was having the word “SUICIDE” stamped on her forehead.
“You sound like you’ve got a problem with that,” he said.
“Fact is, Pete, I do.” I explained how Eva Potts was convinced that her daughter wouldn’t do such a thing.
“Of course that’s what she thinks,” Pete said. “You think a parent can swallow something like that easily?”
“Libby’s not convinced either.”
Munger asked, “But the police are?”
“I couldn’t get a complete read on that. The cop on the scene was pretty tight-lipped.”
Munger shrugged. “Some people are tight-lipped. If everyone talked as much as you do there’d be nobody left to listen.”
“I don’t like it. It turns out the girl was pregnant. No boyfriend that Libby knew of. I think it’d be interesting to at least find out who was responsible for getting the girl pregnant.”
Pete finished off his beer. He signaled for another. “And we’re going to assume that this guy killed her, is that it? You’re a regular bloodhound.”
“Derision is the last refuge of knaves,” I said.
“So I’m a knave. Is that going to kill me?”
“I’ve got a feeling about this.”
Pete pulled out a cigarette and lit it. “The last time you had a feeling about something like this it almost got you killed.”
“But everything worked out.”
“You’ve got too much time on your hands, son. What you need is a hobby.”
“What I really need is for a trained professional to help me out.”
Julia looked over at Munger. “I think he means you, big guy.”
Pete sniffed. “I know he means me. And he knows I’m not interested.”
“No he doesn’t,” I said.
“He does now.” Pete’s beer arrived and he had a brief chat with it.
“How’s this then?” I said, and I told them about Mike Gellman’s wedding ring showing up in Sophie Potts’s jewelry box. Pete came out of his suds with a sneer.
“So okay, now he done it. Damn, Sewell, you’re quick. What do you think you need me for?”
Julia took pity. “Did Libby have any explanation?”
“None at all. She has no idea how it got there. She said that Mike never wore it.”
“Maybe the girl stole it,” Pete said.
“Seems like a strange thing to steal.”
Pete shrugged. “There are strange people out there. You know that.”
“Come on, Pete,” I cajoled. “I know you want to help me. I have faith in the true humanitarian beneath this crusty façade.”
The true humanitarian didn’t have much to say about that so I let the subject drop and ordered another beer. A few minutes later I asked Pete about Susan. Susan is Pete’s wife. I don’t really know why I asked the question. Unless it was just to piss him off. The Mungers’ marriage was like one of those relentless monsters in the old movies, the ones that keep taking the bullets but refuse to stop. It just lurches onward. Ever since Pete turned fifty earlier in the summer he’d been trying to figure out why his life stank and what he could do to make it stop stinking. He’d done a bit of noodling around in the self-help universe but so far what he had essentially done in response to his crisis was to begin to dismantle his livelihood—which was private investigation—start drinking more, and fall in love with a woman who wasn’t Susan. As best I could see his life was still in a shambles, but at least now he had more free time, was drunk more often and
“Sarcasm causes wrinkles,” I said. “Makes your hair fall out.” Next to Julia, Pete grunted. I continued, “Libby has left her husband. For now anyway. She’s staying at a friend’s place in Bolton Hill.”
“And I take it you’ve seen her?”
I told her I had and I gave the two of them a rundown on my visit to Annapolis with Libby. Pete appeared to be only half listening. He seemed to be more interested in the play of molecules on the rim of his glass. But he looked up when I explained how Libby’s nanny had been fished out of the Severn River and was having the word “SUICIDE” stamped on her forehead.
“You sound like you’ve got a problem with that,” he said.
“Fact is, Pete, I do.” I explained how Eva Potts was convinced that her daughter wouldn’t do such a thing.
“Of course that’s what she thinks,” Pete said. “You think a parent can swallow something like that easily?”
“Libby’s not convinced either.”
Munger asked, “But the police are?”
“I couldn’t get a complete read on that. The cop on the scene was pretty tight-lipped.”
Munger shrugged. “Some people are tight-lipped. If everyone talked as much as you do there’d be nobody left to listen.”
“I don’t like it. It turns out the girl was pregnant. No boyfriend that Libby knew of. I think it’d be interesting to at least find out who was responsible for getting the girl pregnant.”
Pete finished off his beer. He signaled for another. “And we’re going to assume that this guy killed her, is that it? You’re a regular bloodhound.”
“Derision is the last refuge of knaves,” I said.
“So I’m a knave. Is that going to kill me?”
“I’ve got a feeling about this.”
Pete pulled out a cigarette and lit it. “The last time you had a feeling about something like this it almost got you killed.”
“But everything worked out.”
“You’ve got too much time on your hands, son. What you need is a hobby.”
“What I really need is for a trained professional to help me out.”
Julia looked over at Munger. “I think he means you, big guy.”
Pete sniffed. “I know he means me. And he knows I’m not interested.”
“No he doesn’t,” I said.
“He does now.” Pete’s beer arrived and he had a brief chat with it.
“How’s this then?” I said, and I told them about Mike Gellman’s wedding ring showing up in Sophie Potts’s jewelry box. Pete came out of his suds with a sneer.
“So okay, now he done it. Damn, Sewell, you’re quick. What do you think you need me for?”
Julia took pity. “Did Libby have any explanation?”
“None at all. She has no idea how it got there. She said that Mike never wore it.”
“Maybe the girl stole it,” Pete said.
“Seems like a strange thing to steal.”
Pete shrugged. “There are strange people out there. You know that.”
“Come on, Pete,” I cajoled. “I know you want to help me. I have faith in the true humanitarian beneath this crusty façade.”
The true humanitarian didn’t have much to say about that so I let the subject drop and ordered another beer. A few minutes later I asked Pete about Susan. Susan is Pete’s wife. I don’t really know why I asked the question. Unless it was just to piss him off. The Mungers’ marriage was like one of those relentless monsters in the old movies, the ones that keep taking the bullets but refuse to stop. It just lurches onward. Ever since Pete turned fifty earlier in the summer he’d been trying to figure out why his life stank and what he could do to make it stop stinking. He’d done a bit of noodling around in the self-help universe but so far what he had essentially done in response to his crisis was to begin to dismantle his livelihood—which was private investigation—start drinking more, and fall in love with a woman who wasn’t Susan. As best I could see his life was still in a shambles, but at least now he had more free time, was drunk more often and
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