Page 3 - Labelle Gramercy, On the Case

Polished Off

“Whatever.”
“May I inquire as to the circumstances of Ms. Trench’s passing?”
“Why not?” Her laconic reply came through the telephone
without affect. The same could not be said of her chewing gum
popping. “Everyone else is asking. I went into her office about an
hour ago to get an out-of-state check approved, and there she
was,”— a dramatic pause—“like a bundle of old clothes on the floor.
And she looked a couple of shades darker than normal. I don’t think
it was the new makeup she just started trying. All sorts of stuff
scattered around her: she must have fallen on the desk first.”
“Hmm. Sounds like a heart attack to me.”
“It does, doesn’t it? Well, I must, as you commanded, get back to
work. Goodbye.”
A very unsatisfactory conversation, leaving me rather agitated. I
couldn’t remember the last time I had visited Bibliopoly, either as
patron or in my official capacity, but Iris had stuck in my mind as a
disgruntled employee who bore no affection for her boss. That, in
my experience, being not particularly unusual, had never made me
think twice. Not until now. I deferred all luncheon plans and pulled
the Trench file. After a quick scan of her will, I decided to pay a visit
to the shop. I put on my jacket, adjusted my tie in the mirror on the
closet door, and left instructions that I might take longer than my
normal one-hour lunch break.
The bookstore was only five blocks away, so I walked, taking the
opportunity to reflect on the situation. I had every right—indeed, an
obligation—to take my late client’s affairs in hand, protecting her
property and providing guidance to those left in the wake of her
absence. Or so I rationalized. It was really base curiosity and the
egotistical notion that I could uncover any suspicious circumstances
surrounding the death of Ms. Trench. After a long career of
squandering my analytical talents on wills, estates and trusts, I could
not resist the temptation to investigate what might be murder. Maybe
no one else knew it, but Mariana’s arteries were as clear, tough and
resilient as the hose on a brand-new steam-cleaner; she had told me
so, after a recent physical exam, parading the evidence of her
cardiological fitness before me as yet another intended facet of her
charms. Coronary infarction was not in the cards. Iris had been rather
too quick to agree with my unlikely diagnosis.

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