"I'm just wondering why you're telling me about it. Is there some problem?"
"I guess I'm worried about Glen's reaction. You know how she feels about Kitty."
I shrugged. "It was Bobby's money to do with as he saw fit. How could she object?"
"You don't think she'd contest it?"
"Derek, I can't speculate about what Glen might do. Talk to her."
"Well, I guess I will when she gets back."
"I'm assuming the money was put in some kind of trust fund since Kitty's just seventeen. Who was named executor? You?"
"No, no. The bank. I don't think Bobby had a very high opinion of me. To tell you the truth, I'm a little worried about how this might look. Bobby claims someone's trying to kill him and then it turns out Kitty inherits all this money when he dies."
"I'm sure the police will have a chat with her."
"But you don't think she had anything to do with Bobby's accident, do you?"
Ah, the subtext of his visit.
I said, "Frankly, I'd find it hard to believe, but Homicide might see it differently. They might also want to take a look at you while they're at it."
"Me?!" He managed to pack a lot of punctuation into one syllable.
"What if something happens to Kitty? Who gets the money then? She's not exactly in the best of health."
He looked at me uncomfortably, probably wishing he'd never come in. He must have harbored the vague notion that I could reassure him. Instead, I'd only broadened the basis for his anxieties. He wound up the conversation and got up moments later, telling me he'd be in touch. When he turned to go, I could see that the golf shirt was sticking to his back and I could smell the tension in his sweat.
"Oh, Derek," I called after him. "Does the name Black-man mean anything to you?"
"Not that I know. Why?"
"Just curious. I appreciate your coming in," I said. "If you find out anything else, please let me know."
"I will."
Once he was gone, I put in a quick call to a friend of mine at the telephone company and asked about S. Blackman. He said he d check into it and call me back. I went down to the parking lot and hauled out the cardboard box I'd picked up from Bobby's garage. I went back up to the office and checked the contents, taking the items out one by one. It was all just as I remembered it: a couple of radiology manuals, some medical texts, paper clips, ballpoint pens, scratch pads. Nothing of significance that I could see. I hauled the box back out and shoved it into the backseat again, thinking I'd drop it back at Bobby's house next time I was there.
What to try next? I couldn't think of a thing.
I went home.
As I pulled into a parking place out front, I found myself scanning the walk for signs of Lila Sams. For a woman I'd only seen three or four times in my life, she was looming large, spoiling any sense of serenity I'd come to attach to the notion of "home." I locked my car and went around to the backyard, glancing at the rear of Henry s house to see if he was there. The back door was open and I caught the spicy scent of yeast and cinnamon through the screen. I peered in and spotted Henry sitting at the table with a coffee mug and the afternoon paper in front of him.
"Henry?"
He looked up. "Well, Kinsey. There you are." He came over and unlatched the screen, holding the door open for me. "Come in, come in. Would you like some coffee? I've got a pan of sweet rolls coming out in a minute."
I entered hesitantly, still half expecting Lila Sams to jump out like a tarantula. "I didn't want to interrupt anything," I said. "Is Lila here?"
"No, no. She had some business to take care of, but she should be back by six. I'm taking her out to dinner tonight. We have reservations at the Crystal Palace."
"Oh, wow, impressive," I said. Henry pulled a chair out for me and then poured me some coffee while I looked around. Lila had apparently taken her fine hand to the place. The curtains were new: avocado green cotton with a print of salt and pepper shakers, vegetable clusters, and wooden spoons, tied back with green bows. There were matching placemats and napkins, with accessories in a contrasting pumpkin shade. There was a new trivet on the counter with a homely saying in wrought-iron curlicue. I thought it said, "God Bless Our Biscuits," but that couldn't have been right.
"You've fixed the place up," I said.
His face brightened and he looked around. "You like it? It was Lila's idea. I tell you, the woman has made such a difference in my life."