Murder by Candlelight by John Stockmyer Page B

butter
is?"
    "No." Z's tone saying,
enough.
    Susan frowned again.
    She was cute when she
sulked that way, wrinkling up her classic nose. Cute : one of the words Susan had
taught Z not to
say.
    "It's just that it doesn't help me to
lose weight if you're not supportive."
    "OK."
    "OK, what ?"
    "I'm supportive."
    "I guess that'll have to
do."
    Susan sighed. Drummed her
fingers on the table. She still wasn't happy, but was trying to
make the best of it. "So, tell me what you've been doing
lately."
    "Nothing."
    "That's just like you, Z," Susan
growled. "You don't talk to me about anything. Here you have this
interesting job, and you won't talk to me about it."
    " Not interesting."
    "Let me be the judge of that."
    "OK." This was an old quarrel, Susan
wanting Z to talk more. About his job. About his life. About ...
everything. When she got like that, he had to tell her
something.
    "Had some liability work."
    "Go on."
    "Guy claimed to be injured. I followed
him. Took some pictures of him playing softball."
    "Yes. My insurance company writes
injury policies, though we're more an insurer of big business. What
else?"
    "A friend asked me to talk to a man
who was hassling him."
    "And ...?"
    "I did."
    "And?"
    "He won't again."
    "Surely, you've been doing
more than that ."
    This was not the right
time -- there would never be a "right time" -- to tell Susan that Jamie
Stewart had called, even though Z had turned Jamie down for what
she really wanted
from him. Men got blamed for giving in to temptation, but never got
credit for being virtuous. Z wondered why.
    Oh, yes. Something else he could tell
Susan.
    "Got a call from a radio
guy."
    "Oh? That's interesting. What did he
want?"
    "An interview."
    "Who was it?"
    "Some D.J." Z shrugged.
    " What D.J.?"
    "Some guy from my old class. Name of
Dan Jewell."
    "What!? Dan Jewell? Only the hottest
shock jock in Kansas City?"
    Z shrugged.
    "The girl next to me listens to his
call-in show every morning. He's ... terrible ... but I can't help
but overhear, she's got the radio turned up so loud."
    "Ask her to turn it down."
    Z got another of Susan's dirty looks,
her face then softening into a smile.
    "And he wants you to do an interview?
On what?"
    "P.I.s and crime."
    "Will you?"
    "Will I what?"
    "Do the interview?"
    "I said OK."
    "I'm proud of you, Z!" Said with more
enthusiasm than Z had heard from Susan in a long time. "One of your
faults is that you're too modest. You need to push yourself more.
Be more assertive. Getting on the radio will help you get new
clients."
    "Not on the air."
    "No?" Susan was
disappointed.
    More than disappointed.
    Testy.
    Something in her
life had to be
messed up.
    "What's wrong?"
    "What do you mean, what's
wrong?"
    "Something."
    Susan shook her head. But didn't say
no.
    The waiter came with the
food.
    One lonely pork chop, with a dab of
slant-cut green beans and a spoonful of corn casserole, these
tidbits cuddled in some tastefully arranged, but inedible, leaves.
The "saver" was a basket of hot rolls you could fill up on after
you'd inhaled the main course.
    At least Rembrandt's food was good,
what there was of it.
    Both starving, they ate in silence,
the waiter pouring more tea and bringing Z another glass of
Coke.
    After Susan had waved off the waiter's
suggestions about dessert, Z tried again. "Tell me."
    Carefully avoiding her problem for an
hour -- like women do -- Susan was ready, at last, to
"share."
    "It's ... the apartment."
    Z remembered
Susan's old apartment where, because Susan's ex kept threatening to kill
her, she'd hired Z as a bodyguard. One thing led to another, Z
planning a setup, the husband popping up right on cue to make good
his threat. That was when Z had been shot in the lung. Bad, but a
whole lot better than what had happened to the husband, an
undercover cop on that stakeout zapping Susan's ex into the
morgue.
    It was in the hospital, and later
during Z's recovery, that Susan and Z had fallen in
love.
    Because of the bad memories associated
with the