P is for Peril by Sue Grafton

The two looked enough alike to be identical twins on whom the years had made a few minor modifications. Henry’s face was narrower; William’s chin and forehead, more pronounced. When William reached the table, he asked permission to join us, and Henry gestured him into the remaining chair.
    â€œEvening, Kinsey. Hard at work, I see. Rosie’ll be out momentarily to take your supper order. You’re having calf’s liver pudding and kohlrabi.”
    â€œYou’re really scaring me,” I said.
    William opened his paper, selected the second section, and flapped the first page over to the obituaries. Though his lifelong hypochondria had been mitigated by marriage, William still harbored a fascination for those people whose infirmities had ushered them out of the world. It annoyed him when an article gave no clue about the nature of the final illness. In moments of depression or insecurity, he reverted to his old ways, attending the funeral services of total strangers, inquiring discreetly of the other mourners as to cause of death. Key to his query was identifying early indications of the fatal illness—blurred vision, vertigo, shortness of breath—the very symptoms he was destined to experience within the coming week. He was never at ease until he’d solicited the true story. “Gastric disturbances,” he’d report to us later with a significant stare. “If the fellow’d only consulted medical authorities at the first hint of trouble, he might be with us today. His brother said so.”
    â€œWe all have to die of something,” Henry invariably said.
    William would turn peevish. “Well, you don’t have to be such a pessimist. Vigilance is my point. Listening to the body’s messages—”
    â€œMine says, You are going to die one day regardless so wise up, you old fart.”
    Tonight, Henry glanced at William’s paper politely. “Anyone we know?”
    William shook his head. “Couple of kids in their seventies; only one with a photo. Couldn’t have been taken much later than 1952.” He squinted at the page. “I hope we didn’t look that smarmy when we were young.”
    â€œYou certainly did,” Henry said. He took a sip of whiskey. “If you go first, I know exactly the picture I’m going to give the paper for your obit. You in those knickers the summer we toured Atlantic City. Your hair’s parted down the center and it looks like you’re wearing lipstick.”
    William leaned closer. “He’s still jealous because I took Alice Vandermeer away from him. She could jitterbug like the dickens and had money to burn.”
    Henry said, “She had a wen on her cheek the size and color of a small Concord grape. I never knew where to look so I palmed her off on him.”
    William turned several pages to the classified ads, where he compared descriptions of “found” dogs and cats with those reported missing, often spotting a match. While Henry and I continued to open and file Klotilde’s medical bills, William entertained us with all the livestock currently being offered for sale. He glanced up at me. “Well, here’s something. Still need office space? You should check this one out. Five hundred square feet, newly renovated, downtown. Two fifty a month, available immediately.”
    I stopped what I was doing and tilted my head in his direction. “You’re kidding. Let me see that.”
    William handed me the section, pointing to the item, which read:
    For lease: 500 sq ft in newly renovated Victorian, heart of downtown near courthouse; private bath and separate entrance w/ private deck. $250/mo. Call Richard after 6:00 pm.
    The phone number was listed.
    I read the lines twice but they didn’t seem to change. “I’ll bet it’s a dump. They always embellish in these ads.”
    â€œIt won’t hurt to call.”
    â€œYou really think