Seven Kinds of Death by Kate Wilhelm

crooked grin at her silently and she was just as silent. What a homely man, she was thinking, and such a charming man. Years ago she had not seen the charm, or had it developed with maturity? He seemed to have traded in a certain belligerence for a great dollop of charm. A fair exchange, she thought, a fine trade. She poured coffee, sat opposite him, and started to read another section of the paper. Yesterday Toni and Janet had made breakfast; Alice Weber had come in to fix lunch, and again later to make dinner. Whatever the arrangements were between the young people and Tootles, teacher and students, hostess and not-quite-guests, boss and slaves, chief and Indians, it seemed to include a bit of work on their part, and they seemed to find that perfectly acceptable. Constance found it perfectly acceptable also.
    The others were drifting down, helping themselves to coffee, no one talking much that morning. Spence got up to make another pot of coffee. “Don’t touch that paper,” he said over his shoulder from the sink. He had left it open to the editorials. Max was homing in on the newspaper. He looked sheepish and drew back.
    Toni appeared, looking for coffee for herself and for Janet, who was packing. Ba Ba came in and said she would make breakfast if people would just get out of the way, and she began to talk about the stacks of pancakes and fried eggs they used to have when she was a girl… The sheriff walked in then, along with one of his deputies and a woman he introduced as a stenographer, and by now the kitchen was quite full, with several people talking at once.
    Then another voice cut through it all: “Of course, I’m coming in. I’m looking for my wife.”
    Constance had never been so glad to hear that voice in her life.

SEVEN
    When Charlie heard the message from Constance on the answering machine he had tried to call back; the line had been busy. When he heard on the evening news that Victoria Leeds had been murdered while attending Marion Olsen’s house party, he had tried to call repeatedly. The line had stayed busy. Finally he had called the airport instead, and at five that morning he had flown into La Guardia; at seven he had boarded the shuttle, and by nine he was at Tootles’s house, where, it seemed to him, they were having a party.
    At that moment Mrs. Weber arrived carrying a large bag of pastries. She looked at everyone with astonishment, and without argument they all left the kitchen to her. Charlie held Constance’s hand and permitted himself to be led to the living room, where dominating everything was the monstrosity that Tootles had named Seven Kinds of Death . Charlie had hated it when it was first unveiled; he saw no reason today to change his opinion about it.
    “I’d like a room where we can take statements,” the sheriff said to Max Buell. Max nodded and they walked out together. At the same time, others came downstairs and introductions were made all around. Everyone was up, in the living room, waiting for the sheriff, waiting for breakfast, just waiting. Ba Ba was talking about how many calories were in doughnuts compared to whole wheat toast. Doughnuts won. Charlie and Constance crossed the room to the far side; his gaze remained on the work. Seven Kinds of Death , as Constance filled him in rapidly and concisely in a very low voice. When she paused, he shook his head.
    “What?” she asked.
    “Craziness,” he murmured. “If Tootles found Victoria Leeds destroying her art, why go all the way over to the condo to do her in? The Tootles I used to know would have picked up the nearest blunt instrument and finished her off on the spot, yelling bloody murder all the while.”
    They stopped talking when Sheriff Gruenwald and Max returned.
    “Sheriff,” Johnny Buell asked then, “when will your men be done with the condo? Can the guys get in tomorrow to finish up?”
    “Yes, I think so. We’ll probably clear out by evening.”
    “And can I go home?” Ba Ba asked shrilly. “I