The Corpse with the Emerald Thumb by Cathy Ace Page A

question as I had done. “Cait’s not really investigating to help Margarita, dear,” he said. “We all know who killed her.”
    â€œYes, dear, but we don’t know why,” was Ada’s sensible reply.
    â€œThat’s what I think I might be able to help with,” I said, maybe a little too quickly. “Were either of you ‘on the spot,’ so to speak?” I asked, knowing the answer.
    â€œOh yes, both of us,” Frank said, smiling. Ada tapped him on the arm. Frank’s face rearranged itself into a more serious expression.
    â€œHow about we sit on the patio and you can tell me about it?” I asked, waving in the general direction of the glazed wall that I’d folded back on itself to offer almost entirely open access to the garden.
    â€œCan I smoke?” asked Frank hopefully.
    â€œOnly if I can too,” I replied.
    Frank brightened. Ada tutted.
    â€œHe doesn’t need any encouragement, Cait,” she admonished me. “Him and his cigars. They’re all the same around here. In fact, I think it’s why he wanted to come here to live: when Greg told us about the place, he kept going on about how wonderful it was to be able to sit outside and puff on a cigar anytime.”
    â€œGreg?” I hadn’t met Greg.
    Ada smiled. “Of course, Greg’s in PV today, you won’t have a chance to meet him until this evening. Greg is Greg Hollins. He’s the one who told us about this place. Lovely man. So tell me, are you single, Cait? Greg is. A bit older than you, of course, but he’s single.”
    Ada’s change in topic, and her knowing look when she mentioned that Greg was unmarried, threw me for a moment. I saw Bud’s face flash upon what Wordsworth would call “my inward eye.”
    â€œYes, I’m single. Totally single,” I replied, with as much conviction as possible.
    â€œWhat, never married?” The look on Ada’s face told me I might as well have been growing a second head. I decided to laugh it off.
    â€œYes, just turned forty-eight and never married, no children, and no boyfriend.” I smiled and waited for the inevitable look of pity that always creeps across the faces of married women with children after I make such a statement.
    â€œGay?” asked Ada brightly, and somewhat surprisingly.
    It was Frank’s turn to tut. “Just because she isn’t married and doesn’t have kids, it doesn’t mean she’s gay. From what Al said earlier on, she’s made a very successful career for herself. Besides, kids—who’d have ’em? Ungrateful little—”
    â€œThat’s enough, Frank,” said Ada quickly. “I hope I haven’t insulted you?” she asked me. The genuine concern on her face deserved a thoughtful response.
    â€œIt happens that I’m not gay, Ada, but I certainly don’t take your question as an insult. And Frank might have a point, my career has been the biggest part of my life. That said, not everything’s for everybody.” I didn’t add that the only person before Bud with whom I’d ever been in a long-term relationship had turned out to be a sociopathic alcoholic who’d beaten me and ended up dead on my bathroom floor. Not the time, or the place, Cait .
    â€œAnd now you live in Vancouver?” asked Ada, still bright. I felt as though she was the one pumping me for information, when it should have been the other way around. I resolved to try to move ahead on a more quid pro quo basis.
    â€œDo you know the Lower Mainland?” I thought I’d check. They both nodded. “I live in a little house on Burnaby Mountain, about half way up, on the way to the University of Vancouver’s Burnaby campus. That’s where I teach. I like it very much.”
    â€œBut your accent’s from Britain, isn’t it?” asked Ada.
    I smiled. “Yes, it’s a Welsh accent. I’m from