“That was Becky. Back when she was in grade school, her teachers always said they wished they had a classroom full of Beckys. Even with her loser boyfriends, she always stayed on the straight and narrow, not using drugs, nothing. That's why they wouldn't . . .”

She shook her head. Put her glasses back on and showed me the back of her head. Between thin strands of dyed hair, her neck was liver-spotted and loose-skinned.

I said, “Why they wouldn't what?”

No answer for a moment.

Then: “They wouldn't stick with her—they always left her. Can you beat that? The ones who were going to get divorced, always went back to their wives. The ones who were on the wagon, always fell off. And left her. She was ten times the human being any of them were, but they always walked out on her, can you beat that?”

“They were the unstable ones,” I said.

“Exactly. Dead-end losers. What she needed was someone with high standards, but she wasn't attracted to that—only the broken ones.”

“Was she in a relationship at the time she died?”

“I don't know—probably. The last time I saw her—couple of days before she stopped by to give me some laundry—I asked her how her social life was and she refused to talk about it. What that usually meant was she was involved with someone she knew I'd nag her about. I got upset with her—we didn't talk much. How was I supposed to know it was the last time and I should have enjoyed every minute I had with her?”

Her shoulders bowed and quivered.

I touched one of them and she sat up suddenly.

“Enough of this—I hate this moping around. That's why I quit that survivor's group your friend Sturgis recommended. Too much self-pity. Meanwhile, I haven't done a damn thing for you.”

My head was full of assumptions and guesses. Learning of Becky's attraction to losers had firmed up the suspicions left by her notes. I smiled and said, “It's been good talking to you.”

“Good talking to you, too. Do I get a bill?”

“No, the first hour's free.”

“Well, look at that. Handsome, a Caddy, and a sense of humor to boot—you do pretty well, don't you? Financially.”

“I do okay.”

“Modesty—bet you do better than okay. That's what I wanted for Becky. Security. I told her, what are you wasting your time for, doing dirty work for the county? Finish up your degree, get some kind of license, open up an office in Beverly Hills and treat fat people or those women who starve themselves. Make some money. No crime in that, right? But she wouldn't hear of it, wanted to do important work. With people who were really needy.”

She shook her head.

“Saving the bugs,” she said, almost inaudibly. “She thought she was dealing with those potato thingies, but a scorpion got into the jar.”

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER

24