C Is for Corpse

showing off"
    "Wine is perfect," I said. "I'm crazy about the show-off kind."
    Another maid, not the one who opened the door, but one especially trained for living rooms, anticipated Bobby's needs, approaching with glasses of wine already poured. I was really hoping I wouldn't disgrace myself by spilling a drink down my front or catching a heel on the rug. He handed me a glass of wine and I took a sip.
    "Did you grow up in this place?" I asked. It was difficult to picture binkies, Johnny-Jump-Ups, and Tonka trucks in a room that looked like the nave of a church. I suddenly tuned in to what was happening in my mouth. This wine was going to ruin me for the stuff in a cardboard box, which is what I usually drink.
    "Actually, I did," he said, looking around with interest now, as though the incongruity had just occurred to him. "I had a nanny, of course."
    "Oh sure, why not? What do your parents do? Or should I guess."
    Bobby gave me a lopsided smile and dabbed at his chin, almost sheepishly, I thought. "My grandfather, my mother's father, founded a big chemical company at the turn of the century. I guess they ended up patenting half the products essential to civilization. Douches and mouthwashes and birth-control devices. A lot of over-the-counter drugs, too. Solvents, alloys, industrial products. The list goes on for a bit."
    "Brothers? Sisters?"
    "Just me."
    "Where's your father at this point?"
    "Tibet. He's taken to mountain climbing of late. Last year, he lived in an ashram in India. His soul is evolving at a pace with his VISA bill."
    I cupped a hand to my ear. "Do I detect some hostility?"
    Bobby shrugged. "He can afford to dabble in the Great Mysteries because of the settlement he got from my mother when they divorced. He pretends it's a great spiritual journey when he's really just indulging himself Actually, I felt O.K. about him until he came back just after the accident. He used to sit by my bedside and smile at me benevolently, explaining that being crippled must be something I was having to sort through in this life." He looked at me with an odd smile. "Know what he said when he heard Rick was dead? "That's nice. That means he's finished his work.' I got so upset Dr. Kleinert refused to let him visit anymore, so he went off to hike the Himalayas. We don't hear from him much, but it's just as well, I guess."
    Bobby broke off For a moment, tears swam in his eyes and he fought for control. He stared off toward a cluster of people near the fireplace and I followed his gaze. There were only ten or so on a quick count.
    "Which one is your mother?"
    "The woman in the cream-colored outfit. The guy standing just behind her is my stepfather, Derek. They've been married three years, but I don't think it's working out."
    "How come?"
    Bobby seemed to consider several replies, but he finally settled for a slight head shake and silence. He looked back at me. "You ready to meet them?"
    'Tell me about the other people first." I was stalling, but I couldn't help myself.
    He surveyed the group. "Some, I forget. That woman in blue I don't know at all. The tall fellow with gray hair is Dr. Fraker. He's the pathologist I was working for before the accident. He's married to the redhead talking to my mom. My mother's on the board of trustees for St. Terry's so she knows all these medical types. The balding, heavyset man is Dr. Metcalf and the guy he's talking to is Dr. Kleinert."
    "Your psychiatrist?"
    "Right. He thinks I'm crazy, but that's all right because he thinks he can fix me." Bitterness had crept into his voice and I was acutely aware of the level of rage he must be dealing with day by day.
    As though on cue, Dr. Kleinert turned and stared at us and then his eyes slid away. He looked like he was in his early forties with thin, wavy gray hair and a sorrowful expression.
    Bobby smirked. "I told him I was hiring a private detective, but I don't think he's figured out yet that it's you or he'd have come down here to have a little chat to straighten us out."
    "What about your stepsister? Where is she?"
    "Probably in her room. She's not very sociable."
    "And who's the little blonde?"
    "My mother's best friend. She's a surgical nurse. Come on," he said impatiently. "You might as well take the plunge."
    I followed Bobby, keeping pace with him as he hobbled down the room toward the fireplace, where people had congregated. His mother watched us approach, the two women with her pausing in the middle of their conversation to see what