Read Online Edited to Death by Linda Lee Peterson - Free Book Online Page B

He said, ‘And he and Margaret will get along famously.’
     At the time, I just thought he meant that you would approve of Calvin, more than you’d
     approve of me.”
    “Come on, Stuart, give me a break. What kind of an elitist snob do you think I am?
     I’m just a glorified housewife myself, you know.”
    Stuart smiled. “I’ve seen your kitchen, Maggie. For a housewife, you’re a helluva
     writer. Though, Quentin always said that was your problem.”
    “What? My housekeeping?”
    “No. That you thought of yourself as a dabbling housewife.”
    “Quentin was a little too perceptive for comfort,” I said glumly. “But why do you
     think Quentin cared so much if Calvin and I got along? He wanted us to do a story
     together, according to Calvin. But it’s not like we were going to spend the rest of
     our lives together. I’ve covered stories with photographers for years. You do some
     planning, do the research, do the job, have a few drinks, fight with the art director
     about which gets the most play—copy or photos—and then you say goodbye.”
    “I don’t know, Maggie. Was it a big story?”
    “A big story? What’s the big story?” Uncle Alf Abbott leaned in the kitchen door.
    I lied instinctively. “Capers,” I said quickly. “I wanted to sell Quentin on a follow-up
     to my lox piece. I loved the idea of the headline, ‘The Great Caper Caper.’” I smiled
     at Alf, feeling like an idiot.
    Alf gave me a look I judged to be composed of equal parts puzzlement and contempt.
     My smile faded. “I know this all seems silly right now. I really am very, very sorry
     for your loss, Mr. Abbott.”
    Alf stared back at me. “My loss?”
    “Quentin,” I reminded him.
    “Oh, yes,” he said bitterly. “It’s two losses, actually. I’ve lost an ex-nephew-in-law
     and an editor.”
    “If there’s anything I can do.…” I began lamely.
    Alf looked me up and down. “As a matter of fact, there is,” he said briskly. Swell,
     I thought. Go ahead and volunteer. They probably want me to inventory Quentin’s loafers
     and box them up for charity.
    “Anything,” I said. “Well, almost anything.”
    “I’ve called a staff meeting at Small Town for tomorrow morning at ten,” said Alf. “Can you meet for breakfast first? The Clift
     at eight?”
    “Sure,” I said, mentally rearranging morning lunch making, school delivery schedules.
    “Good.” Alf gave me one more calculating look. “There will be three of us. I’ll ask
     my niece to join us.”
    Alf turned on his heel and left the kitchen.
    “Bye, Alf. So nice to see you again,” said Stuart.
    I slipped my arm around his waist. “Buck up,” I said. “Remember what Groucho Marx
     used to say?”
    “What?”
    “‘I wouldn’t want to belong to any club that would take people like me as a member.’
     Just amend that. You wouldn’t want to belong to any club that would take Alf, would
     you?”
    He managed the kind of smile kids put on for daffy, well-meaning aunts. “What do you
     think we should call the club for Alf’s kind, anyway?”
    “Oh, I don’t know. How about the Loyal Order of the Well-Pickled Snobs?” I looked
     around the kitchen. “Stuart, what are you going to do now?”
    “You mean, now that I’m a kept man without a keeper?” he said bitterly.
    “Well, Quentin was your employer as well as your friend.”
    “Right you are,” he said. “As a matter of fact, one of Quentin’s friends has offered
     me the same kind of job.”
    “Oh?”
    “Just the grown-up au pair stuff: shopping, running errands, cooking. But,” and he
     placed both hands melodramatically over his heart, “no romance.”
    “I didn’t ask.”
    “No, but you wondered.”
    “Okay, I did.” I searched Stuart’s face, looking for the signs all of us in San Francisco
     had come to dread—weight loss, tell-tale lesions. “And, Stuart, one other thing I
     was wondering.…”
    “Wonder no more. I’m fine. I’m HIV-negative. I may be