A Farewell to Legs Read Online Free PDF Page A

anything else,” Stephanie
said, “is why . I know Louis wasn’t the most lovable man on
the planet, and he had political enemies, but everybody in D.C. has
enemies. Why kill him?”
    “The police will find out,” I said. “Legs was
important enough that they can’t just forget about it.”
    I opened the front door for her, and as she was
about to walk out, she stopped. “Aaron,” she said.
    I waited, but she didn’t say anything else.
“What?”
    “Aaron, you . . . you found out who
killed that woman here, right? You could find out about Louis.”
    I almost closed the door on her foot. “Oh, no.
Steph, no. The Madlyn Beckwirth story, that was. . .” I
looked to Abby for help, but after the kiss, my wife was not in a
charitable mood. “That was a fluke, a mistake. I’m just a magazine
writer. Honestly.”
    But Stephanie hadn’t changed much since high school.
She knew how to get what she wanted, and her wheels were already
spinning fast. “One of the journalists Louis and I got to know is a
features editor at Snapdragon . And besides the music stuff,
you know they cover politics.”
    Stephanie stepped back inside, and I closed the
door, so the neighbors wouldn’t be distracted by my terrified
screams so late at night. I felt the trap being sprung around
me.
    “I know, Steph, but really. I don’t know anything
about politics. I write mostly about home entertainment
equipment.”
    Steph was having none of it. “You know about murder
investigations, and you knew Louis. You could write it, Aaron.
Don’t turn me down now. I can get Lydia from Snapdragon to
call you tomorrow morning. Please.”
    In times of crisis, my wife is always my strength. I
looked at her for help, and as usual, she came through with flying
colors.
    “How much does Snapdragon pay per word?” she
asked.

Chapter

Five
    “ W ell, what did you want me to say?” asked Abby. I considered going downstairs
for some butter, to see if it would melt in her mouth, but I was
too tired. Stephanie had left, and we were in our bedroom, getting
ready for bed a good two hours later than we’d expected.
    “I was hoping you’d come up with a reason I can’t
write a story about something I can’t possibly know about for a
editor I don’t know, whose arm is getting twisted to hire me, at a
magazine I’ve never worked for before. That’s all.” We start
getting ready for bed most nights by making the bed, since we
almost never do that when we get up in the morning.
    “I thought you’d want to write it,” Abby said. She
pulled the sheet smooth on her side, and started straightening out
the blanket. “For crying out loud, Aaron, they pay two dollars a
word, and you’ve got to figure this is at least a 3,000-word piece.
That’s a nice chunk of change.” She had me there, but she couldn’t
stop, which is always a fatal error. “Besides, I figured you’d want
to do anything you could to help Ms. Cleavage.”
    I pulled the blanket up on my side and started to
take off my jeans. “So that’s it,” I said. “You know, it’s funny.
I’ve never actually seen you jealous before. I wouldn’t have
expected it. I’d have quicker expected it of me.” I hung the jeans
on a hook sticking out of the closet door. We live in a very classy
house.
    Abby satisfied herself that the bed was now
acceptable, and slid off the gym shorts she had on, then started
looking around the room for her pajamas. “I’m not jealous,” she
said casually. “I just find it amusing how easily you can be
played.”
    “Played?” I stopped looking for a T-shirt disgusting
enough to sleep in, and walked to her side of the bed. “What do you
mean, played?”
    “Oh, come on,” my wife chuckled. “She bats her eyes,
hikes up her boobs, and does that, ‘oh Aaron, you’re the only one
who can help me’ thing, and you go right for it.”
    “She has no reason to ‘play me,’ as you so
endearingly put it.”
    “She wants you to investigate her husband’s