Edited to Death Read Online Free PDF

a chicken. What could go
     wrong with roast chicken?
    “Maggie, Lily is visiting from next door and she wants the boys and the cats to come
     play Nintendo.”
    I got a life-size picture of my little ruffians following Lily’s every command in
     front of the screen. Her two years of seniority over Josh, enormous vocabulary, and
     willingness to share her electronic paraphernalia gave her near-complete control over
     my boys. I didn’t mind, though; she was a benevolent despot and a great civilizing
     influence. “Fine, but no snacks past five. I’ll be home before seven.”
    I hung up and called Michael’s office. His secretary said she hadn’t seen him since
     before lunch. “He has a client back here at four-thirty. He should be here any minute,”
     she said. I couldn’t imagine leaving any of the day’s events on his voice mail, so
     I simply left a message that dinner was at seven and I’d see him at home.
    When I returned to the table, the waitress had cleared away the rubble and brought
     two china mugs of coffee. It smelled delicious. “I decided it was time for you to
     move on from that wimpy-ass tea,” said Calvin.
    I held my cup aloft. “We haven’t done what we said we’d do. So here goes: To Quentin,
     wherever he may be—and whyever he’s there.”
    Calvin clinked mugs with me.
    “Get the kids straightened out?”
    “Yes, fine. They’re playing Nintendo with the little tyrant from next door.”
    “So Maggie, who did it?”
    For a moment, the sight of Quentin’s crumpled body—face down on his desk, blood Rorschach-like
     on the desk—came back to me. The table, the restaurant, even Calvin—everything seemed
     hostile and dangerous. I stood, a little unsteadily, and grabbed for the edge of the
     table.
    “I’ve got to go.” I put my hand out. “It’s nice to meet you. Thanks for lunch.”
    Calvin ignored my hand. “Sit down. You’re looking a little green around the gills.”
    I sat. “Yo’ mama,” I said glumly.
    “What?”
    “Yo’ mama. It’s an answer in the dozens. It’s the black equivalent of ‘so’s your old
     man.’ Only worse.” I peered at Calvin and gestured. “You know—you keep exchanging
     and accelerating insults. Why am I explaining this to you? I’m the honky here.”
    “I know what the dozens are. I just don’t know how to do them. How do you know how
     to do the dozens?”
    “I grew up knowing how. I was a tough kid. The wrong side of L.A.” I took a sip of
     coffee. Suddenly, I felt better. The image of Quentin’s body began to recede. The
     world—or at least the restaurant and Calvin—seemed friendlier, familiar. No bodies
     would pop up here between the upright piano and the screen that hid the noisy, warmly
     fragrant kitchen.
    “So if you didn’t grow up with the dozens, how do you know what they are?”
    Calvin grinned. “Black Lit. I took a course at Stanford. Learned how to be cool. Going
     to private schools and growing up in the Philadelphia suburbs doesn’t teach you any
     of that stuff.”
    I laughed. “That’s a great testimonial to your alma mater. Go to Stanford. Get in
     touch with your roots. I bet the Senator and Mrs. Stanford had just that thing in
     mind for privileged black students.”
    “Senator Stanford had never even heard of privileged black students. Now, Mrs. Jane,
     that might have been a different story. But I’m glad to hear you laugh. You looked
     a little panicked a few minutes ago.”
    I shivered. “I remembered Quentin. What he looked like lying there.”
    Calvin spoke, “So let’s talk about it. What the hell happened?”
    I shook my head. “I can’t imagine. And that’s just the beginning of the questions.
     Why did it happen? Why Quentin? And where’s Stuart? And what about Madame? She’s supposed
     to be an ex-paramour.”
    Calvin shuddered. “What a thought. Enough to put you off girls for life.”
    “I think that might be just what it did for Quentin,” I said. “That, combined