“Who was your cheque from?” I asked. “The one that bounced.”
“What do you want to do?” she demanded. “Stay for coffee or get thrown out?”
“Stay for coffee,” I said.
She put water in the percolator, lit the gas plate, brought out an electric toaster, unwrapped a half loaf of bread, opened the little refrigerator and took out a package of Nucoa.
“Seen the paper?” I asked.
“No.”
I handed her the morning paper and said, “You might as well get caught up on the news while the coffee’s percolating.”
She said, “Oh, I’d rather talk with you. I can read the newspaper any time. You’re — you’re interesting and you’re going to try to pry something out of me, aren’t you?”
“I’ve already pried it.”
She opened the newspaper, glanced at the headlines, looked down through the front page, paused briefly on the account of the murder, then turned to the back page, looked at the pictures of the girl lying on the floor of her bedroom, clad in panties and bra.