She coloured. “No, no, no! Don’t be a fool.”
“I can’t imagine anything else that would be worth thirty thousand bucks to a young woman who’s as independent as you are.”
“You’ll understand when I tell you.”
“Well, go ahead and tell me.”
“The man’s name,” she said, “was—”
She broke off.
“What’s his name got to do with it?” I asked.
She took a deep breath, and then blurted, “Hampton G. Lasster.”
“That’s a funny name to get romantic about,” I said. “You seem to think it should mean something. What is he, a—” All of a sudden an idea hit me with the force of a blow. I stopped mid-sentence and stared at her. I saw by her eyes that I was right. “Good Lord,” I said, “he’s the man who murdered his wife.”
She nodded.