"How come?"

Bobby seemed to consider several replies, but he finally settled for a slight head shake and silence. He looked back at me. "You ready to meet them?"

"Tell me about the other people first." I was stalling, but I couldn't help myself

He surveyed the group. "Some, I forget. That woman in blue I don't know at all. The tall fellow with gray hair is Dr. Fraker. He's the pathologist I was working for before the accident. He's married to the redhead talking to my mom. My mother's on the board of trustees for St. Terry's so she knows all these medical types. The balding, heavyset man is Dr. Metcalf and the guy he's talking to is Dr. Kleinert."

"Your psychiatrist?"

"Right. He thinks I'm crazy, but that's all right because he thinks he can fix me." Bitterness had crept into his voice and I was acutely aware of the level of rage he must be dealing with day by day.

As though on cue, Dr. Kleinert turned and stared at us and then his eyes slid away. He looked like he was in his early forties with thin, wavy gray hair and a sorrowful expression.

Bobby smirked. "I told him I was hiring a private detective, but I don't think he's figured out yet that it's you or he'd have come down here to have a little chat to straighten us out."

"What about your stepsister? Where is she?"

"Probably in her room. She's not very sociable."

"And who's the little blonde?"

"My mother's best friend. She's a surgical nurse. Come on," he said impatiently. "You might as well take the plunge."

I followed Bobby, keeping pace with him as he hobbled down the room toward the fireplace, where people had congregated. His mother watched us approach, the two women with her pausing in the middle of their conversation to see what had engaged her attention.

She looked young to be the mother of a twenty-three-year-old, lean, with narrow hips and long legs. Her hair was a thick glossy bush of pale fawn brown, not quite shoulder-length. Her eyes were small and deep-set, her face narrow, mouth wide. Her hands were elegant, her fingers long and thin. She wore a cream-colored silk blouse and a full linen skirt nipped in at the waist. Her jewelry was gold, delicate chains at her wrist and throat. The gaze she turned on Bobby was intense and I thought I could feel the pain with which she regarded his crippled form. She looked from him to me, smiling politely.

She moved forward, holding out her hand. *Tm Glen Callahan. You must be Kinsey Millhone. Bobby said you'd be stopping by." Her voice was low and throaty. "I'll give you a chance to enjoy yourself We'll talk in a bit."

I shook hands with her, startled how bony and warm her hand felt in mine. Her grip was iron.

She glanced at the woman to her right, introducing me. "This is Nola Fraker."

"Hi, how are you?" I said as we shook hands.

"And Sufi Daniels."

Murmured pleasantries were exchanged. Nola was a redhead, with clear, fine-textured skin, and luminous blue eyes, wearing a dark red jumpsuit that left her arms bare and a deep V of naked flesh visible from throat to waist. Already, I didn't want her to bend down or make any sudden moves. I had the feeling I knew her from somewhere. Possibly I'd seen her picture in the society section or something of that sort. Reminder bells went oft; at any rate, and I wondered what the story was.

The other woman, Sufi, was small and somewhat misshapen, thick through the trunk, her back hunched. She wore a mauve velour sweatsuit that looked like she'd never sweated in it. Her blond hair was thin and fine, worn too long, I thought, to be flattering.

After a decent interval, the three of them resumed their conversation, much to my relief. I hadn't the faintest idea what to say to them. Nola was talking about a thirty-dollar fabric remnant she was whipping up to wear to a wine-tasting down in Los Angeles. "I checked all the shops in Montebello, but it was ridiculous! I wouldn't pay four bills for an outfit. I wouldn't even pay two" she said with energy.

That surprised me. She looked like a woman who enjoyed extravagance. Unless I just make up things like that. My notion of women with money is that they drive to Beverly Hills to have their legs waxed, charge a bauble or two on Rodeo Drive, and then go to charity luncheons at $1,500 a plate. I couldn't picture Nola Fraker pawing through the bargain bin at our local Stretch N' Sew. Maybe she'd been poor as a young girl and couldn't get used to being a doctors wife.

Bobby took my arm and steered me toward the men. He introduced me to his stepfather, Derek Wenner, and then in quick succession to Drs. Fraker, Metcalf, and Kleinert. Before I knew what to think, he was hustling me toward the hallway. "Let's go upstairs. We'll find Kitty and then I'll show you the rest of the house."