Fletch’s Moxie

35

Upstairs, Fletch went back into the bedroom and closed the door. The television was still running, softly. On a women’s talk show, herpes was being discussed.

Fletch sat in the double width chair with Moxie. He took her hand.

“Nachman is on her way over from the airport,” Fletch said. “To arrest Geoffrey McKensie for the murder of Steven Peterman.”

The television was telling women not to feel badly about having herpes.

“Peterman killed McKensie’s wife,” Fletch said. “Ran her down with a rented blue Cadillac.”

Again tears were rolling down Moxie’s cheeks.

“You see,” Fletch said, “Koller was right: McKensie did know how to rig a set.”

Moxie freed her hand. She stood up. She walked to the bed and sat on its edge.

She sobbed.

Fletch grabbed a tissue from the bedside table and handed it to her. “I’d think you’d be relieved.”

“Poor Geoff.” She blew her nose. “Poor damn Geoff. Why did they have to find out?”

She began to choke. She went into the bathroom. She closed the door.

Fletch listened to her sobbing and blowing her nose and sobbing some more.

“I’ll be downstairs,” he said to the closed door.