Read Online Death Benefits by Michael A. Kahn - Free Book Online

talks weird, walks weird. He gives me the willies.”
    I added Remy Panzer to my list. “This sounds like a fun group: the Missing Link, a boring civil servant, and a cast member from the Addams Family.”
    I asked her about Stoddard Anderson’s mail, especially whether he received anything unusual toward the end. She didn’t recall anything out of the ordinary.
    I checked my watch. It was later than I thought. I was supposed to meet with Dottie Anderson, his widow, in fifteen minutes out in Clayton. I asked Nancy if she could drop off the box of correspondence in my office before she went home, along with his appointment calendar. “Also,” I added, “could you have Reed St. Germain add to his list of documents the latest summary of the financial condition of Stoddard Anderson’s estate.”
    â€œSure thing,” she said as we both stood up. “You know, for what’s it’s worth, Rachel, Mr. Anderson really did seem out of it those last couple days. He’d always kept a pretty tight grip on himself, but I could tell he was struggling with something. Whatever it was, it was really driving him crazy.”

Chapter Six
    The Anderson home is on a quiet street in the City of Clayton, which is an affluent older suburb of St. Louis. As I got out of my car, I felt as if I had been whisked back to a Golden Books neighborhood from the 1950s. The massive trees along the street formed a green canopy of shade overhead. Sunlight filtered through gaps in the leaves—dozens of slanted yellow columns. A child’s bicycle was on its side on the sidewalk across the street. I could hear the distant growl of a lawn mower and the closer ring of an ice cream truck, perhaps a block over. A dog barked. A little girl pedaled down a driveway on her tricycle and then turned and pedaled back out of sight. Four houses down, on the lawn near the sidewalk, was a child’s table with a handmade LEMONADE FOR SALE sign taped to the front. The proprietor was nowhere in sight. Perhaps he was taking a nap.
    There was a dreamlike feel to the scene. I half expected to see the Pevely milk truck from my childhood come around the corner, trailing a pack of chasing kids—the boys wearing cowboy hats, me with my wild curls and torn Keds—shouting at the milkman for chunks of ice. Closing my eyes, I conjured up one of those big chunks of ice—sharp edges, cold to the tongue, harder than a diamond.
    The Anderson house fit right in. It was a red brick house, circa 1900, with black shutters, a gray slate roof, three chimneys, and two dormers. There were several window air-conditioning units, and all were humming away. A huge oak tree stood in the center of the lawn, casting shade over the entire house.
    The doorbell set off chimes inside. A few moments later my newest client opened the door.
    â€œYou must be Rachel,” she said with a friendly smile. “Please come in, dear.”
    Like her neighborhood and her house, Dottie Anderson looked as if she had been beamed down from the Golden Books childhood. Specifically, she looked like the neighborhood grandmother—the one who gave out homemade brownies on Halloween and was always setting out a plate of warm sugar cookies for the kids on the block who came to visit her. She was even wearing an apron.
    â€œThese cookies are delicious,” I said as she poured me a cup of tea.
    â€œThank you, dear. Would you care for a lemon slice with your tea?”
    â€œNo, thanks.”
    We talked generally for a while. I explained my assignment and the scope of my investigation. She listened quietly, nodding occasionally.
    Dottie Anderson did not seem the woman most likely to celebrate a thirty-second wedding anniversary with Stoddard Anderson. At best, she was the one discarded after twenty-five years for the “trophy wife.” She was overweight, plain, and shy. Her faded shirtwaist dress with a pleated bodice made her look older than she