Corpus Delectable

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She was late.

She’d been a musical voice on the telephone identifying herself as one Jean Putnam. The music had been overlaid with strain and urgency when she’d asked for an immediate appointment.

“I’ll detour on my way to the Claverys’ party,” she’d said. “I can be there in thirty minutes. I’ve got to see you, Mr. Rivers.”

“What about?”

“It’s a little complicated to try to explain on the phone. I’ve got to know whether or not a certain thing is true.”

“I’ll wait for you,” I’d said.

Nearly an hour had passed.

There was nothing else at the moment to keep me in the office. But I decided to give Jean Putnam a little longer. People never call a private detective merely for the exercise of lifting the phone.

Energetic brass-band music filtered into the office from outside. I ambled to the window and idled a few minutes with glimpses of the glittering parade passing the intersection a couple of blocks away. The floats were elegant, the girls gorgeous, the pirates fearsome. The packed masses of spectators over there had a common bond, a carefree, festive spirit.

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