The Dead Letter by Finley Martin Read Free Book Online

needs a serious upgrade to his social life. All work and no play, if you know what I mean.”
    â€œHmmph,” said Anne.
    â€œSpeaking of which…,” Mary Anne said and bent her thumb toward the door.
    Dit pushed through the foyer doors. He had strong, kind features, a muscular build, and brown curly hair. He wore dark trousers with a sharp crease and a cream-coloured sweater that showed off his lingering summer tan. A woman walked next to him, her arm linked loosely under his. She wore high heels and a low-cut, peacock blue dress with one shoulder strap. It shimmered under the dim overhead lights. She carried a white knit shawl.
    She’s beautiful , Anne thought and straightened up. The sneakers on her feet dangled near the floor. She glanced at Dit. She gave her over-stretched sweater a few subtle tugs to imply some shape, but it had no effect whatsoever.
    â€œShe’s gorgeous,” said Ben.
    â€œShe’s kinda cute,” said Anne. “I guess,” she added.
    Sarah jabbed Ben in the ribs. “You look like an owl,” she said. “Stop staring.” Then Sarah turned to Anne. “Let me know if he starts drooling, and I’ll take him home and lock him in the basement until the next lunar cycle.”
    â€œOf course, you must realize that it’s against the law to lock up a cop,” he said, “…unless it’s Saturday night…and bondage gets your motor running…” Ben quickly shifted into the lyrics of a Steppenwolf song and began to sing softly to Sarah, “head out on that highway…lookin’ for adventure…in whatever comes our way…yeah darlin’ gonna make it happen…take the world in a love embrace…”
    Sarah’s face turned red.
    â€œStop it! Stop it!” she growled under her breath. She forced a smile and at the same time poked Ben sharply under the table.
    â€œWhat? What!” protested Ben.
    Anne laughed. Tears came to her eyes.
    â€œEveryone, this is Gwen Fowler. Gwen, this is Ben ‘Easy Rider’ Solomon and his long, long-suffering wife, Sarah. You know Brenda and Dash. Urban and Eli are my electronics gurus. Mary Anne owns and operates this wonderful establishment and keeps our favourite table reserved, and, next to her, is Anne Brown, fondly named Wilhelmina A. Darby by her parents…”
    â€œThe detective?” she asked.
    â€œYes,” said Anne.
    â€œâ€¦but as a detective, she now goes by the name of Billy Darby.”
    â€œYou work under a pseudonym?” asked Gwen.
    â€œI do.”
    â€œBut why? Wil… Anne’s such a lovely name.”
    â€œI guess the simple answer…if there is one…is I inherited my uncle’s agency after he died last year. His name was Bill Darby. He had a heart attack. It was unexpected. It became awkward to explain to new clients who asked for him that Bill Darby was dead, and that I was taking care of business. Then I’d have to explain who I was and so on. It just became too…awkward…like now.”
    â€œI’m sorry…didn’t mean to pry. I was just curious.”
    â€œIt doesn’t matter. Anyway, some people think my name change is as odd as a top-hat on a dinosaur. I won’t name names, but it rhymes with Dit. ”
    â€œRings a bell,” said Dit. “I probably know the guy.”
    Anne ignored the comment and went on.
    â€œMy birth name was Wilhelmina Anne Darby. It became the endless source of torment in middle school. Later I shortened it to Willy…then Billy. So Billy Darby, the woman detective, was born. End of story.”
    â€œSorry again.”
    â€œWhat’s in a name? A rose by any…,” Dit mused.
    â€œYou’re no rose, and you’re not Romeo and, as long as you’ve brought up the subject of odd names, let’s look at yours. What kind of name is ‘Dit’ anyway? It doesn’t even have enough letters for a real