I began to wonder if I should even work for Claudia, and, as if she saw her prey vanishing, she stopped pressing me. She was out of breath, anyway, by the time she made it into an old overstuffed rocking chair that was parked, higgledy-piggledy, by the kitchen door. At her request, I put the kettle on for some coffee. The coffee she intended to drink was an enormous jar of instant, on the counter beside the stove. There were some tea bags in an old cardboard box; I don’t care for Lipton, but in a pinch I’ll drink it. In the refrigerator were a pint of soured milk and half a head of exhausted iceberg lettuce. The cupboard held several little tubs of Cup o’ Noodles and one loaf of bread, half-eaten, with attractive blue mold spots blossoming on it. This last Claudia regarded with interest. “I’ve always wondered what you have to do to bread mold to turn it into penicillin,” she remarked. “Is this all the food you have?” I looked deeper into the cupboard. There were a few crackers, some vintage Worcestershire sauce, and a jar of home-canned peaches, the top ominously domed.
What do You think about Murder In A Nice Neighborhood?
