You solve the case yet?" asked Kit, as curious as that cat that got itself killed for exactly the same reason that I told Kit to shut up for. I looked out the window. It was a dark and stormy night--not so dark that I couldn't see the feminine form lurking in the shadows of the building across the street, the business end of her lit cigarette glowing in the haze like a lone Christmas bulb on some lurking Christmas thingy, nor stormy enough that a "Severe Weather Watch" had been issued by the National Weather Service, and to tell the truth, it was more like late afternoon rather than night because I think that Jerry Springer was still on, but a dark and stormy night nevertheless. "I know two things," I said. "One. Candy Blather was in over her head and she got herself iced. The word on the street is that she was into Piggy Wilson for fifty thou." "Fifty thou? That's a lot of bim--even for Piggy." "It sure is," I said, lighting up a stogy. "What's her dodge?" "Hymn fixing," I said, puffing away like a three hundred pound woman with a beat-up ThighMaster and an upcoming high-school cheerleader's reunion.
