Grave Deeds. Betsy Struthers

I shook his hand. Robin Elgin was a bean-pole of a man, over six feet tall and thin to boot. In his late twenties, he was already going bald and perhaps for that reason, or perhaps to camouflage his full lips and weak chin, he sported a full moustache and beard. Today, as on every working day, he wore a tweed sports jacket over a turtleneck shirt and blue jeans.

      The toilet flushed. He pushed his glasses back up his nose and nodded towards the back of the apartment. “She all right?” he whispered.

      “A bit upset. She started talking about the kids again.”

      He grimaced. “It’s a bad scene.”

      Bonnie joined us. “You’re home,” she said. She reached up to peck him on the cheek. “I thought you had to go up north on business?”

      “I was going to leave straight from work, they kept me so late. But I wanted to see you first. We should talk.” He glanced at me. “I guess it can wait.” He slipped by me into the kitchen. “Great, dinner’s ready. I’m starving.”

      “I won’t stay. I really must go and phone Will.” I opened the door. “You’ll be all right?”