Don't Touch Me! - 4

 

"What's the detective's name?" Brent asked.

"Milburn. Walter Milburn."

Brent nodded. "I know him. He's a decent man and a good detective."

"I hope so, because I swear I didn't kill Mother," Cody said. "I might have wanted to at times, but really, I'd never actually do it. She is—was—my mother." He closed his eyes, as if trying to rein in his emotions.

"Parents can sometimes get on your last nerve. I know. I have a mother who's great at it, at times. Tell me a bit about your mother."

Cody puffed out a breath. "When I was younger, she was okay—I mean, as mothers go. A few years ago she developed rheumatoid arthritis. It got hard for her to do things, so my father began pampering her. Then he died, three years ago. She started eating. I guess to assuage her grief. She did love him—very much, in fact—and he loved her. Between the weight she gained and the arthritis, she was pretty much housebound."

"You've been taking care of her?"

"Um-hum. I work from home. Have since…"

"Since this whole 'don't touch me' thing started?"

"Even before that. I was never exactly what you'd call social, and after I sold my first book, I've been able to support myself without having to get what Mother called 'a real job'."

"You're an author?"

Cody nodded. "I use a pen name because my dad wouldn't have approved. He thought a man should do 'manly' things, so I worked a regular job and wrote on the side. When my first book got picked up, I kept it a secret from my parents. I didn't tell my mother until after Dad died."

"What's your pen name, if you don't mind my asking?

"Jonathan Wilde."

"Shit. Are you kidding me?" Brent looked at him in disbelief. "You write hellishly good horror stories. But I sure thought Wilde was older—by a lot."

Cody flushed red. "Thank you. Yeah, I'm only twenty-five, but I don't think someone has to be an old man to write well."

"True," Brent agreed. He had guessed Cody to be barely twenty-one from looking at him, not twenty-five. But he knew looks could be deceiving. "So, getting back to why you're here. What do you think I can do? Presuming Detective Milburn really does suspect you of killing your mother, that is. You could have been misreading him."

"I hope I was, but I don't think so. I guess I want you to prove it wasn't me."

"Before we go any further, can you afford me? I know that sounds cold, but," Brent smiled, "this is a business and I do like to be able to pay my bills."

"How much does it cost?"

Brent took a sheet of paper from a folder in a desk drawer, handing it to Cody. After Cody looked it over, he nodded. "I can."

"Good." Brent handed him a second paper. "This is a sample contract. It lays out, in a general way, what you can expect from me—and vice versa."

"How long will it be valid?"

"We can set up a time frame, with the option to extend it if we both agree. You might not want to if you think you're wasting money with no results. The same holds true for me. If I decide I can't do what you want—in this case proving you didn't kill your mother—there's no reason for me to continue."

"What would be a good time limit for something like this? I mean…a week, a month?"