14
Toby Rathbone called me last night to say he had gotten back into town and wanted to meet for drinks at the Paramount Hotel bar. He was the husband suspected of killing his wife, the s*x-addicted Jacqueline Summerfield, the rich and famous author, who was slain in her guesthouse. Eventually freed, he inherited her riches. I arrived after work, gave my car to a valet and stepped to the bar. Toby sat at a table with an attractive woman I guessed to be in her thirties. Toby stood up and hugged me.
“Meet ………” Toby said, sitting.
“Patsy Klein,” she said, filling in the gap and extending her hand. “K l e i n. Not C l i n e like the singer.”
She was dressed in a navy suit with a white scalloped collar blouse beneath, looking like she had been to a business meeting, and flashed a toothy whi
