Wall of Glass Read Online Free

tires spraying gray fans of it off to the side as the car splashed toward the Plaza.
    I crossed the street, stepping around the water and over the drifts and ridges of blackening slush. I tramped into the public library, stomped most of the snow off onto the welcome mat, and called Rita on the pay phone while the rest of the stuff dribbled down my boots and puddled out along the tile floor. I told her what, in general, had gone on with Hector. She asked me to stop by her house later in the day, and I said I would and offered to cook dinner. Ginger beef. She said that would be splendid, and that she’d provide the wine.
    W HEN I ARRIVED, at six, there was one set of tire tracks in the snow atop Rita’s driveway. Which meant that Maria had driven into town or that someone else had come visiting. This is what we detectives call a deduction.
    The gravel beneath the snow had turned to muck, and I had to put the Subaru into four-wheel to get up to the house. I saw that Maria’s car, a Volkswagen Beetle, was gone. Score one for the deductive process.
    Hefting my grocery bag, I wrestled my way out of the wagon and proceeded, with more caution than grace, down the flagstones. The snow that had melted earlier in the day was freezing over again as the sun went down, and the walkway was slick as glass. I thumbed the doorbell.
    After a moment, Rita opened the door. Smiling, she rolled back the wheelchair to let me in.
    â€œHi,” I said, wiping my feet on the mat. “I hope you’re hungry.”
    â€œStarving,” she said. She was wearing a black skirt and a black silk blouse, a strand of pearls around her neck.
    â€œGood.” I passed through the foyer and crossed the living room, Rita following behind, the motor of her chair giving off a soft electric whirr.
    In the kitchen I set the groceries down on the island in the center of the room, the brown grocery bag crackling as I did, a homey and vaguely comforting sound.
    I began hauling out the food. “Snowpeas,” I said. “Green peppers. Ginger root. Chicken stock á la Campbell. And look at this.” I unwrapped the butcher paper. “Is this a handsome piece of beef or what?”
    â€œLovely.” She smiled. “But are you sure it’ll be enough? After all, there are two of us.”
    â€œDon’t get sarcastic with the chef. It’s only a pound and a half. And I had to take out a bank loan to get it.” I turned back to the bag, rummaged inside. “Where’s the cornstarch?”
    â€œI’ve got cornstarch,” she said. “You left it here when you made the hot and sour soup.”
    â€œWell, now you’ve got some more. A body can never have too much cornstarch.”
    â€œI’ve got rice, too,” she said as I set the box of Uncle Ben’s on the countertop.
    â€œA body can never have too much rice. Where’s the knife?”
    â€œSame place it always is.”
    â€œAh.”
    I turned and plucked a paring knife from the rack on the wall, set it down on the counter.
    â€œYou have your choice of wines,” Rita said. “There’s a Zinfandel and a retsina.”
    I opened a cupboard door, lifted out a colander. “Retsina is the Greek stuff that tastes like turpentine?” I dumped the snowpeas into the colander and turned on the faucet.
    â€œThis is a different brand than that last bottle you had. Better. I thought it would go well with ginger beef.”
    Rinsing off the peas, I said, “Then retsina it is.”
    â€œDo you want some now?”
    â€œSure. Where is it?”
    â€œI’ll get it,” she said. Naturally. Rita never needed any help.
    She rolled to the refrigerator, opened the door, and leaned forward to take out the bottle of straw-colored wine. She put the bottle on the countertop, swiveled the chair around and rolled it to the cabinet, searched through the middle drawer and plucked out a corkscrew. I busied myself shaking water