THE WAILING FRAIL
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She yanked the door open with a crash and said, “Gran–,” but then stopped and stared at me. She was nude as a noodle. “You’re not Grandma!” I said, “No, I’m Shell Scott, and you’re not grandma either!” She slammed the door in my face. I’ve practically made a career out of babes, but this one really hit me. She had a shape like a three-dimensional dream, and I hugged that vision with my mind. Right from that first glance I had memorized her. She was the key –uhm — “figure” in a sensational investigation leading all the way to the U. S. Congress. And me? I’m the shamus prepared to pursue both her and the clues to the ends of the earth, if only for the rear view. She’s a living doll, and I mean to keep her that way, even if it kills me.