“Did you tell Melvin about that one?”
“I told Madge and she told him, but that’s the last I heard. I didn’t want to force my observations on a fella doesn’t want to hear. He’d have pooh-poohed that, too. Trouble with Melvin is he didn’t believe a thing unless it come from him. He’s the type if he didn’t know something, he made it up. If he didn’t feel like doing something, he claimed he did it anyway. You couldn’t pin the man down. Ask him a question, he’d act like he’d been accused of negligence.”
“Sounds like a pain.”
“Yes, he was. Madge, too.”
“Well. I appreciate the information. I’ll mention this to the guys and see if it’s something they want to pursue.” Inwardly, I was still hung up on the fact that he’d mentioned my “grandma.” I never thought of Grand that way. I had a grandmother. How bizarre.
As though reading my mind, he said, “I knew your mama once upon a time.”
“Really.”
“Yes ma’am. You know Arne Johanson worked for the Kinseys from the age of seventeen. He was sweet on her himself, but Rita wouldn’t give him the time of day. He figured it’s because he was too old for her and then she up and marries your dad, the same age as him. He got his nose out of joint, I can tell you that. I told him don’t be ridiculous. In the first place, she was never going to take up with a cowpoke. Second place, she’d rather die than get stuck where she is. She was wild, that one, and pretty as they come. Restless as all get out. She’d have taken up with anyone to get off the ranch.”
“That’s flattering,” I said. In truth, this was the first concrete image I’d ever had of her. In that careless vignette, he’d captured the entire story of her life. My cousins, Liza and Tasha, had spoken of her in ways that seemed larger than life. She’d taken on the aura of family myth, a symbol of that legendary clash of wills. “I understand she and my grandmother didn’t get along.”
“Oh, they tangled, those two. Rita was Cornelia’s pride and joy. I felt sorry for her in a way…”
“Who, my mother?”
“Your grandma. She liked to maintain she didn’t have a favorite among the five girls, but Rita was her firstborn and Cornelia doted on her. You know the story, I suppose.”
“Well, sure. I heard it once,” I said, lying through my teeth. Somehow gossip seems less pernicious if the person telling the tale thinks it’s one you’ve already heard.
“Cornelia married Burton Kinsey when she was seventeen, exactly half his age. That’s one more reason she didn’t want Rita to marry young like she did. She lost three babies in a row, all of them boys and not a one went to term. Rita was the first of her children to survive. Cornelia’s boys were stillborn. Only the girls made it through alive.”
“What was that about?”
“I don’t think the doctors determined the cause. In those days, medicine was largely good luck and guesswork. People died of diabetes until those two fellows discovered insulin in 1923. Folks died of anemia, too, until liver therapy came along in 1934. Think of it. Eating liver was a cure. We forget things like that; forget how ignorant we were and how much we’ve learned.” He stopped to clear his throat. “Well, now. I didn’t mean to run on at the mouth. Trouble with getting old is you lose all the people you tell your stories to. You let me know if that red car turns out to be anything. I’d like to have a laugh at Melvin’s expense after all these years.”
“Thanks for your time. I’ll be in touch.”
I replaced the handset in the cradle and headed for the elevator, which I took to 6 Central. The doors slid open and I stepped off just as Dolan approached, having exited Stacey’s room. He took a seat on a couch positioned under a window. The area wasn’t designated as a waiting room, but it probably served as a getaway for friends and family members who needed a break. He rose when he caught sight of me.
“Don’t get up,” I said. “What are you doing out here? I thought you’d be down the hall with Stace.”
Dolan sat down again on the couch. “The doctors are in there. Oncologist, radiologist, and another specialist nobody bothered to introduce.”
“What’s going on?”
“Beats me. All three had on those long medical faces so the news couldn’t be good. How’d the phone call go? Did you talk to Vogel?” He scooted over on the couch to make room for me. “Here. Have a seat.”
I perched on the near arm and propped my hand on the back of the couch. “For starters, in the small-world department, it turns out C. K. Vogel was Melvin Galloway’s brother-in-law.” I went on, summarizing the information C. K.’d given me about the red convertible.
“He could be confused. Frankie’s car was red.”
“I know, but he was very specific about it’s being a convertible with black leather seats.”
“Let’s run that by Stacey and see what he says. It can’t hurt to check.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the three doctors emerge from Stacey’s room. I pointed in their direction as they rounded the far corner and disappeared. “Looks like they’re done. You want to go down and find out what they said?”
“No. But I will.”
I let Dolan take the lead as we entered Stacey’s room, thinking that if Stace was upset, I could ease out without calling undue attention to myself. He was in bed, having cranked up the head so he could see the view. He had his knit cap off and I was disconcerted by the sight of his bare head. His hair was wispy, a cross between duck down and baby fuzz, scarcely half an inch long. The watch cap had given him an air of manliness. Without it, he was just a sick old man with a scrawny neck and ears that protruded from the bony shell of his skull. He turned from the view with a smile that came close to merriment unless you knew him. “Never let it be said God doesn’t have a sense of humor.”
Dolan said, “Uh-oh.”
“It’s really not too bad. No meningioma or neurofibroma; in other words, there’re no metastatic tumors along my spine. The business with my back’s benign. Probably a herniated disc, which is the result of degenerative changes not uncommon in a man my age. I’m quoting the doc here just in case you think I’ve started talking strange. The treatment of choice is bed rest, which is something I’m already well acquainted with. Analgesics, a mild tranquilizer, possibly Valium as you suggested. That doesn’t work, they go to plan B, which they haven’t laid out as yet. I’m guessing surgery, but they haven’t actually said as much. Doctor did suggest exercises to strengthen my back once the pain subsides. Fair enough. Unfortunately, the very same X-ray that showed my back problem’s no more than a pain in the ass also revealed a lesion. I’m supposed to be in remission, free and clear.”
“What’s he think it is?”
“She, goddammit! And don’t interrupt. I was just getting to that. Doc says it could be scar tissue, it could be the remains of a dying tumor, or it might be our old friend lymphoma cropping up again. They can’t tell from the film. So first thing tomorrow morning, I’m scheduled for a biopsy. Lucky I’m here is how they put it to me. Lucky my back feels like shit, they said. Without back pain, no X-ray. Without the X-ray, this whatever I’ve got would have gone undetected until the next follow-up appointment, which isn’t on the books for months.” He pointed at Dolan. “And don’t say ‘I told you so’ because I don’t want to hear it.”
“I’d never say that—though I’ll admit I did mention it.”
I thought he was pushing his luck, but Stacey laughed.
Dolan said, “So when do you get out?”
“They haven’t told me yet. Meantime, I’m not lying here idle. I put in another call to the Sheriff’s Department. Joe Mandel’s made detective so I’m hoping he’ll let us take a look at the Jane Doe evidence.”
“Kinsey and I can do that.”
“Not without me. You want to keep me alive, you better do what I say.”
“Bullshit. That’s blackmail.”
“That’s exactly right. So tell me about Rickman. I could use a good laugh about now.”
I had dinner that night at Rosie’s, so grateful to have her home I could have kissed the hem of her muumuu. Since the tavern had been closed for two weeks, the smell of beer and cigarette smoke had nearly faded from the air. In her absence, she’d had a cleaning crew come in and scrub the place down. Floors now gleamed, wood surfaces were polished, and the mirror behind the bar reflected the rows of liquor bottles with a sparkle that suggested expensive handblown glass. The crowd that night was light, the usual patrons perhaps still unaware that the restaurant was open for business again.
William stood behind the bar, pulling beers and pouring drinks for the smattering of customers. Henry sat at his usual table, amusing himself with a book of anagrams. At his invitation, I took a seat across from him. I looked over as Rosie emerged from the kitchen with an armload of what appeared to be slim binders. She crossed the room, heading in our direction, clearly pleased with herself. She handed a binder to me and a second to Henry. I thought they might be picture albums, but I opened the front cover and found myself staring at a handwritten menu done in a calligraphic script.
“This is different,” I remarked.
“Is new menu. So I don’t hef to tell every dish what I’m cooking. William wrote by hand and then went to photo copy shop and hed them print. You order anything you want and what you can’t say in Henglish you point.” She stood and looked at us expectantly. Since she’d returned from the cruise, her Henglish seemed to have gotten worse.
Henry surveyed his menu, a curious expression crossing his face. I glanced at mine, running my gaze down the page. The dishes were listed first in Hungarian, complete with letter combinations and accent marks I’d never seen before. Under the Hungarian name for each dish there was the translation in English:
Versenyi Batyus Ponty
Carp in a Bundle
Csuka Tejfeles Tormaval
Pike Cooked in Horseradish Cream
Hamis Oztokany
Mock Venison
Disznó Csülök Káposztával
Pig’s Knuckles and Sauerkraut
I couldn’t wait to see what the crowd of softball rowdies was going to think about this.
“You’ve outdone yourself, Rosie,” Henry said.
“Really,” I said. “I can hardly choose.”
She seemed to wiggle with pleasure, order pad in hand. For a minute I thought she intended to lick her pencil point.
Henry smiled at her blandly. “Why don’t you give us a few minutes? This is a lot to take in.”
“You keep and I come beck.”
“Good idea.”
She moved away from our table and began to circle the room, distributing a menu at each booth and table along the way. Henry stared after her with something close to wonderment. “I guess this is what happens when you take someone on a cruise. She’s come home inspired. If I didn’t know her better, I’d say she was putting on airs.”
I set my menu aside. “That’s the least of our worries. What are we going to do? I don’t want to eat a pig knuckle with sauerkraut. That’s disgusting.”
He looked at his menu again. “Listen to this one. ‘Mazsolas es Gesztenyés Borjunyelv.’ You know what that is? Calf’s Tongue with Chestnuts and Raisins.”
“Oh, that can’t be true. Where do you see that?” I peered over at his menu, hoping it was somehow completely different.
He pointed at an item under a column entitled “Specialities of the House.” “Here’s another one. Lemon Tripe. I forget what that is. Could be stomach or bowel.”
“What’s the big deal with organ meats?”
Rosie had completed her circuit and she now headed back to our table. “I hef idea. I prepare for you special. Big surprise.”
“No, no, no,” Henry said. “I wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble. We’ll just order from what’s here. My goodness. So many interesting dishes. What are you having, Kinsey?”
“Me? Oh. Well, actually on a night like this, I’d love a nice big bowl of soup and maybe noodles on the side. Could you do that for me?”
“Easy. Of course. I give Shepherd’s Soup. Is already make,” she said, pausing to pencil an elaborate note on her order pad. She turned to Henry.
“I think I’ll hold off for now. I just had a bite before I came over here.”
“Little plate of dumplings? Jellied pork? Is fresh. Very good.”
“Don’t tempt me. Maybe later. I’ll just keep her company for now,” he said.
Rosie pursed her lips and then shrugged to herself. I thought she’d insist, but apparently decided to let him suffer. Neither of us said a word until she’d disappeared.
I leaned forward. “Why didn’t you tell me you were doing that? I could have said the same thing.”
“I blurted out the first thing that occurred to me. You were quick about it, too. Soup and noodles. That’s safe. How can you go wrong?”
My gaze strayed toward the kitchen. Mere seconds had passed, and Rosie was already using her backside to push her way through the swinging kitchen doors into the dining room, bearing a wide tray that held a shallow bowl of steaming soup.
I said, “Oh, geez. Here she comes. I hate service this quick. It’s like eating in a Chinese restaurant. You’re in and out on the street again twenty minutes later.”
She crossed the room, setting the tray on the adjoining table, then placing the bowl in front of me. She tucked her hands under her apron and looked at me. “How you like?”
“I haven’t tried it yet.” I fanned some of the steam toward my face, trying to define the odor. Burnt hair? Dog hide? “Gee, this smells great. What is it?”
She peered at my bowl, identifying some of the diced ingredients. “Is parsnip, ongion, carrot, kohlrabi—”
“I love vegetable soup!” I said, with perhaps more enthusiasm than I’d ordinarily express. I tipped my spoon down into the depths, bringing up a rich cargo of root vegetables.
She was still peering. “Is also head, neck, lungs, and liver of one lamb.”
The spoon was already in the air by then, soup sailing toward my mouth as though of its own accord. As the spoon reached my lips, I caught a glimpse of porous gray chunks, probably minced lobe of lung, along with some floaters of something I was too fearful to ask about. I puckered my lips and made a slurping sound, sucking up the broth while deftly avoiding the little knots of offal. I made insincere Mmm noises.
“I come right beck with noodles.”
“Take your time.”
As soon as she left, I put my spoon down, craning to check all four corners of the room. “I wonder if I have time to scoot to the toilet and put this back where it belongs. She doesn’t even have planters where I can dump the stuff.”
Henry leaned closer to the bowl. “Is that a nostril? Oh no, sorry. It’s probably just a little cross-section of heart valve. Head’s up. Here she comes again.”
Rosie was returning to the table with a dinner-sized plate in hand. I made a big display of stirring my soup and wiping my mouth with a napkin as she set the noodles in front of me. I patted my chest as though overwhelmed, which I was. “This is filling. Really rich.”
I stole an apprehensive look at the dish as she placed it on the table beside my soup bowl, experiencing a flash of relief. “What’s that, manicotti?”
“Is call palacsinta tészta. Like what you call crêpes.”
“Hungarian crêpes. Well, that sounds wonderful. I can do that.”
“I fill with calf’s brains scrembled with egg. Very dainty. You’ll see. I can teach you to make.”
“Okay then, I’ll just chow down,” I said. She stood by the table, as though prepared to monitor my every bite. I leaned to one side, focusing my gaze on the far side of the room. “I think William’s calling you. It looks like he needs help.”
Rosie crossed to the bar where she and William engaged in a baffled conversation. Meanwhile, I’d grabbed up my shoulder bag and I was rooting through the contents. Earlier that day, I’d spotted an outdated grocery list done on a
sheet of yellow legal paper. I kept one eye on Rosie while I folded the note paper into a cone, pointed at the bottom with a wide mouth at the top. I turned the pointed bottom up to form a seal. I forked up crepes in rapid succession, ignoring the gnarly bits that fell back on the plate. I folded the top down, wrapped the cone in a paper napkin, and shoved the bundle in my purse.
By the time Rosie glanced in my direction, I was bent over my plate, making fake chewing motions while trying to look entranced. Another couple entered the bar and her attention was distracted. I put a twenty on the table near Henry’s plate. “Tell her I was called away on an emergency.”
Henry pointed to my soup, most of which was still in the bowl. “I’ll have her put that in a jar and bring it over to you later tonight. I know how you hate to see food go to waste.”
10
I was home earlier than I’d intended, concerned that calf brain would leak out of the makeshift container and contaminate the interior of my shoulder bag. As I passed Henry’s garbage can, I removed the bundle from my purse and dumped it. I lifted my head, alerted by the dim ringing of a phone somewhere. I banged down the lid and hurried to my front door, unlocking it in haste. Three rings. Four. I slung my bag on a kitchen chair and snatched up the receiver. My answering machine had already kicked in and I was forced to override my own voice, singing, “It’s me. I’m here. Don’t go away. I’m answering.”
“Kinsey?”
The caller was male and he spoke against the dull murmur of background conversations. I put a hand against one ear. “Who’s this?”
“Pudgie.”
“Well, hi. This is a surprise. I didn’t think I’d hear from you. What’s up?”
“You said call if I thought of something, but you have to promise you won’t let this get back to him.”
Sue Grafton Page 13
