He began to unload his sack: a packet wrapped in white butcher’s paper, potatoes, cabbage, green onions, and a big jar of mayonnaise. While I watched, he opened the oven door and checked his crock of soldier beans bubbling away with molasses, mustard, and a chunk of salt pork. I could see two loaves of freshly baked bread resting on a rack on the counter. A chocolate layer cake sat in the middle of the kitchen table with a glass dome over it. There was also a bouquet of flowers from his garden—roses and lavender he’d arranged artfully in a china teapot.
“Cake looks fabulous.”
“It’s a twelve-layer torte. I used Nell’s recipe, which was originally our mother’s. We tried it for years, but none of us could duplicate her results. Nell finally managed, but she says it’s a pain. I ended up tossing half a dozen layers before I mastered the thing.”
“What else are you having?”
Henry took out a cast-iron skillet and set it on the stove. “Fried chicken, potato salad, coleslaw, and baked beans. I thought we’d have a little picnic on the patio, unless the temperature drops.” He opened his spice cabinet and sorted through the contents, taking down a bottle of dried dill. “Why don’t you join us? She’d love to see you.”
“Oh please. Socializing is the last thing she needs. After six hours on the road? Give the woman a drink and let her put her feet up.”
“No need to worry about her. She has energy to spare. She’d be delighted, I’m sure.”
“Let’s just see how it goes. I’m on my way back to the office, but I’ll check in with you again as soon as I get home.”
I’d already decided to decline, but I didn’t want to seem rude. In my opinion, they needed time to themselves. I’d pop my head in and say hi, primarily to satisfy my curiosity about her. She was either widowed or divorced, I wasn’t sure which, but during her last visit, I’d noticed she’d made a number of references to her husband. At one point, when Henry was nursing a bum knee, she’d gone hiking alone, taking her watercolors with her so she could paint a spot in the mountains she and her husband had enjoyed for years. Was she still emotionally entrenched? Whether hubby was dead or alive, I didn’t like the idea. Henry, meanwhile, was busy being nonchalant, perhaps in denial of his feelings or in response to covert signals from her. Of course, there was always the possibility that I was imagining all this, but I didn’t think so. At any rate, I intended to have my supper at Rosie’s, resigned to my usual weekly allotment of her bullying and abuse.
I left Henry to his preparations and went back to the office, where I put a call through to Priscilla Holloway, Reba Lafferty’s parole agent. Nord Lafferty had given me her name and phone number at the end of our appointment. I was already back at my car, opening the driver’s side, when the elderly housekeeper had called from the front door and then hurried down the walk, a photograph in hand.
Winded, she’d said, “Mr. Lafferty forgot to give you this. It’s a photograph of Reba.”
“Thanks. I appreciate that. I’ll return it as soon as we get back.”
“Oh, no need. He said to keep it if you like.”
I thanked her again and tucked the photo into my bag. Now, while I waited for Parole Agent Holloway to answer her phone, I plucked out the photo and studied it again. I’d have preferred something recent. This had been taken when the woman was in her mid- to late twenties and almost puckish in appearance. Her large dark eyes were intent on the camera, her full lips half-parted as though she were on the verge of speaking. Her hair was shoulder-length and dyed blond, but clearly at considerable expense. Her complexion was clear with a hint of blush in her cheeks. After two years of prison fare, she might have packed on a few extra pounds, but I thought I’d recognize her.
On the other end of the line, a woman said, “Holloway.”
“Hi, Ms. Holloway. My name is Kinsey Millhone. I’m a local private investigator—”
“I know who you are. I had a call from Nord Lafferty, telling me he’d hired you to pick up his daughter.”
“That’s why I’m calling, to clear it with you.”
“Fine. Have at it. It’ll save me the trip. If you’re back in town before three, bring her over to the office. Do you know where I am?”
I didn’t, but she gave me the address.
“See you Monday,” I said.
I spent the rest of the afternoon taking care of paperwork, mostly sorting and filing in a vain attempt to tidy up my desk. I also did some boning up on parole regulations from a pamphlet printed by the California Department of Corrections.
Returning to my apartment for the second time that day, I saw no sign of picnic items on the patio table. Perhaps he’d decided the meal was better served indoors. I crossed to his back door and peeked in. As it turned out, my hopes for their romantic interlude were squelched by William’s presence in the kitchen. Looking aggrieved, Henry sat in his rocking chair with his usual glass of Jack Daniel’s while Mattie nursed a goblet of white wine.
William, two years Henry’s senior, has always looked enough like him to be his twin. His shock of white hair was thinning where Henry’s was still full, but his eyes were the same hot blue and he carried himself with the same erect military bearing. He wore a dapper three-piece suit, his watch chain visible across the front of his vest. I tapped on the glass and Henry motioned me in. William rose to his feet at the sight of me, and I knew he’d remain standing unless I urged him to sit. Mattie rose to greet me, and though we didn’t actually hug, we did clasp hands and exchange an air kiss.
She was in her early seventies, tall and slender, with soft silver hair she wore pulled into a knot on the top of her head. Her earrings glinted in the light—silver, oversize, and artisan-made.
I said, “Hey, Mattie. How are you? You must have arrived right on time.”
“Good to see you. I did.” She wore a coral silk blouse and a long gypsy skirt over flat-heel suede boots. “Will you join us in a glass of wine?”
“I don’t think so, but thanks. I’ve got business to take care of so I have to run.”
Henry’s tone was morose. “Have a glass of wine. Why not? Stay for supper as well. William’s invited himself so what’s the difference? Rosie couldn’t tolerate having him underfoot so she sent him over here.”
William said, “She had a small conniption fit for no reason at all. I’d just returned from the doctor’s office and I knew she’d want to hear the results of my blood work, especially my HDLs. You might want to take a look yourself.” He held the paper out, pointing with significance at the long column of numbers down the right side of the page. My gaze slid past his glucose, sodium, potassium, and chloride levels before I caught the expression on Henry’s face. His eyes were crossed so close to the bridge of his nose I thought they’d trade sides. William was saying, “You can see my LDL-HDL risk ratio is 1.3.”
“Oh, sorry. Is that bad?”
“No, no. The doctor said it was excellent…in light of my medical condition.” William’s voice carried a hint of feebleness suggestive of a weakened state.
“Well, good for you. That’s great.”
“Thank you. I called our brother Lewis and told him as well. His cholesterol is 214, which I think is cause for alarm. He says he’s doing what he can, but he hasn’t had much success. You can pass the paper on to Mattie once you’ve studied it yourself.”
Henry said, “William, would you sit down? You’re giving me a crick in my neck.” He left his rocker and took another wineglass from the kitchen cabinet. He poured wine to the brim and passed the glass to me, slopping some liquid on my hand.
William declined to sit until he’d pulled out my chair. I settled myself with a murmured “Thank you” and then I made a show of running a finger down the column of reference and unit numbers from his doctor’s report. “You’re in good shape,” I remarked as I passed the paper to Mattie.
“Well, I still have palpitations, but the doctor’s adjusting my medication. He says I’m amazing for a man my age.”
“If you�
��re in such terrific health, how come you’re off to the urgent care center every other day?” Henry snapped.
William blinked placidly at Mattie. “My brother’s careless with his health and won’t acknowledge that some of us are proactive.”
Henry made a snorting sound.
William cleared his throat. “Well now. On to a new subject since Henry’s apparently unable to handle that one. I hope this is not too personal, but Henry mentioned your husband is deceased. Do you mind my asking how he was taken?”
Henry was clearly exasperated. “You call that a different subject? It’s the same one—death and disease. Can’t you think of anything else?”
“I wasn’t addressing you,” William replied before returning his attention to Mattie. “I hope the topic isn’t too painful.”
“Not at this point. Barry died six years ago of heart failure. I believe cardiac ischemia is the term they used. He taught jewelry making at the San Francisco Art Institute. He was a very talented man, though a bit of an eccentric.”
William was nodding. “Cardiac ischemia. I know the term well. From the Greek, ischein, meaning ‘quench’ or ‘seize,’ combined with haima, or ‘blood.’ A German pathology professor first introduced that term in the mid-1800s. Rudolf Virchow. A remarkable man. What age was your husband?”
“William,” Henry sang.
Mattie smiled. “Really, Henry. I’m not sensitive about this. He died two days shy of his seventieth birthday.”
William winced. “Pity when a man’s struck down in his prime. I myself have suffered several episodes of angina, which I’ve miraculously survived. I was discussing my heart condition with Lewis, just two days ago by phone. You remember our brother, I’m sure.”
“Of course. I hope he and Nell and Charles are all in good health.”
“Excellent,” William said. He shifted in his chair, lowering his voice. “What about your husband? Did he have any warning prior to his fatal attack?”
“He’d been having chest pains, but he refused to see the doctor. Barry was a fatalist. He believed you check out when your time is up regardless what precautions you take. He compared longevity to an alarm clock that God sets the moment you’re born. None of us knows when the little bell will ring, but he didn’t see the point in trying to second-guess the process. He enjoyed life immensely, I’ll say that about him. Most folks in my family don’t make it to the age of sixty, and they’re miserable every minute, dreading the inevitable.”
“Sixty! Is that right? That’s astonishing. Is there a genetic factor in play?”
“I don’t think so. It’s a little bit of everything. Cancer, diabetes, kidney failure, chronic pulmonary disease…”
William put his hands on his chest. I hadn’t seen him so happy since he’d had the flu. “COPD. Chronic obstructive pulmonary disease. The very term brings back memories. I was stricken with a lung condition in my youth—”
Henry clapped his hands. “Okay, fine. Enough said on that subject. Why don’t we eat?”
He moved to the refrigerator and took out a clear glass bowl piled with coleslaw, which he plunked on the table with rather more force than was absolutely necessary. The chicken he’d fried was piled on a platter on the counter, probably still warm. He placed that in the center of the table with a pair of serving tongs. The squat little crockery pot now sat on the back of the stove, emitting the fragrance of tender beans and bay leaf. He removed serving utensils from a ceramic jug and then took down four dinner plates, which he handed to William, perhaps in hopes of distracting his attention while he brought the rest of the dinner to the table. William set a plate at each place while he quizzed Mattie at length about her mother’s death from acute bacterial meningitis.
Over supper Henry steered the conversation into neutral territory. We went through ritual questions about Mattie’s drive down from San Francisco, traffic, road conditions, and matters of that sort, which gave me ample opportunity to observe her. Her eyes were a clear gray and she wore very little makeup. She had strong features, with nose, cheekbones, and jaw as pronounced and well proportioned as a model’s. Her skin showed signs of sun damage, and it lent her complexion a ruddy glow. I pictured her out in the fields for hours with her paint box and easel.
I could tell William was reflecting on the subject of terminal disease while I was calculating how soon I could make my excuses and depart. I intended to drag William with me so Henry and Mattie could have some time alone. I kept an eye on the clock while I worked my way through the fried chicken, potato salad, coleslaw, baked beans, and cake. The food, of course, was wonderful, and I ate with my usual speed and enthusiasm. At 8:35, just as I was formulating a plausible lie, Mattie folded her napkin and laid it on the table beside her plate.
“Well, I should be on my way. I have some phone calls to make as soon as I get back to the hotel.”
“You’re leaving?” I said, trying to cover my disappointment.
“She’s had a long day,” Henry said, getting up to remove her plate. He took it to the sink, where he rinsed it and set it in the dishwasher, talking to her all the while. “I can wrap up some chicken in case you want some later.”
“Don’t tempt me. I’m full but not stuffed, which is just the way I like it. This was wonderful, Henry. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate the effort that went into this meal.”
“Happy you enjoyed it. I’ll get your wrap from the other room.” He dried his hands on a kitchen towel and moved off toward the bedroom.
William folded his napkin and scraped back his chair. “I should probably run along as well. Doctor urged me to adhere to my regimen—eight full hours of sleep. I may engage in some light calisthenics before bed to aid the digestive process. Nothing strenuous, of course.”
I turned to Mattie. “You have plans for tomorrow?”
“Unfortunately, I’m taking off first thing in the morning, but I’ll be back in a few days.”
Henry returned with a soft paisley shawl that he laid across her shoulders. She patted his hand with affection and picked up a large leather bag that she’d set beside her chair. “I hope to see you again soon,” she said to me.
“I hope so, too.”
Henry touched her elbow. “I’ll walk you out.”
William straightened his vest. “No need. I’ll be happy to see her off.” He offered Mattie his arm, and she tucked her hand through the crook with a brief backward look at Henry as the two went out the door.
3
Saturday morning, I slept in until 8:00, showered, dressed, made a pot of coffee, and sat at my kitchen counter, where I ate my ritual bowl of cereal. Having washed both bowl and spoon, I returned to my stool and surveyed the place. I’m inordinately tidy and I’d just done a thorough housecleaning earlier in the week. My social calendar was unblemished and I knew I’d spend Saturday and Sunday alone as I did most weekends. Usually this doesn’t bother me, but today I felt an unsettling sensation. I was bored. I was so desperate for something to do, I thought about returning to the office to set up the files for another case I’d taken on. Unfortunately, my office bungalow is depressing and I wasn’t motivated to spend another minute at my desk. Which left me to do what? Damned if I knew. In a moment of panic, I realized I didn’t even have a book to read. I was on the verge of leaving for the bookstore to stock up on paperbacks when my telephone rang.
“Hi, Kinsey. This is Vera. I’m glad I caught you. You have a minute?”
“Of course. I was on my way out, but it’s nothing pressing,” I said. Vera Lipton had been a colleague of mine at California Fidelity Insurance, where I spent six years investigating arson and wrongful-death claims. She was the claims manager while I worked as an independent contractor. She had since left the business, married a doctor, and settled into life as a full-time mom. I’d seen her briefly in April with her husband, a physician named Neil Hess. Also in tow was a rowdy golden retriever pup, and her eighteen-month-old son, whose name I forgot to ask. She was massively pregnant and due to
deliver her second child within days, judging by her belly. I said, “Tell me about the baby. You looked ready to drop one the day I saw you at the beach.”
“No kidding. I was sway-backed as a mule. I had shooting pains in both legs, and the baby’s head pressing on my bladder made me dribble in my pants. I went into labor that night and Meg was born the next afternoon. Listen, the reason I called, we’d love to have you over. We never see you these days.”
“Sounds good to me. Give me a toot and we’ll set something up.”
There was a pause. “That’s what I’m doing. I just invited you to come over and have a drink with us. We’re putting some people together for a barbecue this afternoon.”
“Really? What time?”
“Four o’clock. I know it’s short notice, but I’m hoping you’re free.”
“As it happens, I am. What’s the occasion?”
Vera laughed. “No occasion. I just thought it’d be nice. We’ve invited a few neighbors. Strictly casual and low-key. If you have a pencil handy, I’ll give you the address. Why don’t you plan to be here a little early and we can catch up.”
I took down the information, not at all convinced. Why would she call like this out of the blue? “Vera, are you sure you’re not up to something? I don’t mean to sound rude, but we chatted for five minutes in April. Before that, there was a gap of four years. Don’t get me wrong. I’d be happy to see you, but it does seem odd.”
“Mmm.”
I said, “What,” not even bothering to make a question of the word.
“Okay, I’ll level with you, but you have to promise you won’t scream.”
“I’m listening, but this is making my stomach hurt.”
“Neil’s younger brother, Owen, is in town for the weekend. We thought you should meet him.”
“What for?”
“Kinsey, occasionally men and women are introduced to each other, or haven’t you heard?”
“Like a blind date?”
“It’s not a blind date. It’s drinks and a few snacks. There’ll be tons of other people so it’s not like you’ll be stuck with him one-on-one. We’ll sit on the back deck. Cheez Whiz and crackers. If you like him, that’s swell. If you don’t, no big deal.”
Sue Grafton Page 41
