R Is for Ricochet Read online

"Who's this 'they' you're referring to?"

  For the first time, he faltered. "I had a lady friend. Lucinda. We'd been keeping company for years. She'd seen me intercede in Reba's behalf on countless occasions. She persuaded me to put my foot down and that's what I did."

  "And now?"

  "Frankly, I was shocked when Reba was sentenced to four years in state prison. I had no idea the penalty would be so stiff. I thought the judge would suspend sentence or agree to probation, as the public defender suggested. At any rate, Lucinda and I quarreled, bitterly I might add. I broke off the relationship and severed my ties with her. She was much younger than I. In hindsight, I realized she was angling for herself, hoping for marriage. Reba disliked her intensely. Lucinda knew that, of course."

  "What happened to the money?"

  "Reba gambled it away. She's always been attracted to card play. Roulette, the slots. She loves to bet the ponies, but she has no head for it."

  "She's a problem gambler?"

  "Her problem isn't the gambling, it's the losing," he remarked, with only the weakest of smiles.

  "What about drugs and alcohol?"

  "I'd have to answer yes on both counts. She tends to be reckless. She has a wild streak like her mother. I'm hoping this experience in prison has taught her self-restraint. As for the job itself, we'll play that by ear. We're talking two to three days, a week at the most, until she's reestablished herself. Since your responsibilities are limited, I won't be requiring a written report. Submit an invoice and I'll pay your daily rate and all the necessary expenses."

  "That seems simple enough."

  "One other item. If there's any suggestion that she's backsliding, I want to be informed. Perhaps with sufficient warning, I can head off disaster this time around."

  "A tall order."

  "I'm aware of that."

  Briefly, I considered the proposition. Ordinarily I don't like serving as a babysitter and potential tattletale, but in this case, his concern didn't seem out of line. "What time will she be released?"

  2

  On my way back into town, I picked up my dry-cleaning and then cruised through a nearby supermarket, picking up odds and ends, which I intended to drop off at my place before I returned to work. I was hoping to touch base with my landlord before the arrival of his lady visitor later in the day. I was running the errands to provide myself with props to explain my unexpected midafternoon appearance. Henry and I confide in each other on many issues, but his love life isn't one. If I wanted information, I knew I'd do well to proceed with finesse.

  My studio apartment was originally the single-car garage attached to Henry's house by way of a now glass-enclosed breezeway. In 1980 he converted the space to the snug studio I've been renting ever since. What began as a basic square fifteen feet on a side is now a fully furnished "great room," which includes a living room, a bump-out galley-style kitchen, a laundry nook and bathroom, with a sleeping loft and a second bathroom up a set of spiral stairs. The space is compact and cleverly designed to exploit every usable inch. Given the pegs and cubbyholes, walls of polished teak and oak, and the occasional porthole window, the studio has the scale and feel of a ship's interior.

  I found a parking spot two doors away and hauled out my cleaning and the two grocery bags. My timing couldn't have been more perfect. As I pushed through my squeaky metal gate and followed the walkway around to the rear, Henry was just pulling into his two-car garage. He'd taken his bright yellow five-window Chevy coupe for its annual checkup and it was back now, the exterior polished to a fare-thee-well. The interior was probably not only spotless, but scented with faux pine. He bought the vehicle new in 1932 and he's taken such good care of it you'd swear it was still under warranty, assuming cars had warranties back then. He has a second vehicle, a station wagon he uses for routine errands and the occasional trip to the Los Angeles air- port, ninety-five miles south. The coupe he reserves for special occasions, today being one.

  I have trouble remembering that he's eighty-seven years old. I also have trouble describing him in terms that aren't embarrassingly laudatory given our fifty-year age difference. He's smart, sweet, sexy, trim, handsome, vigorous, and kind. In his working days, he made a living as a commercial baker, and though he's been retired now for twenty-five years, he still makes the best cinnamon rolls I've ever eaten. If I were forced to accord him a fault, I'd probably cite his caution when it comes to affairs of the heart. The only time I'd seen him smitten, he was not only deceived, but nearly taken for every cent he had. Since then, he's played his cards very close to his chest. Either he hadn't run into anyone of interest or he'd looked the other way. That is, until Mattie Halstead appeared.

  Mattie was the artist-in-residence on a Caribbean cruise he and his siblings had taken in April. Soon after the cruise ended, she'd stopped in to see him on her way to Los Angeles to deliver paintings to a gallery down there. A month later, he'd made an unprecedented trip to San Francisco, where he spent an evening with her. He'd kept mum on the subject of their relationship, but I noticed he'd spiffed up his wardrobe and started lifting weights. The Pitts family (at least on Henry's mother's side) is long-lived, and he and his siblings enjoy remarkably good health. William's a bit of a hypochondriac and Charlie's almost entirely deaf, but that aside, they give the appearance of going on forever. Lewis, Charlie, and Nell live in Michigan, but there are visits back and forth, some planned and some not. William and my friend Rosie, who owns the tavern half a block away, would be celebrating their second wedding anniversary on November 28. Now it looked like Henry might be entertaining similar thoughts... or such was my hope. Other people's romances are so much less hazardous than one's own. I was looking forward to all the pleasures of true love without suffering the peril.

  Henry paused when he caught sight of me, allowing me to fall into step with him as he proceeded to the house. I noticed his hair had been freshly trimmed, and he wore a blue denim work shirt with his crisply pressed chinos. He'd even traded in his usual flip-flops for a pair of deck shoes with dark socks.

  I said, "Hang on a second while I drop this stuff off."

  He waited while I unlocked my door and dumped my armload on the floor just inside. Nothing I'd bought would go funky in the next thirty minutes. Rejoining him, I said, "You had your hair trimmed. It looks great."

  He ran a self-conscious hand across his head. "I was passing the barbershop and realized I was long overdue. You think it's too short?"

  "Not at all. It shaves years off your age," I said, thinking Mattie would have to be an idiot if she didn't understand what a treasure he was. I held open the screen door while he pulled out his keys and unlocked his back door. I followed him inside, watching as he set his groceries on the kitchen counter.

  Nice that Mattie's coming down. I'll bet you're looking forward to seeing her."

  "It's only the one night."

  "What's the occasion?"

  "She did a painting on commission for a woman in La Jolla. She's delivering that one plus a couple more in case the woman doesn't care for the first."

  "Well, it's nice she can manage a visit. When's she getting in?"

  "She hoped to be here by four, depending on traffic. She said she'd check into the hotel and call once she's had a chance to freshen up. She agreed to supper here as long as I didn't go to any trouble. I said I'd keep it simple, but you know me."

  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 originall
y 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 him- self 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 t
erm 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?"