W Is for Wasted Page 4

  More to the point here: no Pearl, no Dandy, no Felix, and I’d gone as far as I could go. The dead man was dead. If he’d needed my help, it was already too late to be of service. First thing in the morning I’d call Aaron Blumberg and pass along what I’d learned. Armed with a first name and a description of the deceased, he might track down a doctor who could fill in the blanks. “A bum named Terrence with a bad limp” was hardly definitive, but it was a step in the right direction. Meanwhile, my participation was at an end.

  3

  Monday, I tried three times with no luck to reach Aaron Blumberg at the coroner’s office. I left messages, asking him to call me when he had a minute. I could have taken the opportunity to detail the scanty facts I’d picked up, but I was hoping for a pat on the head for my resourcefulness. I spent most of the day puttering around the office, feeling distracted and oddly out of sorts. I left early, arriving home at 4:15 instead of the usual 5:00 P.M. I passed Rosie’s twice in my search for a parking place and noted the building was now draped in enormous rectangular tarpaulins that were clipped together along the edges. The red, white, and turquoise stripes gave the place the look of a circus big top. I parked the car around the corner on Bay in the only semi-legal spot I could find.

  When I reached the backyard, Henry was hard at work in shorts, a T-shirt, and bare feet, his flip-flops tossed aside on the flagstone walk. His face was smudged with dirt, his white hair dampened by sweat, and his shins flecked with mud. His nose and cheeks were rosy from the autumn sunshine. He’d apparently spent the past couple of hours aerating the lawn in preparation for overseeding the grass. Some sections he’d attacked with a rototiller, then leveled the ground with a weighted roller he’d rented for the occasion. A scoop of fine lawn mulch had been piled to one side with a shovel resting against the wall.

  He’d recently acquired a cypress potting bench that was now attached to the garage. The unit boasted a zinc top and two drawers where he kept his gardening gloves and the smaller of his gardening tools. On the shelf below he’d placed his galvanized watering cans and a big bag of sphagnum moss. The adjacent wall was designated for the larger tools—his wood-handled garden forks, trowels, cultivators, and graduating sizes of pruning shears. Painted outlines assured that each piece would be returned to its proper place.

  Along with his other fall projects, he was transplanting three dozen marigolds from the original plastic commercial nursery containers to terra-cotta pots. He’d already lined my modest porchlet with half a dozen of these rust-and-gold arrangements, which I thought quite festive.

  “You’ve been busy,” I remarked.

  “Getting the jump on winter. Another couple of weeks we’ll lose daylight savings time and it’ll be close to dark by this hour. How about you? What are you up to?”

  “Nothing much. I was asked to ID a guy at the morgue, but I’d never seen him before.”

  “Why you?”

  “He had my name and number on a slip of paper in his pocket. Blumberg, the coroner’s investigator, assumed we were acquainted.”

  “What was that about?”

  “Who knows? He was a homeless fellow, found dead in his sleeping bag on the beach. This was Friday morning. I’ve been trying to get a line on him but haven’t picked up much. Business is down so at least it gives me something to do. You need help?”

  “I’m just about done with this phase, but I’d love the company. I haven’t seen you since, what, Thursday?”

  “Yep. After Rosie and William left,” I said. I set my shoulder bag on the porch and I settled on the step where he’d laid his three-ring binder for ready reference. While Henry returned two pieces of lawn equipment to the garage, I spread the binder open on my lap and studied the list of items he’d checked off. He’d emptied, scoured, and refilled the bird feeders; harvested the last of the summer herbs for drying; pulled faded annuals from flower beds; and transplanted his perennials. He’d also scrubbed and hosed off the outdoor furniture, which was currently air-drying before he stacked it in the storage shed until spring.

  When he reappeared, he detached a sprinkler head from the hose and began to round up the length of it in a neat coil.

  “What’s next?” he asked.

  I put a tick mark by the job he’d just completed. “Once you finish the lawn, all you have left is to air the wool blankets and comforters before you remake the beds. How’s Nell?”

  “She’s doing well, but William’s turned into a royal pain in the butt, and I mean, literally. She’d been home from rehab less than an hour before he started complaining his sciatica was acting up.”

  “He has a problem with sciatica? Since when?”

  Henry waved off the idea. “You know him—highly suggestible and just a tiny bit competitive. I talked to him Friday and heard the whole tale, symptom by symptom. He said it was fortunate he’d taken his cane along though it was barely adequate given the extent of his disability. He’s had to borrow Nell’s walker so he can hobble from place to place. He thought Rosie should rush him to the nearest emergency room, but she was busy fixing dinner, so she made Charlie take him instead. The good news—or the bad, depending on your point of view—is the doctor suggested an MRI and William’s decided to have it done here. He says he’s in dire need of a nerve specialist and asked me to set up an appointment.”

  I said, “Wow. He’s not due back until the end of the week. I’m surprised he’d put up with the delay.”

  “Well, here’s how it went. I started calling around, assuming it would be weeks before a slot opened up, but Dr. Metzger had a cancellation for tomorrow morning at nine. William’s booked the first flight home.”

  “What about Rosie?”

  “She’ll stay until the end of the week as planned. I’m sure she’s happy to have him off her hands, and I gather the other sibs are equally relieved. They plan to teach Rosie to play bridge, which William never got the hang of anyway. He gets in at five, which means once I pick him up at the airport, I’ll be at his beck and call. He claims he can barely bend over to tie his shoes.”

  “Five o’clock? Great. As in thirty minutes from now?”

  He straightened up. “What time is it? It can’t be that late.”

  “Four thirty-five by my watch.”

  Henry said a word that was so out of character, I had to laugh.

  “I can pick him up,” I said, getting to my feet. “It’ll give you a chance to finish your chores and take a quick shower.”

  “I hate to ask you to do that in the thick of rush-hour traffic. I’ll go as I am. I don’t smell that bad.” He gave his T-shirt a whiff and made a show of crossing his eyes while he held his nose.

  “The airport’s a twenty-minute drive. It’s no big deal. You can pour me a glass of Chardonnay as soon as I get home.”

  “I’ll do better than that. I’ll buy you both supper at Emile’s-at-the Beach, assuming William can sit that long.”

  “You got a deal.”

  • • •

  Construction of the Santa Teresa Municipal Airport was begun in the early 1940s and the terminal opened for business with six gates that served two national airlines and three puddle jumpers. The pint-size structure was done in the usual Spanish style—a stucco exterior, a red tile roof, and a blaze of magenta bougainvillea artfully draped across the entranceway. Boarding and deplaning were accomplished on foot by way of a rolling set of stairs. Baggage claim was located outside the building in what looked like an extensive temporary carport.

  I pulled into the parking lot at 4:59 P.M. just as a United flight was trundling along the runway toward Gate 4. It was a small commuter craft, one of the no-frills short hops where the best one could hope for in the way of food-and-beverage service is a box containing two small pieces of Chiclets chewing gum. The flight attendant would offer the gum in a wicker basket and you were welcome to help yourself as long as you took only one. I was in no particular rush, thinking William would be last off the plane, hampered by his painful, possibly life-threa
tening condition.

  I passed through the ticketing area and out the French doors into the small grassy courtyard. I took my place near the chest-high stucco wall and watched through the length of window glass along the top as a uniformed gate agent pushed a wheelchair toward the prop jet. The engines shut down. Stairs were rolled into place. After a brief delay, the door was wrenched open, and William appeared, his cane hooked over his arm. The natural eddies of air along the runway ruffled his white hair and tugged at his suit coat. A stewardess followed in his wake, supporting him gently by the elbow as he came down the stairs. He didn’t actually smack her hand, but he was visibly offended by the gesture, and he jerked his arm free. He was properly attired for travel in the same dark three-piece suit he wore for funerals and visitations. He took his time, descending the portable stairs like a toddler, first one foot down and joined by the other before he undertook the next. The remaining passengers crowded against the doorway, trying to determine what the traffic jam was about. William was not to be hurried. He was an elegant gentleman, with the same lean frame Henry had been graced with. When he reached the tarmac, he turned and waited at the foot of the stairs, leaning on his cane while the other passengers pushed past him, giving him cross looks.

  The pilot appeared next, carrying a bulky red canvas duffel bag with a mesh panel on each end. Behind the pilot, the copilot, or possibly the flight engineer, stepped out of the plane toting William’s black rolling suitcase. Somehow he’d not only claimed the right to deplane first, but he’d enlisted the assistance of the entire crew. They’d probably jumped at the chance to be shed of him. Whatever the motivation, William seemed to take the personal ministrations for granted.

  As far as I could tell, he was fine—ambulatory at any rate. He had the pilot place the canvas duffel in the wheelchair, which he manned himself, pushing it toward the terminal. When he caught sight of me, he winced and placed a hand at the small of his back as though stricken with sharp pain. The copilot/flight engineer extended the handle on William’s suitcase and tagged after him dutifully, pulling it along behind. As William and his merry band approached the terminal, I moved out to meet them and took over responsibility for the suitcase, murmuring my thanks to the crew.

  William paused and leaned his weight on the handles of the wheelchair. “Let me catch my breath,” he said. “It’s been a rough trip. Three stops and just as many changes of aircraft.”

  I suspected he was hoping to generate a touch of sympathy, which I offered obligingly before he could up the ante. “You must be exhausted,” I said.

  “Not to worry. I just need a moment.”

  “Why don’t you take advantage of the wheelchair and let me push you? It’ll save you a few steps.”

  “No, no. I like to do for myself . . . while I’m able,” he added. “You might bring the car around. I doubt I can make it as far as the parking lot. I’ll rest on one of the benches out front.”

  “What about checked bags?”

  “This is it.”

  I decided I might as well take the duffel as long as I was heading for the car. I could put it in the trunk and then swing around and pick him up. I grabbed the satchel by the handle and lifted it from the seat of the wheelchair. It was heavier than I’d anticipated and the contents shifted as though he’d packed a bowling ball without securing it properly. I said, “Whoa! What have you got in here?”

  I set it down and leaned over so I could peer through the mesh. A hissing white cat, topped with patches of caramel and black, put its ears back and spat. I jerked away, my heart hammering. This cat was the equivalent of the one in horror movies, jumping out when you’re expecting the guy with the bloody butcher knife. “Where did that come from?” I asked, patting my chest.

  “I brought the cat,” he said complacently. “I couldn’t bear to leave it behind. Lewis was going to take it to the pound.”

  “I’m not surprised. Talk about a cranky beast.”

  “Not as cranky as it would have been if I hadn’t prevailed. I wanted to have the cat with me in the cabin, but the ticket agent refused. I knew there’d be room under the seat in front of me, but she said it was the cargo hold or nothing. Her supervisor was just as argumentative until I mentioned my attorney.”

  “Why do you have a cat at all?”

  “This is the stray Charlie took in months ago. Lewis has been opposed all along, which just goes to show what a heartless fellow he is.”

  I said, “Ah. This is the cat Nell toppled over when she broke her hip.”

  “Well, yes, but it wasn’t the cat’s fault. Even Nell admitted she should have watched where she was stepping.”

  William scratched affectionately on the top of the canvas duffel, which caused the cat to rocket around the interior and then ricochet from end to end. “Very playful,” he remarked.

  The cat began to claw at the side of the carrier so vigorously, the zipper inched down a hair. I’d have tugged it back into place but I didn’t dare put my hand anywhere near the carrier. I didn’t think the cat could reach me with its claws, but I wasn’t sure the cat knew that.

  I returned the carrier to the wheelchair and pushed it as far as the entrance. In no way was I going to tote the cat through the parking lot to the car. I left William on a bench outside, the duffel at his feet, while I retrieved the Mustang, paid the parking fee, and brought it around to the front. William leaned over and said something to the cat, then jumped back as I had. He was apparently so caught up in the cat’s playful antics that he’d forgotten about his infirmity. I put his rolling bag in the trunk and wedged the cat carrier into the space behind the driver’s seat while William took his place in the front, wincing in pain.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. Don’t mind me.”

  I put the car in gear and eased away from the curb. I hadn’t driven ten feet before the cat let out a long continuous howl, its tone moving up and down the scale as though yodeling. “Does it always do that?”

  “Oh no. Just in the car on the way to the airport and all three flights. Airline passengers can be very unpleasant when things don’t go their way. The woman in front of me had a horrid little girl who screamed and cried the whole time, but did anyone complain about that? No, sir.”

  “Is it male or female?”

  “I’m not sure. I think you’re supposed to peek at something underneath, but the cat doesn’t care for the idea. Charlie would know. He took it to the vet.”

  “Does it have a name? Joe? Sally? That might be a clue.”

  “We referred to the cat as ‘the cat.’ I’m sure Nell or Charlie would have come up with a name, but Lewis kept threatening to toss it out and neither of them wanted to get attached. If you think about it, I saved its life, a selfless act on my part.”

  “Good for you,” I said. “I must say I’m surprised Rosie agreed to go along with the plan. Where are you going to keep it?”

  William and Rosie occupied a two-bedroom apartment above the tavern. I’d never actually seen the place, but Henry assures me the rooms are small and dark and crowded with oversize furniture.

  William said, “Oh, it’s not for me. I thought Henry would enjoy the companionship.”

  “Does Henry know about this?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Oh, boy.”

  “You think that’s a problem?”

  “Far be it from me to say.”

  We drove for a while in silence except for the cat, which was now growling and making relentless work of canvas scratching in between thumps and flinging itself from side to side. I was trying to visualize Henry’s reaction, which I knew would be genuine and heartfelt and probably high pitched. I’ve never lived with a cat myself, but I’d always assumed there was paraphernalia involved. I looked over at William, saying, “What about a litter box? Isn’t that where cats do their business?”

  He blinked. “That’s not necessary, do you think? Nell let it out in the backyard.”

  “But we live on a busy stre
et. The cat will get hit by a car. Henry’s going to have enough adjustments to make without the cat doing caca on his couch.”

  “You may have a point. We better stop at the market. You can go in while I mind the cat.”

  I think it was occurring to William that his plan was ill advised because his back problem seemed to take a sudden turn for the worse. He emitted a short yelp and sucked air through his teeth.

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to drop you at the house and come back?” The minute I suggested it I knew William would be too smart to introduce the cat without someone else close at hand. Henry would tone down his response if I was present.

  “The pain comes and goes. Sometimes it’s no more than a mild tingling or dull ache. Sometimes a burning sensation. The urgent-care doctor said it could be due to a slipped disc or spinal stenosis. I’ll have to have tests.”

  “You poor thing,” I said. To William, a “test” was the prelude to a terminal diagnosis.

  I left the 101 at Capillo and took surface streets in a zigzag detour to the nearest market. I left the howling cat in the car while William limped to and fro in the parking lot, flicking pitiful looks in my direction.

  I went into the store and wandered up and down the aisle devoted to pets, throwing items in my cart. The litter box was an easy choice, but there were five or six kinds of litter, and I had no idea what cats preferred in the way of toilet soil. I finally picked the one with the four cute kittens on the package. I threw in a bag of dry food with only the briefest of debates about chicken versus tuna flavors. Then I bought ten small cans of wet food, choosing items I thought I’d like if I were in the cat’s place, only not as hostile. I nearly stopped at the pay phone to call Henry, but he’d probably assume I was playing a practical joke.