It took me two trips to unload the rental car, passing in and out of Henry’s squeaking gate. I made a pile on the small covered porch, unlocked the front door, left the typewriter by the desk, went back for my duffel, and hauled it up the spiral stairs. I stripped off my clothes, removed the bandages from my hand, and treated myself to a long hot shower wherein I washed my hair, did a left-handed leg shave, and sang a medley of show tunes with half the lyrics consisting of dahdah-dab. The luxury of being clean and warm was almost more than I could bear. I skipped my flossing for once, did a left-handed toothbrushing, and annointed myself with an inexpensive drugstore cologne that smelled like lilies of the valley. I put on a fresh turtleneck, a fresh pair of jeans, clean socks, Reeboks, and a touch of lipstick. I checked my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Nah, that looked dumb. I rubbed off the lipstick on a piece of toilet paper and pronounced myself whole. After that, all I had to do was spend approximately twenty minutes trying to get my fingers splinted and retaped. This was going to be obnoxious.
I ducked out my door and splashed across the patio in the rain. Henry’s garden was just coming to life again. The weather in Santa Teresa is moderate all year long, but we do enjoy a nearly indiscernible spring in which green shoots nudge through the hard ground as they do every place else. Henry had begun to clear the flower beds where his annuals and a few tomato plants would eventually go. I could smell the wet walkways, bark mulch, and the few narcissus that must have opened in the rain. It was quarter to five and the day was gloomy with approaching twilight, the light a mild gray from the rain clouds overhead.
I peered through the window in Henry’s back door while I rapped on the glass. Lights were on and there was evidence he was in the midst of a cooking project. For many years, Henry Pitts earned his living as a commercial baker and now that he’s retired, he still loves to cook. He’s lean-faced, tanned, and long-legged, a gent with snowy white hair, blue eyes, a beaky nose, and all of his own teeth. At eighty-six, he’s blessed with intelligence, high spirits, and prodigious energy. He came into the kitchen from the hallway carrying a stack of the small white terrycloth towels he uses when he cooks. He usually has one tucked in his belt, another resting on his shoulder, and a third that occasionally serves as an oven mitt. He was wearing a navy T-shirt and white shorts, covered by a big baker’s apron that extended past his knees. He set the towels on the counter and hurried to unlock the door, his face wreathed in smiles.
“Well, Kinsey. I didn’t expect you back today. Come on in. What happened to your hand?”
“Long story. In a minute, I’ll give you the abbreviated version.”
He stepped aside and I entered, giving him a hug as I passed. On the counter I could see a tall Mason jar of flour, a shorter jar of sugar, two sticks of butter, a tin of baking powder, a carton of eggs, and a bowl of Granny Smith apples; pie tin, rolling pin, grater.
“Something smells wonderful. What’s cooking?”
Henry smiled. “A surprise for Rosie’s birthday. I’ve got a noodle pudding in the oven. This is a Hungarian dish I hope you won’t ask me to pronounce. I’m also making her a Hungarian apple pie.”
“Which birthday?”
“She won’t say. Last I heard, she was claiming sixty-six, but I think she’s been shaving points for years. She has to be seventy. You’ll be joining us, I hope.”
“I wouldn’t miss it,” I said. “I’ll have to sneak out and find a gift. What time?”
“I’m not going over ’til six. Sit, sit, sit and I’ll fix a pot of tea.”
He settled me in his rocking chair and put the kettle on for tea while we filled each other in on events during the weeks I’d been gone. In no particular order, we went through the usual exchange of information: the trip, Dietz’s surgery, news from the home front. I laid out the job as succinctly as I could, including the nature of the investigation, the players, and the attack the night before, a process that allowed me to listen to myself. “I have a couple of leads to check. Apparently, Tom was in touch with a local sheriff’s investigator, though, at this point, I’m not sure if the contact was personal or professional. The way I heard it, they had their heads bent together and the woman’s manner was noticeably flirtatious. Strictly rumor, of course, but it’s worth looking into.”
“And if that doesn’t pan out?”
“Then I’m stumped.”
While I finished my tea, Henry put together the pie crust and began to peel and grate apples for the filling. I washed my cup and saucer and set them in his dish rack. “I better whiz out and find a present. Are you dressing for the party?”
“I’m wearing long pants,” he said. “I may rustle up a sports coat. You look fine as you are.”
As it turned out, Rosie’s entire restaurant had been given over to her birthday party. This tacky neighborhood tavern has always been my favorite. In the olden days (five years ago), it was often empty except for a couple of local drunks who showed up daily when it opened and generally had to be carried home. In the past few years, for reasons unknown, the place has become a hangout for various sports teams whose trophies now grace every available surface. Rosie, never famous for her good humor, has nonetheless tolerated this band of testosterone-intoxicated rowdies with unusual restraint. That night, the ruffians were out in full force and in the spirit of the occasion had decorated the restaurant with crepe paper streamers, helium balloons, and hand-lettered banners that read WAY TO GO ROSIE! There was a huge bouquet of flowers, a keg of bad beer, a stack of pizza boxes, and an enormous birthday cake. Cigarette smoke filled the air, lending the room the soft, hazy glow of an old tintype. The sportsers had seeded the jukebox with high-decibel hits from the 1960s and they’d pushed all the tables back so they could do the twist and the Watusi. Rosie looked on with an indulgent smile. Someone had given her a coneshaped hat covered with glitter, a strand of elastic under her chin, and a feather sticking out the top. She wore the usual muumuu, this one hot pink with a three-inch ruffle around the low-cut neck. William looked dapper in a dark three-piece suit, white dress shirt, and a navy tie with red polka dots, but there was no sign of anyone else from the neighborhood. Henry and I sat to one side he in jeans and a denim sports coat, I in jeans and my good tweed blazer-like spectators at a dance contest. I’d spent the better part of an hour at a department store downtown, finally selecting a red silk chemise I thought would tickle her fancy.
We ducked out at ten and scurried home through the rain.
I locked the door behind me and moved through the apartment, marveling at the whole of it: the porthole window in the front door, walls of polished teak and oak, cubbyholes of storage tucked into all the nooks and crannies. I had a sofa bed built into the bay window for guests, two canvas director’s chairs, bookshelves, my desk. Up the spiral stairs, in addition to the closet built into one wall, I had pegs for hanging clothes, a double-bed mattress laid on a platform with drawers built into it, and a second bathroom with a sunken tub and a window looking out toward the ocean. I felt as if I were living on a houseboat, adrift on some river, snug and efficient, warm, blessed with light. I was so thrilled to be home I could hardly bear to go to bed. I crawled, naked, under a pile of quilts and listened to the rain tapping on the Plexiglas skylight. I felt absurdly possessive-my pillow, my blanket, my secret hideaway, my home.
The next thing I knew, it was Six A.M. I hadn’t set my alarm, but I woke automatically, reverting to habit. I tuned into the sound of rain, bypassed the thought of jogging, and went back to sleep again. I roused myself at eight and went through my usual morning ablutions. I had breakfast, read the paper, and then set the typewriter case on the desk top. I paused, making a quick trip upstairs where I retrieved my notes from the duffel. My first chore of the morning would be to return the rental car. That done, I’d take a cab to the office, where I’d put in an appearance and catch up with the latest lawyerly gossip. I still hadn’t decided whether to work from the office or home. I’d either stay where I was or bum a ride home from someone at Kingman and Ives.