"Oh, hi. This is Kinsey Millhone. May I speak to Rhe Parsons?"
"You're doing it. Who's this?"
"Kinsey Millhone. I left a message –"
"Oh, right, right," she cut in. "About Isabelle. I don't understand what you want."
"Look, I know you talked to Morley Shine a couple of months ago."
"Who?"
"The investigator who was handling this. Unfortunately, he had a heart at –"
"I never talked to anyone about Isabelle."
"You didn't talk to Morley? He was working for an attorney in the lawsuit filed by Kenneth Voigt."
"I don't know about any of this stuff."
"Sorry. Maybe I was misinformed. Why don't I tell you what's going on," I said. I went through a brief explanation of the lawsuit and the job I'd been hired to do. "I promise I won't take any more of your time than I have to, but I would like to have a quick chat."
"I'm swamped. You couldn't have called at a worse time," she said. "I'm a sculptor with a show coming up in two days. Every minute I've got is devoted to that."
"What about coffee or a glass of wine later this afternoon? It doesn't have to be nine to five. I can come at your convenience."
"But it has to be today, right? Can't it wait a week?"
"We have a court date coming up." We're all busy, I thought.
"Look, I don't mean to sound bitchy, but she's been gone for six years. Whatever happens to David Barney, it won't bring her back to life. So what's the point, you know?"
I said, "There's no point to anything if you get right down to it. We could all blow our brains out, but we don't. Sure, she's gone, but her death doesn't have to be senseless."
There was a silence. I knew she didn't want to do it and I hated to press, but this was serious.
She shifted her position, still annoyed, but willing to bend a bit. "Jesus. I teach drawing at Adult Ed from seven to ten o'clock tonight. If you stop by, we can talk while the students work. That's the best I can do."
"Great. That's perfect. I appreciate your help."
She gave me directions. "Room ten, at the back."
"I'll see you there."
I arrived home at 5:35 and saw that Henry's kitchen light was on. I walked from my back door to his, peering in through the screen. He was sitting in his rocker with his daily glass of Jack Daniel's, reading the paper while his supper cooked. Through the screen, I was assailed by the heady scent of frying onions and sausage. Henry set his paper aside. "Come on in."
I opened the screen door and stepped into the kitchen. A big pot of water was just coming to a boil and I could see tomato sauce simmering on the back burner. "Hi, babe, how are you? Whatever you're cooking, it smells divine."
He'd be handsome at any age, but at eighty-three he was elegant – tall, lean, with snowy white hair and blue eyes that seemed to burn in his tanned face. "I'm putting together a lasagna for later. William gets in tonight." Henry's older brother William, who was eighty-five to his eighty-three, had suffered a heart attack in August and hadn't been doing well since. Henry had debated a trip back to Michigan to see him, but had decided to postpone the visit until William's health improved. Apparently he was better because Henry'd received a call to say he was coming here.
"That's right. I forgot. Well, that should be an adventure. How long will he stay?"
"I agreed to two weeks, longer if I can stand him. It'll be a pain in the ass. Physically, he's recovered, but he's been depressed for months. Really down in the dumps. Lewis says he's totally self-obsessed. I'm sure Lewis is sending him out here to get even with me."
"What did you do to him?"
"Oh, who knows? He won't say. You know how parental Lewis gets. He likes to have me think about my sins in case there's one I haven't told him about. I stole a girl from him once back in 1926. I think this is to retaliate for her, but maybe not. He's got a long memory and not a shred of beneficence." Henry's brother Lewis was eighty-six. His brother Charlie was ninety-one, and his only sister would be ninety-four on the thirty-first of December. "Actually, I'll bet it wasn't his idea at all. Nell's probably throwing William out. She never liked him that much and now she says all he does is talk about death. She doesn't want to hear it with a birthday coming up. Says it's bumming her out."
"What time's his plane get in?"
"Eight-fifteen, if it doesn't crash, of course. I thought I'd bring him back here for salad and lasagna, maybe go up to Rosie's for a beer after that. You want to join us for supper? I made a cherry pie for dessert. Well, actually, I made six. The other five go to Rosie to pay off my bar tab." Rosie's is the local tavern, run by a Hungarian woman with an unpronounceable last name. Since Henry's retirement from commercial baking, he's begun to barter his wares. He also caters tea parties in the neighborhood, where he's much in demand.
"Can't do it," I said. "I've got an appointment at seven and it may run late. I thought I'd grab a quick bite up at Rosie's before I head out."
"Maybe you can catch us tomorrow. I don't know how we'll spend the day. Depressed people never do much. I'll probably sit around and watch him take his Elavil."
The building that houses Rosie's looks as if it might once have been a grocer's. The exterior is plain and narrow, the plate-glass windows obscured by peeling beer ads and buzzing neon signs. The tavern is sandwiched between an appliance repair shop and an ill-lighted Laundromat whose patrons wander into Rosie's to wait out their washing cycles, chugging beer and smoking cigarettes. The floors are wooden. The walls are plywood, stained a dark mahogany. The booths that line the perimeter are crudely built, destined to give you splinters if you slide too fast across the seat. There are eight to ten tables with black Formica tops, usually one leg out of four slightly shorter than the rest. Mealtime at Rosie's is often spent trying to right the wobble, with the endless intervention of stacked paper matchbooks and folded napkins. The lighting is the sort that makes you look like you've been abusing your Tan-in-a-Bottle.
Dinner was uneventful once I knuckled under and ordered what Rosie told me. She's a formidable presence: in her sixties, Hungarian, short, top-heavy, a merciless enforcer for the food Mafia. The special that night was called gulyashus, which had to translate to "beef stew."
"I was thinking of a salad. I need to clean up my act after too much junk food."
"Salad is for after. The gulyashus comes first. I make very authentic. You're gonna love it," she said. She was already penciling the order in the little notebook she'd begun to carry. I wondered if she kept a running account of all the meals I'd eaten there. I tried to peek at the page once and she rapped me with her pencil.
"Rosie, I don't even know what gulyashus is."
"Just hush and I'm telling you."
"Tell me then. I can't wait."
She had to get herself all settled for the recital, like a concert violinist with her feet placed properly. She makes a point of speaking lumpy English which she apparently thinks contributes to her authority. "In Hungarian, the word gulyas means 'herdsman.' Like a shepherd. This dish originate in ninth century. His very good. The shepherd cook up these cubes of meat with onion, very little moisture. No paprika then so I don't use myself. When all the liquid is boil out, the meat is dried in the sun and then stored in this bag made of the sheep's... how you say..."
"Balls?"
"Estomach"
"Previously digested. Very tasty. I'll take it. I don't want to hear the rest."
"Good choice," she said complacently.
The dish she brought was actually what my aunt used to call "galoshes," cubes of beef simmered with onion and thickened with sour cream. It really was wonderful and the tart salad afterward was the perfect contrast. Rosie allowed me to have a glass of mediocre red wine, some rolls and butter, and a cheese tray for dessert. The dinner cost only nine dollars so I couldn't complain. Dimly I wondered if, for total obedience, I'd sold out too cheap.
While I drank my coffee, she stood by my table and complained. Her busboy, Miguel, a sull
en lad of forty-five, was threatening to quit if she didn't give him a raise. "Is ridiculous. Why should he get more? Just because he learned to wash a dish like I teach him? He should pay me."
"Rosie!" I said. "The man started washing dishes when Ralph quit six months ago. Now he's doing two jobs and he ought to be paid. Besides, it's nearly Christmas."
"Is easy work," she remarked, undismayed by the notions of fair play, justice, or seasonal generosity.
"It's been two years since his last raise. He told me that himself."
"You taking his side, I see."
"Well, of course I am. He's been a good employee. Without him, you'd be lost."
Her look was stubborn. "I don't like men who pout."
The Adult Education facility where Rhe Parsons was teaching was located on Bay Street, on the far side of the freeway about two blocks from St. Terry's Hospital. Once an elementary school, the complex consisted of some offices, a small auditorium, and countless portable classrooms. Room ten was at the rear of the parking lot, an oversize art studio with a door on either end. Light poured out onto the walkway. I have a natural aversion to educational institutions, but drawing seemed benign – unlike math or chemistry. I peered in.
The interior was unfurnished except for easels and a few straight-backed wooden chairs. In the center of the room there was a low platform where a woman in a bathrobe, presumably the model, was perched on a tall wooden stool, reading a magazine. Students milled about, their ages ranging from late thirties into the seventies. In Santa Teresa, most adult education courses are offered free of charge. In a lab class like this there might be a two-dollar fee for materials, but most enrollment is open and costs the students nothing. I stood in the back of the studio. Behind me, cars were still pulling into the parking lot. It was 6:52 and people were still arriving, chatting as they entered the classroom. I watched as several women dragged additional easels from a small supply room. A coffee urn had been set up and I could see a big pink bakery box, probably filled with cookies to have with coffee during the break. A tape of Kitaro's Silk Road was playing, the sound low, infiltrating the room with a seductive tone. I could smell oil paint and chalk dust and the first bubbling evidence of strong coffee perking.
I spotted the woman I assumed to be Rhe Parsons emerging from a small supply closet with a roll of newsprint and a box of pencils; jeans, a denim work shirt with the sleeves rolled up, a pack of cigarettes visible in her left breast pocket. No makeup, no bra. She wore heavy leather sandals and a hand-tooled leather belt. Her hair was dark, pulled back in a French braid that extended halfway down her back. I placed her in her late thirties and wondered if she'd been at Woodstock once upon a time. I'd seen clips of the concert and I could picture her cavorting barefoot through the mud, stark naked, with a joint, her hair down to her waist and daisies painted on her cheek. Growing up had made her crabby, which happens to the best of us. She set the pencils on the counter and carried the newsprint to a big worktable where she began to cut off uniform sheets, using an industrial-size paper cutter. Several students without sketch pads formed a ragged line, waiting for her to finish. She must have sensed my scrutiny. She looked up, catching sight of me, and then went on about her business. I crossed the room and introduced myself. She couldn't have been more pleasant. Perhaps, like many habitually cranky people, her irritation passed in the moment, to be replaced by something sunnier.
"Sorry if I seemed short with you on the telephone. Let me get these guys going and we can talk out in the breezeway." She checked her watch, which she wore on the inner aspect of her wrist. It was seven straight up. She clapped her hands once. "Okay, people. Settle down. We're paying Linda by the hour. We're going to start with quick sketches, one minute each. This is to loosen up so don't worry about the small stuff. Think big. Fill the paper. I don't want any tight-ass tiny images. Betsy's going to be the timekeeper. When the bell rings, grab the next sheet of newsprint and start again. Any questions? Okay, then. Let's have some fun with this."
There was a bit of a scramble while the late students found empty easels. The model hopped off the stool, dropped her robe, and struck a pose, leaning forward with her hands on the wooden stool, a graceful curve to her back. It was comforting to see that she looked like an ordinary mortal – round and misproportioned, her torso softened by motherhood. The woman working next to me studied the model briefly and began to draw. Fascinated, I watched her capture the line of the model's shoulder, the arch of her spine. The quiet in the room was intense against the lyrical meandering of the music.
Rhe was watching me. Her eyes were a khaki green, her brows ragged. She moved toward the rear exit and I followed. The night air was fifteen degrees cooler than the room itself. She reached for a cigarette and lit it, leaning against one of the supports. "You ever draw? You seemed interested."
"Can you really teach people how to do that?"
"Of course. You want to learn?"
I laughed. "I don't know. It makes me nervous. I've never done anything remotely artistic."
"You ought to try it. I bet you'd like it. I teach the basics fall semester. This is life drawing, for people with a little drawing experience. Do what I tell you, you could pick it up in no time." Her gaze strayed out across the parking lot.
"Are you expecting someone?"
She looked back at me. "My daughter's stopping by. She wants to borrow my car. Hang around long enough and I may bum a ride home."
"Sure, I could do that."
She went back to the subject, maybe hoping to postpone any talk of Isabelle. "I've been drawing since I was twelve. I can remember when it happened. Sixth grade. We were out on a field trip in a little park with a pond. Everybody else drew the fountain with these flat stick people at the edge. I drew the spaces between the chicken wire in the fence. My drawing looked real. Everybody else's looked like sixth graders on a field trip. It was like an optical illusion... something shifted. I felt my brain do a sudden quickstep and it made me laugh. After that, I was like this art prodigy... the star of my class. I could draw anything."
"I envy you that. I always thought it'd be neat. Can I ask about Isabelle? You said your time was in short supply."
She looked away from me then, her voice dropping somewhat. "You might as well. Why not? I talked to Simone this afternoon and she filled me in."
"Sorry about the confusion over Morley Shine. According to the files, he'd already talked to you. I was just going to fill in the blanks."
She shrugged. "I never heard a word from him, which is just as well. I'd have really been annoyed if I had to have the same conversation twice. Anyway, what is it you want to know?"
"How'd you meet?"
"Out at UCST. We took a printmaking class. I was eighteen, unmarried, with a kid on my hands. Tippy was two. I knew who the father was. He's always pitched in with her and helped me out with the money, but he's not the kind of guy I'd ever marry...."
I pictured a dope dealer with his nose pierced, a tiny ruby sitting on his nostril like a semiprecious booger, long, unwashed hair tumbling halfway down his back.
"... Isabelle had just turned nineteen and she was engaged to the guy who was later killed in a boat. We were both way too young for the shit that was coming down, but it bonded us like cement. We were friends for fourteen years. I really miss her."
"Are you close to Simone?"
"In some ways I am, but it's not like Isabelle. For sisters, they were very different... remarkably so. Iz was special. She really was. Very gifted." She paused to take the last drag from her cigarette, which she flipped into the parking lot. "Tip adored Isabelle, who was like a second mother to her. She told Iz the secrets she didn't have the nerve to tell me. Which is just as well, in my opinion. There are things I'm not sure any mother needs to know about her kid." She interrupted herself by holding an index finger up. "Let me take a break here and see how the class is doing."
She moved to the doorway and looked in on the class. I saw one of the students, a man in his sixti
es, turn a befuddled face toward her. He put a tentative hand up. "Hang on a sec," she said, "I better earn my paycheck."
The man who'd summoned her launched into a long-winded question. Rhe used hand gestures as she made her response, almost like American Sign Language for the deaf. Whatever her point, he didn't seem to get it at first. The model had changed her pose and was perched again on the stool, one bare foot resting on the second rung. I could see the angle of her hip and the line where her buttock was flattened out by the wood. Rhe had moved on. I waited while she completed the circuit, making her way from one easel to the next.
I heard footsteps behind me and I turned, glancing back. A young woman was approaching in tight jeans and high-heeled cowboy boots. She wore a Western-cut shirt and a big leather bag slung across her shoulder like a mail pouch. Her face was a clumsier version of Rhe's, though I suspected the maturation process would refine her features somewhat. At the moment, she looked like a rough pencil sketch for a portrait in oil. Her face was wide, her cheeks still rounded with the last vestiges of baby fat, but she had the same green eyes, the same long, dark hair pulled up in a braid. I placed her in her late teens or very early twenties. Bright-looking, good energy. She flashed me a smile.
"Is my mother in there?"
"She'll be out in a minute. Are you Tippy?"
"Yes," she said, surprised. "Do I know you?"
"I was just talking to your mom and she said you'd be stopping by. My name is Kinsey."
"You teach here, too?"
I shook my head. "I'm a private investigator."
She half smiled, getting ready for the punch line. "For real?"
"Yep."
"Cool. Investigating what?"
"I'm working for an attorney on a case going into court."
Her smile faded. "Is this about my aunt Isabelle?"
"Yes."
"I thought that already went to court and the guy got away with it."