William arrived shortly after I did. He was still carrying his wooden cane with the curved handle, which he would occasionally swing in a half arc. He didn’t seem to need it to balance his weight, but it lent him the jaunty air of a man on the move. Judging from his three-piece suit and the shine on his wingtips, I was guessing he’d just returned from a funeral. I expected an outpouring of gossip and information, the sort of inside dope that only an inquisitive chap like William can elicit from total strangers in their hour of grief. Instead, he greeted me with a fistful of pamphlets he’d received from Mr. Sharonson.
“What’s this?” I asked when he’d pressed one in my hand.
“Pre-need funeral arrangements. Take a look,” he said.
Once I heard the term, I couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of it himself. I gave the information a cursory look while he took out a second pamphlet and opened it. “Just listen to this. ‘Preplanning a funeral allows you to determine the type of service and disposition you’ve always dreamed of. You have time to consider important details and to discuss them with your loved ones. Preplanning spares your survivors the uncertainty of last-minute decisions that may or may not be in keeping with your most cherished beliefs.’ I can’t wait to tell Rosie. She’ll be thrilled.”
“No, she won’t,” I said promptly. “Would you listen to yourself? She’s bossy. She likes to be in control. If you died, she’d be in her element. She’d have Mr. Sharonson in tears, trying to please and appease her. Surely you don’t propose to spoil the moment for her.”
He frowned. “That can’t be true. Are you sure? Because this says ‘Your loved ones can rest assured that the distress of this deeply personal moment has been minimized by your lingering consideration.’”
“Which is the same as taking all the fun out of it for her. Look at it from her perspective. She’s opinionated and overbearing. She’d love nothing better than to tangle with Mr. Sharonson over every everlasting detail.”
“What if we worked on it together?”
“And spoil the current peace? I thought you and Rosie were getting along so well.”
“We are.”
“Then why mess it up? Take my word for it. You bring up the topic, Rosie will have a fit.”
“But it makes so much sense. You think she’d be pleased.”
Rosie used one ample hip to push open the swinging door and emerged from the kitchen with a plate piled with fried potatoes, which she fed to the local drunks in hopes of offsetting the worst effects of alcohol consumption. In one smooth motion, William took the pamphlet from my hand and slid the lot of them into the inner pocket of his suit jacket. Returning, Rosie took one look at him and came to a halt. Her sharp gaze moved from his face to mine.
“Wot?”
He must have guessed that if he said ‘Nothing’ it would be all over for him. She’d know he was getting into trouble of some kind. I stepped into the gap. “I was just asking what smelled so good. He said you were working on a dinner special, but he wasn’t sure what it was called.”
“Kocsonya. I cook yesterday and is chillink as we speak.”
I said, “Ah.”
“You puts any five Hungarian womens together and you gonna have argument about who cooks the best kocsonya. Makes no mistake. Is me and I give you Rosie’s secret family kocsonya recipe. Hev a seat and I’ll dictate.”
I took a chair at the nearest table and dutifully dug into my bag. I pulled out a pen and an envelope, which I noticed was my unpaid electric bill. I put that aside and grabbed my spiral-bound notebook.
Rosie was already impatient to get on with it. “You no writing.”
“You haven’t said anything yet. I’m getting myself set.”
“I’m wait.”
“Is this like a regional specialty?”
“Absolutely. Is whatever you say. Years I’m working on my recipe and is finally perfect.”
“What did you say it was?”
“Kocsonya? Is jell . . . how you say it . . .”
“Jellied pig feet,” William supplied.
Wincing, I lifted my pen from the paper. “Uh, you know, Rosie, I’m really not much of a cook.”
“I’m telling you wot to do. Exactly wot I say. Okay so you puts in one pig ear, one tail, and one jowl. Plus one fresh pig’s knuckle cut in half, plus one pig’s foot. I sometimes put two. Slowly bring boil and keep over low fire one hour. Then is adding . . .”
She was going on. I could see her mouth move, but I was wholly distracted by the picture she’d painted of pig parts—not even the good ones—simmering in water. She stopped midsentence and pointed at my paper.
“Put down about froth,” she said.
“Frost?”
“Froth. Is skimming froth like gray fat scum. No wonder you can’t cook. You no listen.”
By the time she finished telling me how tender the feet should be when I put them in a serving dish, my eyes were beginning to cross. When she went on to describe the side dish she was serving—pasta filled with calf’s lung—I thought I’d have to put my head down between my knees. Meanwhile, William had backed away from us and he was now busy behind the bar.
Rosie excused herself and returned to the kitchen. This was the only chance I’d have to get away. As I reached for my shoulder bag, she burst back into the bar with a dish of cold jellied pork and a soup bowl filled with what looked like ravioli filled with dark clots. She put the two dishes down in front of me and wiggled in place, hands clasped under her apron. The ravioli was surrounded by a clear broth, and the steam coming off the surface smelled like burning hair.
I stared. “I’m at a loss for words.”
“You try. I’m seeing how you like.”
What was I to do? I retrieved a modest spoonful of broth. I raised it to my lips and made a slurping sound, saying, “Oh, boy. It’s perfect with this wine.”
She might have pressed me for more since she favors detailed compliments that abound in adjectives. Happily, a number of patrons had drifted in and Rosie had responsibilities in the kitchen. As soon as the swinging door closed behind her, I picked up my shoulder bag and rescued my wallet from the depths. I left a generous sum of money on the table and eased out the door. Later I’d think of a compelling story to cover my hasty exit. I didn’t think imminent upchucking would be considered a compliment. For now, it was enough that I escaped without having to eat anything.
On the street again, I had to control the urge to break into a run. It wasn’t fully dark, but the neighborhood was gloomy under trees just beginning to leaf out. I paused at the curb and waited for a car to pass. The car windows were down and the driver had the music turned up so loudly, the car seemed to pulsate. I crossed at the corner and continued the half block to my apartment, walking on the opposite side of the street. A pale blue sedan was idling in Henry’s driveway, and as I watched, two men emerged from the backyard and got in, one into the backseat and the other, the passenger-side seat. The driver backed into the street and drove away. The car turned at the corner onto Bay and disappeared.
What were two strangers doing in Henry’s backyard? His station wagon was in the drive where I’d parked it. His house lights were on. The lights in my studio were out. I hesitated, heart thumping. When I’d left for supper the sky was still light, but I’d realized I’d be returning home after dark so I’d turned on the desk lamp. I retraced my steps and returned to the intersection where Rosie’s Tavern sits. This time, I kept to the side street and continued as far as the alleyway that runs along Henry’s rear property line. On more than one occasion, I’d used this approach, which allowed me to slip through the shrubs that envelop the fence behind his garage. By pushing the chicken wire away from the support post, I could slip into the backyard unseen.
I stood in the shadows and watched my back door. The porch light was off. There was no sign of anyone on or near the darkened patio. Henry’s kitchen light was off, as it should have been. There was enough ambient glow from the streetlights out front that I
could identify the various dark patches in the yard: patio furniture, hose reel, Henry’s potted ferns, and a few young trees planted along the walk.
I studied the porthole in my door. I scanned for lights, wondering if perhaps I’d catch the soft gray beam of a flashlight inside. I had every reason to believe the men in the pale blue sedan were gone, but what had they been doing there in the first place? I fumbled in my shoulder bag for my penlight and flicked it on. I leaned close to the lock. There was no sign of forced entry, which was not to say someone hadn’t used a set of key picks to get in. At least no one had kicked a big hole in my door or used a boot to bash it off its hinges.
My gun was in my briefcase, locked in the trunk of the Mustang, which was parked in the drive. I would have felt a whole lot braver if I’d had my H&K in hand, but I didn’t want to show myself on the street. It seemed a bit melodramatic when I really couldn’t be sure the two guys had been inside. Maybe they’d knocked and then left when it became clear no one was home. I removed my key ring and carefully inserted my key in the lock, turning it with care. Through the porthole, all I could see was flat darkness. I pushed the door open and leaned in to flip on the overhead light.
My living room and kitchen were empty. There was no sign of a disturbance. I’d half expected to see drawers pulled out, chairs overturned, and the sofa gutted with a kitchen knife. In movies, that’s how it’s done. Here, nothing of the sort.
“Hello?” I called.
I turned my gaze to the spiral stairs, listening for sounds. Reason told me there was no one on the premises. I locked the door behind me and walked around the ground floor with the same attention to detail I used when checking Henry’s place. There was no obvious evidence anyone had come in while I was out, but the longer I looked, the more indication I had that something was off. The bottom desk drawer was open a marginal half inch. I’m compulsive about closing drawers and cabinet doors, even in someone else’s home.
I went up the spiral stairs, pausing at the top to peer over the rail. I crossed to my bed table and studied the arrangement of items on top. The clock, the lamp, and the magazines were there, but not quite as I’d left them, which suggested someone had cleared the lid and looked inside. I opened one drawer after another, and while the contents weren’t jumbled, I sensed that someone had searched. I peered into my bathroom, which harbored no hiding places except for the laundry hamper. I was, of course, mindful of the box of cash Vivian and I had delivered to the sheriff’s department in San Luis. I was also thinking about the man who’d rung her doorbell inquiring about the package that had been delivered in error.
When the phone rang, I was so startled I jumped, and while I don’t believe I shrieked, I may well have yelped. I picked up the handset.
“Kinsey?”
It was Vivian, her tone plaintive. “Is everything all right at your place? Because I just got home from my stitching group and I think someone’s been here.”
21
At this point I should have called the police. Ordinarily, I’m not shy about such things. In this instance, however, I had the following factors working against me: I didn’t know the make and model of the pale blue sedan. It was almost dark when I’d spotted the two guys getting into the car, which was half a block away. I couldn’t have sworn the two had actually been in my place, though I couldn’t imagine why else they’d be coming out of Henry’s backyard. There were no scratches on my front door lock and no obvious indications that anyone had been inside. I was convinced they’d broken in, but I had no evidence. If they’d searched the studio, they were probably smart enough not to leave fingerprints. So what was there to report? As far as I know, there isn’t a provision in the California penal code for the crime of “I believe a man might have put his hand in my underwear drawer.”
Assuming I was right and the guys had entered the studio, it was surely with an eye to retrieving the shitload of cash Vivian and I had turned over to law enforcement. There might have been an argument for calling the cops just to “have something on record,” as though a police report might pave the way for later action on my part. I knew I wouldn’t be filing a claim on my renter’s policy because I’m reasonably certain I’m not covered for damages resulting from someone peeking in my freezer, thinking I’d be dumb enough to hide masses of cash next to that ancient package of frozen peas.
In my phone conversation with Vivian, I’d told her to do as she saw fit. I didn’t think it was my place to advise her one way or the other. She said she was fine but would call her cousin to come pick her up. She didn’t want to be alone in the house, a sentiment I understood. She did say she had a shotgun that her husband had taught her to use to good effect, provided she had the nerve to blow an intruder off his feet. She doubted her ability and I applauded her good sense.
For my part, as soon as I hung up I armed myself with a butcher knife, went out to the Mustang, and fetched the briefcase that contained my Heckler & Koch. After I double-locked my door and made sure the windows were secured, I cleaned and loaded my gun. I left the desk lamp on downstairs and retired to my loft, where I fell asleep on top of the covers fully dressed. Three times I woke to investigate noises I probably hadn’t heard.
There’s much to be said for sleeping fitfully. The brain, when it isn’t swaddled in a happy cocoon of dreams, reverts to other means of amusing itself. Mine reviews all the data it’s accumulated during the day and sends me telegrams I wouldn’t stop to open if I were awake. The brain functions like a camera, clicking off a steady stream of pictures. Incoming data is automatically sorted so that what’s relevant can be stored for future reference and what’s irrelevant can be deleted. The problem is that we don’t know until much later which images count and which don’t. My subconscious nudged me, letting me know I’d seen something that might be more important than I’d thought. The idea would excite me for the moment and I’d make a mental note. Then I’d fall asleep and by the time I woke up again I’d forget what it was.
Sunday morning, I rose early and went out for a three-mile jog. As a rule, this is not something I do on weekends, which I reserve for rest and relaxation. However, in the previous week, I’d skipped the exercise because business required my presence elsewhere. Now it was time to take hold. I did my token thirty-minute jog along the beach, hoping to generate a moment of runner’s high. Mostly, my whole body hurt. Parts that had never given me trouble before spoke up to complain. On the plus side, there was the stress reduction and the following insight that popped to mind. I’d reached the end of my run and I’d slowed to a walk to cool down when I remembered the point my subconscious had been trying to make in the dead of night. Take another look, whispered she, at the stack of flattened cardboard boxes behind the consignment shop.
As soon as I’d showered, dressed, and bolted down a bowl of cereal, I checked my desk drawers for my Swiss Army knife, which I tossed into my shoulder bag. I found my steam iron and put it with my briefcase and gun. I returned to the Mustang and locked both in the trunk. I paused to make a careful study of the street, looking for the blue sedan, which was nowhere in sight. This was not a comfort. If the guys had tailed me from Vivian’s house the day before, they were probably smart enough to use more than one vehicle.
I took the 101 to Missile and then turned right on Dave Levine. I cruised past the strip mall where the consignment shop was located. Storefronts were dark as expected on a Sunday morning. At the corner, I turned right and entered the alley that ran behind the row of shops. When I pulled in the parking lot was empty, the trash cans still bulging. I let the Mustang idle while I crossed to the stack of cardboard boxes and used my Swiss Army knife to cut the twine. I flipped through quickly, glancing at each box in turn. Most had been used more than once, the recipient apparently unpacking the contents and using the same boxes for subsequent shipments. This was a frugal move on the part of the business owner and worked to my advantage because in almost every case, a new shipping label had been slapped over the old. As one does when tr
acing layers of sediment, I could work backward, tracking the boxes from one location to the one before. I loaded the stack in the trunk of my car. Better to dig for information in private instead of standing in a parking lot taking notes.
Downtown Santa Teresa was largely deserted at that hour and traffic was light. Department stores wouldn’t open until noon, so I was able to travel the surface streets with some confidence I wasn’t being followed. I kept an eye on the rearview mirror, but I didn’t see any cars that seemed worrisome. I drove to the office, unloaded the boxes from the trunk, and carried them to the office door, where I let myself in. I filled my iron with water, plugged it in, and moved the lever to steam. Then I sat on the floor cross-legged while I worked my way through the stack of battered boxes.
I kept a record of the addresses as I uncovered them, wondering if a pattern would emerge. Most of the shipping had been done through a carrier I didn’t know. I made a note of the name, thinking I’d check with Vivian to see if it was a match for the service that had dropped off the package at Audrey’s door. I steamed off label after label, watching the addresses change. It was almost impossible to discern shipping dates. The tracking numbers had been blacked out and sometimes a label had been torn off entirely before another one was pasted on top. On the fifth box, under the top two labels, I found Audrey’s name and the rental address in San Luis Obispo. It looked like the boxes were being moved from one California location to another, the preponderance of it a short loop between Santa Teresa and San Luis Obispo. If stolen merchandise left the country, it was probably sent by way of a shipping company. Goods would be stripped, sorted for distribution, and sent on. Once I reached the bottom of the pile, I stood the boxes upright and shoved the flattened cardboard into the space between my file cabinet and the wall.