He was searching now for Rosie while William sat down again. I turned to William and raised my voice so he could hear me over all the ruckus in the place. “How was your first day in Santa Teresa?”
“I’d say the day was fair. I suffered a little episode of heart palpitations. . . .” William’s voice was powdery and feeble.
I put a hand to my ear to indicate I was having trouble hearing him. Henry leaned toward me.
“We spent the afternoon at the Urgent Care Center,” Henry yelled. “It was fun. The equivalent of the circus for those of us on Medicare.”
William said, “I had a problem with my heart. The doctor ordered an ECG. I can’t remember now what he called my particular condition. . . .”
“Indigestion,” Henry hollered. “All you had to do was burp.”
William didn’t seem dismayed by Henry’s facetiousness. “My brother’s uncomfortable at any sign of human frailty.”
“Hanging around you all my life, I ought to be used to it.”
I was still focused on William. “Are you feeling okay?”
“Yes, thank you,” he replied.
“Here’s how I feel,” Henry said. He crossed his eyes and hung his tongue out the side of his mouth, clutching his chest.
William didn’t crack a smile. “Would you care to have a look?”
I wasn’t sure what he was offering until he took out the tracing from his electrocardiogram. “They let you keep this?” I asked.
“Just this portion. The remainder is in my chart. I brought my medical records with me, in case I needed them.”
The three of us stared at the ribbon of ink with its spikes at regular intervals. It looked like a crosscut of ocean with four shark fins coming straight at us through the water.
William leaned close. “The doctor wants to keep a very close eye on me.”
“I should think so,” I said.
“Too bad you can’t take a day off work,” Henry said to me. “We could take turns checking William’s pulse.”
“Mock me if you like, but we all have to come to grips with our own mortality,” William said with composure.
“Yeah, well, tomorrow I’ve got to come to terms with somebody else’s mortality,” I said. And to Henry I added, “Morley Shine’s funeral.”
“A friend of yours?”
“Another private investigator here in town,” I said. “He used to be pals with the guy who trained me so I’ve known him for years.”
“He died in the line of duty?” William asked.
I shook my head. “Not really. Sunday night he dropped dead of a heart attack.” The minute I said it, I wished I’d kept my mouth shut. I could see William’s hand stray to his chest.
He said, “And what age was the man?”
“Gee, I’m not really sure.” I was lying, of course. Morley was a good twenty years younger than William. “Golly, there’s Rosie.” I can “Gee” and “Golly” with the best of ’em in a pinch.
Rosie had just emerged from the kitchen and was staring at us from across the room. She approached, her face set in an expression of determination. As she passed the bar, she reached over and muted the volume on the TV set. Henry and I exchanged significant looks. I was sure he was thinking the same thing I was: She was going to take care of William and no two ways about it. I found myself almost feeling sorry for the man. The jukebox shut down and the noise level dropped. The quiet was a blessing.
William pushed his chair back and rose politely to his feet. “Miss Rosie. What a pleasure. I hope we can persuade you to join us.”
I looked from one to the other. “You’ve been introduced?”
Henry said, “She came over to the table when we first got here.”
Rosie’s gaze strayed to William and then dropped modestly. “You might be engaged in conversation,” she said, fishing for reassurance as usual. This from a woman who bullies everybody unmercifully.
“Oh, come on. Have a seat,” I said, adding my invitation to William’s. He remained standing, apparently waiting for her to sit, which she showed no signs of doing.
Rosie barely acknowledged Henry and me. Her glance at William shifted from coquettish to quizzical. She focused on the ECG tracing. She tucked her hands beneath her apron. “Sinus tachycardia,” she announced. “The heart is suddenly beating one hundred times a minute. Is horrible.”
William looked at her with surprise. “That’s it. That’s correct,” he said. “I suffered such an incident just this afternoon. I had to see the doctor at an urgent care facility. He’s the one who ran this test.”
“There’s nothing they can do,” she said with satisfaction. “I have similar condition. Maybe some pills. Otherwise is hopeless.” She settled herself gingerly on the edge of the chair. “You sit.”
William sat. “It’s much worse than fibrillation,” William said.
“Is much more worse than fibrillation and palpitations put together,” Rosie said. “Let me see that.” She took the tracing. She adjusted her glasses low on her nose, rearing back to see it better. “Look at that. I can’t believe this.”
William peered over at it again as if the strip of paper might have been injected with a whole new meaning. “It’s that serious?”
“Terrible. Not as bad as mine, but plenty serious. These wavy lines and these spiky points?” She shook her head, her mouth pulling down. She handed the tracing back abruptly. “I get you a sherry.”
“No, no. Out of the question. I don’t imbibe spirits,” he said.
“This Hungarian sherry. Is completely different. I take myself at first sign of attack. Boomb! Is gone. Just like that. No more wavy lines. No more spike.”
“The doctor never mentioned anything about sherry,” he said uneasily.
“And you want to know why? How much you pay to see this doctor today? Plenty, I bet. Sixty, eighty dollars. You think he don’ want you come running beck? You got that kind of money? I’m telling you, do what I say and you’ll be just like new in no time. You try. You don’t feel better, you don’ pay. I guarantee. I give you the first. On the house. Ebsolutely free.”
He seemed torn, debating, until Rosie turned a steely gaze on him. He held his thumb and his index finger an inch apart. “Perhaps just a bit.”
“I pour myself,” she said, getting to her feet.
I raised my hand. “Could I have a glass of white wine, please? Henry’s treating.”
“A round of blood pressure medication for the bar,” he said.
Rosie ignored his attempt at humor and moved off toward the bar. I didn’t dare look at Henry, because I knew I’d smirk. Rosie had William eating out of her hand. While Henry had been mocking and I’d been polite, Rosie was treating William with the utmost seriousness. I had no idea where she intended to go from here, but William seemed to be thoroughly disarmed by the approach.
“Doctor never said anything about spirits,” he repeated staunchly.
“It can’t hurt,” I supplied just to keep the game afloat. Maybe she meant to get him drunk, soften his defenses so she could tell him the truth—for a man his age, he was as healthy as a horse.
“I wouldn’t want to do anything counterproductive to my long-term treatment,” he said.
“Oh, for God’s sake. Have a drink,” Henry snapped.
Under the table, I placed my foot on top of Henry’s and applied some pressure. His expression shifted. “Yes, well, that just reminded me. Grandfather Pitts partook of occasional spirits. You remember that, don’t you, William? I can still picture him on the front porch, sitting in his rocking chair, sipping his tumbler of Black Jack.”
“But then he died,” William said.
“Of course he died! The man was a hundred and one years old!”
William’s expression shut down. “You needn’t shout.”
“Well, shit! People in the Bible didn’t live as long as he did. He was healthy. He was hale and hearty. Everybody in our family—”
“Hennnnrrry, you’re losing it,” I
sang.
He was abruptly silent. Rosie was returning to the table with a tray in hand. She’d brought a glass of white wine for me, a beer for Henry, plus two liqueur glasses and a small ornate bottle filled with amber liquid. William had obediently risen to his feet again. He pulled a chair out for her. She put the tray down and sent him a simpering smile. “Such a gentleman,” she said and actually batted her eyes. “Very nice.” She passed the wine to me, the beer to Henry, and then sat down. “Permit me, please,” she said to William.
“Just the tiniest amount,” he said.
“I’m telling you the amount,” she said. “I’m showing you how to drink. Like this.” She poured sherry to the rim of the small glass and placed it to her lips. She tossed her head back and drained the contents. She dabbed the corners of her mouth daintily with the knuckle of her index finger. “Now you,” she said. She filled a second liqueur glass and handed it to William.
He hesitated.
“Do what I’m telling you,” she said.
William did as she was telling him. As soon as the alcohol hit the back of his throat, he began to shudder . . . a wonderful involuntary spasm that started in his shoulders and traveled rapidly down his spine. “My stars!”
“ ‘My stars!’ is correct,” she said. She studied him slyly and her chuckle was positively lascivious. She poured them both another round, tossing her shot down like some old cowboy in a John Wayne movie. Having got the hang of it, William did likewise. A bit of color had come up in his cheeks. Henry and I were watching with mute amazement.
“Done!” Rosie banged a hand on the table and gathered herself together. She stood, placing the sherry bottle and the two glasses carefully on her tray again. “Tomorrow. Two o’clock. Is like medicine. Very strict. Now I bring you dinner. I know just what you need. Don’t argue.”
I could feel my heart sink. I knew dinner would consist of some incredible concoction of Hungarian spices and saturated fats, but I didn’t have the nerve to flee.
William watched her depart. “That’s remarkable,” he said. “I believe I can actually feel my blood pressure drop.”
17
I slept badly that night and jogged Friday morning in a halfhearted fashion. Morley’s funeral was scheduled for 10:00 and I was dreading it. There were still too many questions up in the air and I felt as if I’d been responsible for most of them. Lonnie would be coming back from Santa Maria as soon as he wrapped up his court case. I still had a batch of subpoenas Morley’d never served, but it didn’t make sense to try to get those out until I knew where things stood. Lonnie might not be going into court at all. I showered and then dug around in my underwear drawer, searching for a pair of panty hose that didn’t look like kittens had been climbing up the legs. The drawer was a jumble of old T-shirts and mismatched socks. I was really going to have to get in there and get it organized one day. I put on my all-purpose dress, which is perfect for funerals: black with long sleeves, in some exotic blend of polyester you could bury for a year without generating a crease. I slipped my feet into a pair of black flats so I could walk without hobbling. I have friends who adore high heels, but I can’t see the point. I figure if high heels were so wonderful, men would be wearing them. I decided to skip breakfast and get into the office early.
It was 7:28 and mine was the first car in the lot. With no access to daylight, the interior stairwell was intensely dark. The little flashlight on my keychain provided just enough illumination to prevent my tripping and falling flat on my face. When I reached the third floor, I let myself in by the front entrance. The place was gloomy and cold. I spent a few minutes turning lights on, creating the illusion that the workday had begun. I set up a pot of coffee and flipped the switch to On. By the time I’d unlocked my office, the scent of perking coffee was beginning to permeate the air.
I checked my answering machine and found the light blinking insistently. I pressed the button for messages and was greeted by an annoyed-sounding Kenneth Voigt. “Miss Millhone. Ken Voigt. It’s . . . uh . . . midnight on Thursday. I just got a call from Rhe Parsons, who’s very upset over this business with Tippy. I’ve put a call through to Lonnie up in Santa Maria, but the motel switchboard is closed. I’ll be at the office by eight tomorrow morning and I want this straightened out. Call me the minute you get in.” He left the telephone number at Voigt Motors and clicked off.
I checked my watch. It was 7:43. I tried the number he’d left, but all I got was a recording, advising in cultured tones that the dealership was closed and giving me an emergency number in case I was calling to announce that the building was going up in flames. I was still wearing my jacket and it didn’t make sense to settle in at my desk. Might as well face the music. Ida Ruth was just arriving so I told her where I was going and left the place to her. I went back down to the parking lot, where I retrieved my car. I’d only met Kenneth Voigt once, but he’d struck me as the sort who’d enjoy being on the sending end of a good chewing out. I really didn’t want to discuss the latest developments in the case. For one thing, I hadn’t told Lonnie what was happening and I figured it was his place to deliver bad news. At least he could advise Voigt about the legal consequences.
Traffic on the freeway was still fairly light and I made it to the Cutter Road off-ramp by five minutes after eight. Voigt Motors was the authorized dealer for Mercedes-Benz, Porsche, Jaguar, Rolls-Royce, Bentley, BMW, and Aston Martin. I parked my VW in one of ten empty slots and moved toward the entrance. The building looked like a Southern plantation, a glass-and-concrete tribute to gentility and taste. A discreet sign, hand-lettered in gold, indicated that business hours were Monday–Friday 8:30am to 8pm, Saturday 9am to 6pm, and Sunday 10am to 6pm. I cupped a hand against the smoky glass, looking for signs of activity in the shadowy interior. I could see six or seven gleaming automobiles and a light at the rear. To the right, a staircase swept up and out of sight. I tapped a key against the glass, wondering if the tiny clicking sound carried far enough to be effective.
Moments later, Kenneth Voigt appeared at the top of the stairs and peered over the railing. He came down and crossed the gleaming marble floor in my direction. He wore a dark pin striped business suit, a crisp pale blue dress shirt, and a dark blue tie. He looked like a man who’d built up one of the most prosperous high-end car dealerships in Santa Teresa County. He detoured briefly, taking time to flick on interior lights, illuminating a fleet of pristine automobiles. He unlocked the front door and held it open for me. “I take it you got my message.”
“I was in early this morning. I thought we might as well talk in person.”
“You’ll have to hang on a minute. I was just putting a call through to New York.” He crossed the showroom, moving toward a row of identical glass-fronted offices where business was conducted during working hours. I watched as he took a seat in somebody else’s swivel chair. He punched in a number and leaned back, keeping an eye on me while he waited for his call to go through. Someone apparently picked up on the other end because I saw his interest quicken. He began to gesture as he talked. Even from a distance, he managed to look tense and unreasonable.
Don’t blow this, I thought. Do not mouth off. The man was Lonnie’s client, not mine, and I couldn’t afford to antagonize him. I ambled around the showroom, hoping to stifle my natural inclination to bolt. Getting fired had taken some of the cockiness out of me. I focused on my surroundings, taking in the aura of elegance.
The air smelled wonderfully of leather and car wax. I wondered what it felt like to have enough in a checking account to make a down payment on a vehicle that cost more than two hundred thousand dollars. I pictured lots of chuckles and not a lot of haggling. If you could afford a Rolls-Royce, you had to know it would set you back plenty walking in the door. What was there to negotiate, the trade-in on your Bentley?
My gaze settled on a Corniche III, a two-door convertible with a red exterior. The top was down. The interior was upholstered in creamy white leather piped in red. I glanced back at Voigt. He was no
w fully engrossed in his telephone conversation so I opened the door on the driver’s side of the Rolls and got in. Not bad. A copy of the car’s specs was printed on parchment, bound in leather, and tucked in the glove box. It looked like the wine list in an expensive restaurant. There wasn’t anything as vulgar as a price in evidence, but I did learn that the “kerb weight” for the motorcar was 2430 kg and the “luggage boot capacity” was 0,27m3. I studied all the dials and switches on the instrument panel, admiring the inlaid walnut. I did some serious driving, turning the steering wheel this way and that while I made tire-squealing noises with my mouth. James Bond in drag. I was in the process of navigating a hairpin turn on a mountainous road above Monte Carlo when I looked up to find Voigt standing beside the car. I could feel the color rise in my face like heat. “This is beautiful,” I murmured. I knew I only said it as a way of sucking up to him, but I couldn’t help myself.
He opened the door and slid in on the passenger side. He surveyed the dashboard lovingly and then touched the supple leather on the bucket seat. “Fourteen hides for every Corniche interior. Sometimes after closing, I come down here and sit.”
“You own this place and you don’t drive one yourself?”
“I can’t afford it quite yet,” he said. “I made up my mind if we won this lawsuit I was going to buy one of these, just for the thrill of it.” His expression was pained. “From what Rhe tells me, you’ve stirred up a hornets’ nest. She’s talking about suing the shit out of you and Lonnie both.”
“On what grounds?”
“I have no idea. People who sue hardly need a reason these days. God only knows how it’s going to impact my case. You were hired to serve subpoenas. You weren’t instructed to go off on any tangents.”
“I can’t assess the situation from a legal standpoint—that’s really Lonnie’s job. . . .”
“But how did it happen? That’s what I don’t get.”
Trying not to sound defensive, I told him about my conversation with Barney and what I’d found out since then, detailing Tippy’s involvement in the death of the elderly pedestrian. Voigt didn’t let me get to the end of it.