by Sue Grafton
“What’s he think it is?”
“She, goddammit! And don’t interrupt. I was just getting to that. Doc says it could be scar tissue, it could be the remains of a dying tumor, or it might be our old friend lymphoma cropping up again. They can’t tell from the film. So first thing tomorrow morning, I’m scheduled for a biopsy. Lucky I’m here is how they put it to me. Lucky my back feels like shit, they said. Without back pain, no X-ray. Without the X-ray, this whatever I’ve got would have gone undetected until the next follow-up appointment, which isn’t on the books for months.” He pointed at Dolan. “And don’t say ‘I told you so’ because I don’t want to hear it.”
“I’d never say that – though I’ll admit I did mention it.”
I thought he was pushing his luck, but Stacey laughed.
Dolan said, “So when do you get out?”
“They haven’t told me yet. Meantime, I’m not lying here idle. I put in another call to the Sheriffs Department. Joe Mandel’s made detective so I’m hoping he’ll let us take a look at the Jane Doe evidence.”
“Kinsey and I can do that.”
“Not without me. You want to keep me alive, you better do what I say.”
“Bullshit. That’s blackmail.”
“That’s exactly right. So tell me about Rickman. I could use a good laugh about now.”
I had dinner that night at Rosie’s, so grateful to have her home I could have kissed the hem of her muumuu. Since the tavern had been closed 1 for two weeks, the smell of beer and cigarette smoke had nearly faded from the air. In her absence, she’d had a cleaning crew come in and scrub the place down. Floors now gleamed, wood surfaces were polished, and the mirror behind the bar reflected the rows of liquor bottles with a sparkle that suggested expensive handblown glass. The crowd that night was light, the usual patrons perhaps still unaware that the restaurant was open for business again.
William stood behind the bar, pulling beers and pouring drinks for the smattering of customers. Henry sat at his usual table, amusing himself with a book of anagrams. At his invitation, I took a seat across from him. I looked over as Rosie emerged from the kitchen with an armload of what appeared to be slim binders. She crossed the room, heading in our direction, clearly pleased with herself. She handed a binder to me and a second to Henry. I thought they might be picture albums, but I opened the front cover and found myself staring at a handwritten menu done in a calligraphic script. “This is different,” I remarked.
“Is new menu. So I don’t hef to tell every dish what I’m cooking. William wrote by hand and then went to photo copy shop and hed them print. You order anything you want and what you can’t say in Henglish you point.” She stood and looked at us expectantly. Since she’d returned from the cruise, her Henglish seemed to have gotten worse.
Henry surveyed his menu, a curious expression crossing his face. I glanced at mine, running my gaze down the page. The dishes were listed first in Hungarian, complete with letter combinations and accent marks I’d never seen before. Under the Hungarian name for each dish there was the translation in English:
Versenyi Batyus Ponty
Carp in a Bundle
Csuka Tejfeles Tormaval
Pike Cooked in Horseradish Cream
Hamis Oztokany
Mock Venison
Disznó Csülök Kaposztál
Pigs Knuckles and Sauerkraut
I couldn’t wait to see what the crowd of softball rowdies was going to think about this.
“You’ve outdone yourself, Rosie,” Henry said.
“Really,” I said. “I can hardly choose.”
She seemed to wiggle with pleasure, order pad in hand. For a minute I thought she intended to lick her pencil point.
Henry smiled at her blandly. “Why don’t you give us a few minutes? This is a lot to take in.”
“You keep and I come beck.”
“Good idea.”
She moved away from our table and began to circle the room, distributing a menu at each booth and table along the way. Henry stared after her with something close to wonderment. “I guess this is what happens when you take someone on a cruise. She’s come home inspired. If I didn’t know her better, I’d say she was putting on airs.”
I set my menu aside. “That’s the least of our worries. What are we going to do? I don’t want to eat a pig knuckle with sauerkraut. That’s disgusting.”
He looked at his menu again. “Listen to this one. ‘Mazsolas es Gesztenyés Borjunyelv.’ You know what that is? Cows Tongue with Chestnuts and Raisins.”
“Oh, that can’t be true. Where do you see that?” I peered over at his menu, hoping it was somehow completely different.
He pointed at an item under a column entitled “Specialities of the House.”
“Here’s another one. Lemon Tripe. I forget what that is. Could be stomach or bowel.”
“What’s the big deal with organ meats?”
Rosie had completed her circuit and she now headed back to our table. “I hef idea. I prepare for you special. Big surprise.”
“No, no, no,” Henry said. “I wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble. We’ll just order from what’s here. My goodness. So many interesting dishes. What are you having, Kinsey?”
“Me? Oh. Well, actually on a night like this, I’d love a nice big bowl of soup and maybe noodles on the side. Could you do that for me?”
“Easy. Of course. I give Shepherd’s Soup. Is already make,” she said, pausing to pencil an elaborate note on her order pad. She turned to Henry.
“I think I’ll hold off for now. I just had a bite before I came over here.”
“Little plate of dumplings? Jellied pork? Is fresh. Very good.”
“Don’t tempt me. Maybe later. I’ll just keep her company for now,” he said.
Rosie pursed her lips and then shrugged to herself. I thought she’d insist, but apparently decided to let him suffer. Neither of us said a word until she’d disappeared.
I leaned forward. “Why didn’t you tell me you were doing that? I could have said the same thing.”
“I blurted out the first thing that occurred to me. You were quick about it, too. Soup and noodles. That’s safe. How can you go wrong?”
My gaze strayed toward the kitchen. Mere seconds had passed, and Rosie was already using her backside to push her way through the swinging kitchen doors into the dining room, bearing a wide tray that held a shallow bowl of steaming soup.
I said, “Oh, geez. Here she comes. I hate service this quick. It’s like eating in a Chinese restaurant. You’re in and out on the street again twenty minutes later.”
She crossed the room, setting the tray on the adjoining table, then placing the bowl in front of me. She tucked her hands under her apron and looked at me. “How you like?”
“I haven’t tried it yet.” I fanned some of the steam toward my face, trying to define the odor. Burnt hair? Dog hide? “Gee, this smells great. What is it?”
She peered at my bowl, identifying some of the diced ingredients. “Is parsnip, ongion, carrot, kohlrabi –”
“I love vegetable soup!” I said, with perhaps more enthusiasm than I’d ordinarily express. I tipped my spoon down into the depths, bringing up a rich cargo of root vegetables.
She was still peering. “Is also head, neck, lungs, and liver of one lamb.”
The spoon was already in the air by then, soup sailing toward my mouth as though of its own accord. As the spoon reached my lips, I caught a glimpse of porous gray chunks, probably minced lobe of lung, along with some floaters of something I was too fearful to ask about. I puckered my lips and made a slurping sound, sucking up the broth while deftly avoiding the little knots of offal. I made insincere Mmm noises.
“I come right beck with noodles.”
“Take your time.”
As soon as she left, I put my spoon down, craning to check all four comers of the room. “I wonder if I have time to scoot to the toilet and put this back where it belongs. She doesn’t even have
planters where , I can dump the stuff.”
Henry leaned closer to the bowl. “Is that a nostril? Oh no, sorry. It’s probably just a little cross-section of heart valve. Head’s up. Here she comes again.”
Rosie was returning to the table with a dinner-sized plate in hand. I made a big display of stirring my soup and wiping my mouth with a napkin as she set the noodles in front of me. I patted my chest as though overwhelmed, which I was. “This is filling. Really rich.”
I stole an apprehensive look at the dish as she placed it on the table beside my soup bowl, experiencing a flash of relief. “What’s that, manicotti?”
“Is call palacsinta tészta. Like what you call crepes.”
“Hungarian crepes. Well, that sounds wonderful. I can do that.”
“I fill with calf’s brains scrembled with egg. Very dainty. You’ll see. I can teach you to make.”
“Okay then, I’ll just chow down,” I said. She stood by the table, as though prepared to monitor my every bite. I leaned to one side, focusing my gaze on the far side of the room. “I think William’s calling you. It looks like he needs help.”
Rosie crossed to the bar where she and William engaged in a baffled conversation. Meanwhile, I’d grabbed up my shoulder bag and I was rooting through the contents. Earlier that day, I’d spotted an outdated grocery list done on a sheet of yellow legal paper. I kept one eye on Rosie while I folded the note paper into a cone, pointed at the bottom with a wide mouth at the top. I turned the pointed bottom up to form a seal. I forked up crepes in rapid succession, ignoring the gnarly bits that fell back on the plate. I folded the top down, wrapped the cone in a paper napkin, and shoved the bundle in my purse. By the time Rosie glanced in my direction, I was bent over my plate, making fake chewing motions while trying to look entranced. Another couple entered the bar and her attention was distracted. I put a twenty on the table near Henry’s plate. “Tell her I was called away on an emergency.”
Henry pointed to my soup, most of which was still in the bowl. “I’ll I have her put that in a jar and bring it over to you later tonight. I know how you hate to see food go to waste.”
Chapter 10
*
I was home earlier than I’d intended, concerned that calf brain would leak out of the makeshift container and contaminate the interior of my shoulder bag. As I passed Henry’s garbage can, I removed the bundle from my purse and dumped it. I lifted my head, alerted by the dim j ringing of a phone somewhere. I banged down the lid and hurried to my front door, unlocking it in haste. Three rings. Four. I slung my bag on a kitchen chair and snatched up the receiver. My answering machine had already kicked in and I was forced to override my own voice, singing, “It’s me. I’m here. Don’t go away. I’m answering.”
“Kinsey?”
The caller was male and he spoke against the dull murmur of background conversations. I put a hand against one ear. “Who’s this?”
“Pudgie.”
“Well, hi. This is a surprise. I didn’t think I’d hear from you. What’s up?”
“You said call if I thought of something, but you have to promise you won’t let this get back to him.”
I found myself straining to hear. “Back to who?”
“Frankie. You ever meet him?”
“Not yet.”
“He’s a crazy man. You can’t tell it right off because he’s good at faking it… like he’s normal and all, but believe me, you don’t want to mess with him.”
“I didn’t realize you knew him.”
“I don’t, but it doesn’t take a genius to figure out the guy’s a freak.”
“Is that why you called, to say how nuts he is?”
“Nuhn-uhn. I’ll get to that, but lemme ask you something first. Suppose someone tells him I called you?”
“Come on. I can’t control that. Besides, who’s going to tell? I can promise not a word of this will come from me.”
“You swear?”
“Of course.” I could hear him cup a hand over the mouthpiece, lips so close to the phone I thought he’d slobber in my ear. “He talked about stabbing some chick to death.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Pudgie. That’s why he went to prison. For killing Cathy Lee Pearse.”
“Not her. Another one. This was after he killed her.”
“I’m listening.”
“He’s bragging about what happens to any bitch tries to cross him. He said he picked up this chick in a bar. She had some dope on her and the two of them got loose. They go out to the parking lot to play grab ass, but she turns all sour on him and starts giving him a hard time, which pisses him off. When she refuses to put out, he offs her and sticks her in the trunk of Cathy Lee’s car. He drives around with her two days, but he’s worried she’ll start to stink, so he dumps her when he gets to Lompoc.”
“Where’d he pick her up?”
“What bar? Don’t know. He never said. He didn’t mention the town, either. I’d guess Santa Teresa. It had to’ve been before he hit Lompoc because that’s where he got caught.”
“What about the dump site? Did he say where that was?”
“Some place outside town where she wouldn’t be found. I guess they managed to nail him on Cathy Lee, but nobody knew about the other one, so he was free and clear on that.”
“What made you suddenly remember? This doesn’t sound like something that would slip your mind.”
“It didn’t ‘slip my mind,’” he said, offended. “You’re the one came to me. I never offered to snitch. I didn’t ‘suddenly’ do anything. I remembered the minute his name came up.”
“Why didn’t you tell me then?”
“We’d only just met. How’d I know I could trust you? I had to think about that.”
“What made you decide to tell me?”
“I probably should’ve kept my mouth shut if it comes right down to it. Frankie’s a bad-ass. Word leaks out and my sorry butt is fried. He’s not a guy you fuck with and expect to live.”
“Fair enough,” I said. “Did he say anything else?”
“Not that I remember offhand. Time, I didn’t pay much attention. Jail, everybody brags about stuff like that. It’s mostly bullshit, so I didn’t attach anything to it. I mean, I did, but then that’s the last I ever heard of it. Now you’re saying some girl’s body was dumped and right away I think about him.”
“You’re sure about this.”
“No, I’m not sure. He might’ve made the whole thing up. How the hell should I know? You said call and I did.”
I thought about it briefly. This could be a hustle, though for the life of me, I couldn’t see what Pudgie was getting out of it. “That’s not much to go on.”
“Well, I can’t help you there.”
“How’d he kill her?”
“Knife, I guess. Said he stabbed her, wrapped her up, and stuck her in the trunk. Soon as he got to Lompoc, he pitched her off the side of the road and hightailed it out of there. By the time the cops picked him up he figured he was safe. All they cared about was nailing him for Cathy Lee.”
“Did he know the girl?”
“I doubt it. He didn’t talk like he did.”
“Because I’m curious about his motive.”
“You gotta be kidding. Frankie doesn’t need a motive. She could’ve looked at him funny or called him a pencil dick. If she knew he was on the run, she might’ve threatened to turn him in.”
“Interesting,” I said. “I’ll have to give this some thought. Where are you calling from?”
“A place I hang out in Creosote. My sis drove up from the desert and brought me back to her house.”
“Is there any way I can reach you if I need to get in touch?” He gave me a number with an area code.
I said, “Thanks. This could be a big help.”
“Where’s Frankie now?”
“I’m not sure. We’ve heard he’s in town.”
“You mean the fucker’s out?”
“Sure, he’s been paroled.”
“You never said that. Oh, shit. You have to swear you won’t tell him where you heard this. And don’t ask me to testify in court because I won’t.”
“Pudgie, you couldn’t testify in court. This is all hearsay. You didn’t see him do anything so quit worrying. I’ll tell the two cops I’m working with, but that’s the end of it.”
“I hope I haven’t made a mistake.”
“Relax. You’re fine.”
“You buy me those cigarettes?”
“No, but I owe you a bunch.”
Dolan picked me up at the office Tuesday morning at 10:00. I’d managed my usual 6:00 A.M. run, after which I’d showered and dressed. I had coffee and a quick bowl of cereal, making it into the office by 8:35. By the time I heard Dolan’s car horn, I’d finished catching upon all the odds and ends on my desk. Dolan had the good grace to toss his cigarette out the window as soon as I got in. Stacey’s biopsy had been scheduled for 7:45, but neither of us wanted to talk about that. After I’d wrenched open the car door on the passenger side and hauled it shut again, I told Dolan about Pudgie’s call.
He said, “Don’t know what to make of it. What do you think?”
“I’d love to believe him, but I’m not sure how credible he is for a jailhouse snitch. He did seem to have a couple of the details right.”
“Like what?”
“Well, he knew she’d been stabbed and he knew she’d been wrapped in something at the time she was dumped.”
“It’s possible he took a flyer, guessing at the fine points to make himself seem important.”
“To me? Why would he care?”
“Because he’s flirting with you. Gave him an excuse to call.”
“Is that it? Well, I’m thrilled.”
“Point is, what he says is useless. It’s all air and sunshine.”
“And hearsay as well.”
“Right.”
The next stop was Frankie’s to see what we could shake loose from him. Dolan had talked to Frankie’s parole officer, Dench Smallwood, who’d given him the address.