by Sue Grafton
She turned the oven to preheat at 350 degrees, dropped her bag on the small pass-through between the kitchen and living room, and opened the refrigerator door, taking out a package of chicken breasts, a head of romaine lettuce, a small jar of vinaigrette, and a cardboard tube of Parker House rolls. She removed the cellophane from the chicken and rinsed the pieces in a colander under cold running water. She took out a cutting board and neatly whacked the two big breasts into four smaller pieces. The whole time she worked, she was brooding about the journalist who’d come into the store. She wasn’t sure what to make of the woman, but she didn’t like the questions she’d asked.
She covered two small jelly-roll pans with foil, patted the chicken pieces dry, and placed them in one pan. She took out the Spike, generously seasoned the chicken breasts, and set them in the oven to bake. When the chicken was close to being done, she’d whack the cardboard tube of dinner rolls on the counter, remove the rolls, and place them in the second pan to bake. She took out a packaged mix of fettuccine amandine, filled a saucepan with water, and lit the fire under it. With the romaine, she’d make a freestanding Caesar salad with the lettuce upright in a bowl, glossy with vinaigrette, and sprinkled with Parmesan cheese.
While the chicken baked, she changed out of her work clothes into shorts and a long-sleeved T-shirt. Joey was home by six thirty and the two sat down to eat. By then, the oven had warmed the apartment, which was scented with the crispy-skinned, succulent baked chicken. This was one of Joey’s favorite meals. With dinner, they each had an oversize goblet of rosé wine.
She pushed her plate back and lit a cigarette. “You’ll never believe what happened at the store today.”
Joey was still eating. “What’s that?”
“This journalist came in asking what I thought about Fritz McCabe getting out of jail.”
“A journalist?”
“From LA. ‘Investigative reporter’ is how she referred to herself.”
As he cut a bite from his chicken breast, he said, “Why would she care what you think about Fritz McCabe?”
“That’s what I said. The problem was she knew about a certain tape that was made way back when. She also knew about the note.”
He put his fork down. “How?”
“How do you think? She mentioned an ‘anonymous party’ demanding a large sum of money or the tape would be turned over to the DA. I tried to pin her down. I knew she was talking about the McCabes, but she wouldn’t actually come out and say so.”
“What’d she say when you asked?”
“Nothing. She sidestepped the question and went on to something else.”
“Did you mention that Fritz called all his pals and told ’em about the threat?”
“I thought it was better to play dumb.”
“You think his parents went out and hired someone?”
“How else would she know what was going on? We said no cops. Maybe they thought it was okay to phone up the newspapers and get the story plastered all over. I was pissed.”
“But why would they do that?” Joey said. “How can they be so dense?”
Iris shrugged. “Strictly speaking, they did as they were told. This is their attempt to do an end run around us. Oh, and catch this. This reporter said ‘the people’ quote marks had no intention of paying. She seemed pretty sure of herself on that score.”
“Well, shit. I don’t like this.”
“Me, neither. I told her the tape was bullshit, just a bunch of us fooling around, but she was all long-faced and serious. She wanted to know who I’d talked to, but I didn’t think it was any of her business.”
“What’s her name again?”
“Hang on. I have it written down.” Iris got up and reached for her purse, where she had the scratch paper where the reporter had written her name and a local phone number. She took out the folded paper and handed it to him.
Joey glanced at it. “I thought she was from LA. This is a local number.”
“She says she can be reached up here. I guess just in case I want to unburden myself and confess all, I have a way to get in touch.”
“You think she’ll pursue it?” Joey asked.
“She’s probably being paid to, don’t you think? I mean, this wasn’t idle curiosity. She was banging away on it. On the other hand, journalists don’t accomplish much of anything as far as I can tell, so what harm can she do?”
“I don’t know. That’s just it.” Joey sat for a moment, mulling over the information, his expression dark. “I was going to suggest it was time to follow up, but now I think we should lay low.”
“I’m not sure about that. Maybe.”
“No maybe to it. Here’s the deal. We do nothing. We don’t fuel the situation by doing something dumb. We just hang loose until we see how smart she is. Chances are we got nothing to worry about.”
“Ha. You hope.”
“Don’t look at me. It’s your game plan,” he said.
“My game plan? Where were you all this time? Last I heard, you loved the whole idea.”
“I wouldn’t say I loved the idea, but I could see your point. Guy gets out of prison and acts like, ho hum, all done, time to get on with life. Where does he get off?”
“Exactly.”
“Other hand, eight years is a chunk of his life any way you look at it. Ask him to cough up a whack of cash on top of that? Might be taking it too far.”
“What are you talking about? You’re not the one who was sexually abused. Everybody in my support group thinks I should hose the guy but good.”
“You discussed this with them? You never told me that. Jesus.”
“Not this. I didn’t say we were blackmailing the guy. Just that it makes me sick to think he can get away with it.”
“What did he get away with? He went to prison.”
“He’s still guilty of having sex with a minor. Now he’s acting like it’s no big deal. He should suffer the way I did.”
“Would you give it a rest? The first date we ever had, you told me this story. Anytime we meet someone new, you manage to work it into the conversation. Sexually abused by a family friend. Someone you knew.”
“Well, it’s true. People should be aware.”
“You’re not making a public service announcement. You get sympathy. That’s why you do it.”
“You’re denigrating my experience. Minimizing the impact. Guys are famous for putting women down. Why don’t you get over it? Why can’t you let it go?” she said mockingly. “What you really mean is, ‘Why make me eat shit for something that happened to you?’”
“How did this turn into a fight between us? I’m on your side. I’ve told you that a hundred times. We’re talking about Fritz.”
“It’s all the same thing. You say ‘Fritz McCabe,’ I hear ‘rape.’”
“Let’s talk about something else,” he said.
“Fine with me. Like what?”
“How about if the money comes through and we use it to take a trip, where would we go?”
8
Tuesday, September 19, 1989
Tuesday afternoon, I closed the office at five. I had toted my portable Smith Corona as far as the door, and I was about to punch in the alarm code when the telephone rang. I was tempted to let the machine pick up, but my conscience got the better of me. I dumped my shoulder bag by the typewriter and went back to my desk, picking up the handset on the third ring.
“Kinsey, it’s Lauren. I wasn’t sure I’d catch you.”
“I was just on my way out.”
“Well, I’ll try not to keep you long. We have a problem.”
“You heard from the extortionist?”
“It’s not that. It’s Fritz. Last night we told him what was going on and he’s not happy with us.”
“Unhappy with you? How so?”
“He’s angry becau
se we’re unwilling to meet the demand. We’ve gone over our reasoning countless times and we’re getting nowhere. We thought he should hear it from you. Is there any way you could pop over here tonight?”
“Of course, though I’m not sure what good it will do. I’ve never met him and I don’t see why my opinion would carry any weight.”
“He says he’ll take off if we don’t come through for him.”
“What, like he’ll run away from home?”
“He says he can’t handle another legal battle.”
“You’re not fond of the idea yourself.”
“I know, but we’re not the ones who’ll end up in jail. He’s come up with a claim about the tape that we think he’s fabricated, but there’s no arguing the point. Maybe you can talk some sense into him. It’s worth a try, isn’t it?”
I could feel myself rolling my eyes. I pictured myself in a verbal tussle with the kid, which would be a colossal waste of time. Then again, she’d written me a check for twenty-five hundred bucks, and so far I didn’t feel I’d earned my keep. “What time?”
“Seven, if that works for you.”
“Sure. I’ll return the tape while I’m at it. I’ll see you then.”
I brooded about the idea during the drive home. To me, it sounded like Fritz was taking control, asserting his point of view over the objections of his parents, who seemed to be throwing up their hands. Did they have no authority? Granted, the kid was twenty-five years old and by rights should have been out on his own, but his years in prison had set him back. With no job and no prospects, he was living with his mommy and daddy again and probably chaffing at his dependency.
I found a decent parking space, hauled the typewriter out of the backseat, and took it with me, pausing at the mailbox on my way through the gate. I extracted a fistful of junk mail, bills, and catalogues, separating my mail from Henry’s as I rounded the corner to the backyard.
This is the sight that greeted me.
Pearl was barefoot, wearing a bedsheet wrapped around herself toga-style. Her shoulders and arms were exposed, her boobs threatening to flop out if she didn’t watch herself. She’d apparently done a load of laundry and she was hanging wet clothes on a makeshift line she’d strung between two of Henry’s fruit trees. She navigated a short path back and forth, bending down to retrieve garments from the laundry basket as she swung herself across the dirt on her crutches. Either she was extremely adept at such maneuvering or she wasn’t as incapacitated as she implied. Her jeans were the size of denim sails and the bra trailing down from the line was large enough to store watermelons. The two shirts she’d pegged to the clothesline looked too small for her, but I wasn’t well acquainted with her wardrobe.
I set the typewriter on my front step, the better to deal with her.
She caught sight of me, but didn’t seem to feel her near-nude state required apology or comment. “I don’t know why Henry don’t plant grass. Look at this dirt ever’where. My feet’s a mess.”
“He’s conserving water. Or trying to,” I said.
“He said I could warsh my stuff, so don’t look at me like that.”
“I was explaining, not criticizing,” I said. “Is he home?”
“He went to the store.”
At that moment, her pup tent gave a shudder and a fellow crawled out through the flaps. Pearl must have done his laundry along with hers, or that was my guess since he wore jeans and nothing else. With my highly developed detective skills, I deduced the shirts hanging on the line were his. He struggled to his feet in a manner that suggested he’d had a bit to drink.
I looked from him to Pearl. “Who’s this?”
“Name’s Lucky. He’s a good friend of mine.”
“What’s he doing here?”
“What’s it look like? He’s hanging out.”
I took in the whole of him with a flick of my eyes, not wanting to stare. I placed him in his sixties. He was a scrawny man, but I could see he’d been muscular once upon a time, his frame now diminished by the years. He was so papered over with tattoos it looked like he’d plastered himself with a soggy sheet of Sunday funnies. The tattoos must have been done when he was in his teens because maturity had added a thick mat of chest hair that obscured some of the art. Age had loosened his skin and several sections of his human sketchbook had sagged, spoiling the effect.
He settled into one of Henry’s Adirondack chairs and extended his legs and bare feet. Beside him, there was a Styrofoam cooler filled with ice and packed with cans of a generic-brand beer. He removed one, popped the tab, and sucked down the contents. I expected an unceremonious belch, but his dainty manners prevailed.
I turned to Pearl. “Does Henry know about this?”
“What’s it to him? This guy’s broke and he’s got no place to stay, so I made room in my tent. Henry ain’t out anything and besides, he hadn’t said no.”
“Have you asked?”
“I will as soon as he gets home.”
“Lucky wasn’t here when he left?”
“He was asleep inside and I guess Henry didn’t notice him. Anyways, it’s none of your business if I entertain my friends. I got rights same as you.”
“Now we’re talking about rights?”
Lucky said, “Now, ladies, there’s no need to fuss. I’m only here for the night on account of the fella at Harbor House kicked me out. And before you ask, I’ll tell you straight out. I was drunk and unruly and the shelter won’t put up with that. Tomorrow, I’ll go back.”
“Good of you to own up. What makes you think they’ll take you?”
“Why wouldn’t they? Sober, I’m gentle as a lamb. It’s only eight or nine beers makes me surly and cantankerous.”
When he grinned, he showed dimples and dark gaps where the better part of his back teeth had been. “I wouldn’t have had them beers in the first place except my dog disappeared. He’s been with me twelve years and now I don’t know where he’s at.”
“That’s too bad,” I said. “Have you called Animal Control?”
“No, but that’s a fine idea. Do you mind if I use your phone?”
“I do mind.”
“Said like someone with a stick up her butt,” Pearl remarked.
I took that moment to escape.
I unlocked the studio and let myself in, placing the mail on my desk and the typewriter underneath. The cat streaked out of nowhere and beat me to the finish line. I might have shooed him out again, but he was good company and put me in a better mood. I closed the door and scooped him up, perched myself on a kitchen stool, and settled him in my lap. Ed was a talkative little fellow and he seemed happy for the audience. Having expressed himself in full, he put his chin on his paws and went to sleep. I moved him to my sofa, where he remained.
I changed into my running clothes and headed for the bike path. My three-mile run is a wonderful way to erase stress. I’m not always in the mood, but I push myself anyway for the relief. I finished my cooldown and came back to the studio, where I showered and dressed.
At six forty-five, having savored a peanut butter and pickle sandwich and tossed my paper towel in the trash, I grabbed my shoulder bag and keys and locked the door behind me. I carried Ed back to Henry’s place and set him inside the kitchen door. I could hear Pearl and Lucky and Henry chatting in the living room while the evening news blasted from the television set. I smelled beef stew and homemade bread, feeling ever so faintly put-upon at the meal I’d missed. Having been raised as an only child, it’s not in my nature to “share.”
The days were getting shorter as autumn crept in, but it was still light outside and the air was pleasantly warm. The drive into town was quick and there was ample parking behind the condominium. I cut through the covered vestibule and emerged onto State Street, where a quick left turn put me at the wooden door that opened onto the stairs. I trotted up to the second floor and
knocked.
Hollis answered the door. “You must be Kinsey. I’m Hollis McCabe. We appreciate your stopping by.”
He extended his hand as he introduced himself. We made the usual polite mouth noises while he ushered me in. He appeared to be older than his wife by a good ten years, his once light-brown hair dusted with gray. He was tall and stoop-shouldered, casually dressed in a brown velour sweat suit. I picked up the scent of the cigar he’d smoked, but the effect wasn’t unpleasant.
He led the way into the living room. I took a seat on the couch while he crossed to a wet bar adjacent to the dining room. He poured bourbon over ice. “How about a drink? You’ll probably need one.”
“Sure. Chardonnay if you have it.”
“Of course.”
I could see then an open bottle of white wine, sitting in a cooler that was silvered with condensation. Lauren approached from the corridor that led to the library and the bedrooms. She wore a hip-length embroidered tunic over tight jeans and she carried an empty wineglass that Hollis topped off at the same time he poured wine for me. She crossed to the couch and settled at the other end.
“Thanks for making the trip.”
“I’m not far. Fifteen minutes max.”
I reached in my bag and removed the tape, which I held out to her.
“Thank you. I’m not sure what I’ll do with it, but it’s probably a good thing to have it in my control.” She set it on the end table beside her.
Hollis carried his bourbon to a chair and sat down, placing his drink on the end table next to him. “You want to fill her in before we get Fritz out here?”
“She should hear the story from him. It will save us the repetition.”
“Your call,” he said.
Lauren set aside her wineglass and walked down the hall. She paused at the first door on the left and knocked. “Fritz? Kinsey’s here.”
His reply was muffled and the tone was argumentative.
“Five minutes, please. She’s doing this as a courtesy,” she said.
“I said I’d be out in a bit!”