I hung the uniform on a peg, ready for my next day’s work. It was almost 5:00 by then, time, I thought, to check in with Henry back in Michigan. I hadn’t talked to him since Monday, and I felt a twinge of guilt that poor Nell and her broken hip hadn’t even crossed my mind. I sat down at my desk and punched in the Michigan number, mentally composing a summary of what had transpired over the past couple of days. The number rang five times and just when I thought the machine would kick in, Henry’s brother Charlie picked up. “Pitts. This is Charlie. You’ll have to speak up. I’m deaf as a post.”
I raised my voice. “Charlie? This is Kinsey. Out in California.”
“Who?”
“KINSEY. HENRY’S CALIFORNIA NEIGHBOR. IS HE THERE?”
“Who?”
“HENRY.”
“Oh. Hang on.”
I could hear muffled conversation and then Henry took the handset, saying, “This is Henry.”
Once we sorted out who was who, Henry brought me up to speed on Nell’s condition. “She’s fine. She’s tough as nails and never a word of complaint.” He said she’d be in a residential rehab facility for another ten days. They’d come up with a pain-management plan to help her tolerate the physical therapy sessions twice a day. Meanwhile, Henry, Charlie, and Lewis spent the better part of the day with her, playing board games to keep her mind off her infirmity. As soon as she mastered her walker, she’d be allowed to come home. “How’s your shin?” he asked.
I pulled up the leg of my jeans and had a look, as though he could see it as well. “More blue than purple and my palm’s just about healed.”
“Well, that’s good. Everything else okay?”
I filled him in on the latest developments, including Marvin Striker’s hiring me to look into Audrey’s death, my trip to San Luis Obispo, and my theory about her involvement in organized retail crime.
Henry was properly sympathetic, mystified, and outraged depending on what part of the story I was telling him, and he asked enough pertinent questions to fill in the blanks. “I’d offer to help, but there’s not much I can do at this remove,” he said.
“Actually, there is. I need to borrow your station wagon for a day or two.”
“No problem. You know where I keep the keys.”
On we went in this fashion and when we finally said our good-byes, I realized we’d been on the phone for forty-five minutes.
As usual, I was starving to death, so I grabbed my shoulder bag and a jacket, locked my door, and trotted up the street to Rosie’s. Claudia Rines was sitting at a table near the door. She had a drink in front of her, grapefruit juice by the look of it, probably laced with vodka.
I said, “Hey, how are you?”
“Fine. I feel like I haven’t talked to you in weeks.”
“It’s been five days, but I know what you mean. You’re meeting Drew?”
“As soon as he takes his break. Are you up for a drink?”
“I’d love one, but just until he arrives. I don’t want to horn in on your dinner plans. Is that vodka and grapefruit juice?”
“It is. William brought in fresh-squeezed juice just for me. You ought to try it.”
“Hang on,” I said. We both turned to catch William’s eye. Claudia held her drink up, indicating she needed a refill. I pointed to myself and held up two fingers. He nodded and leaned down to open the small refrigerator under the bar.
I turned back to Claudia. “So what’s up?”
“Too bad you weren’t here sooner. You just missed a friend of yours.”
“Sorry to hear that. Who?”
“Diana somebody. She works for the local paper.”
“You’re kidding me. When was this?”
“I don’t know, maybe fifteen minutes ago. She came in shortly after I did and introduced herself. She said she didn’t want to be a bother, but she had a few questions about my encounter with Audrey Vance.”
“How did she know who you were?”
“I thought you told her.”
“I never said a word.”
“That’s odd. She knew I worked at Nordstrom’s and she knew I was there when Audrey was arrested. She said she was fact-checking a few items her editor wanted confirmed. I just assumed she’d spoken to you first and was filling in the holes.”
“No way. She showed up at my office on Wednesday, wanting to be all buddy-buddy. I don’t talk to her about anything because I know how she operates. She’ll extract all kinds of information while swearing up and down your comments are off the record.”
“She said that just now, literally word for word. I told her I couldn’t discuss Nordstrom’s business. Mr. Koslo takes a dim view of reporters. He’s also paranoid about getting involved in the middle of a lawsuit. Not that there is one.”
“So what’d you tell her?”
“Nothing. I referred her to him. That seemed to annoy her, but I couldn’t see putting my job at risk, even if she’s a friend of yours.”
“She’s not a friend. I swear. I can’t stand the woman. She’s a pushy, calculating bitch.” I gave her a summary of her relationship to Michael Sutton and how that disaster had played out.
“What’s her interest in Audrey?” Claudia asked.
“She heard about Audrey’s suicide and now she wants to write an article about all the people who’ve taken headers off the Cold Spring Bridge. She went to Audrey’s visitation and saw my name in the guest register. Then she wheedled her way into Marvin’s good graces and he made the mistake of sending her to me. I had a fit when I realized what was going on. He’s since repented, I’m happy to report.”
“Oh, lord. She sounds like trouble. I had no idea.”
I looked up to see William approaching the table with my vodka and grapefruit juice in one hand and hers in the other. I said, “Thanks. This looks great.”
“I hope you enjoy it,” he said and then returned to the bar.
Claudia and I resumed our conversation, though there wasn’t much more to say on the subject. She was relieved to hear she hadn’t caused offense by refusing to discuss Audrey Vance with my good friend Diana Alvarez, and I was relieved she’d kept her mouth shut for reasons of her own.
In the interest of work, I skipped my run the next morning. I ate a bowl of Cheerios, then showered and donned my uniform à la Santa Teresa Services. Shoulder bag in tow, I put my sandwich-board sign in Henry’s station wagon and backed out of the garage. The school day at Climping Academy started at 8:00. By 7:30 I was parked on the berm at the bottom of the drive with my sign, which read:
This Vehicle Count is part of an Environmental Impact Study and represents your tax dollars at work. We thank you for your cooperation and apologize for any inconvenience. Drive safely!
I stood on the side of the road in my uniform, tally counter in hand, clicking off cars as they passed. On the plus side of the ledger, my shin felt better, still bruised I knew, but not throbbing. On the minus side was a visitor. Five minutes after I set up shop, a Horton Ravine patrol car rolled by and pulled over to the side of the road. The driver got out and ambled in my direction. He was wearing dark trousers and a white short-sleeve shirt. I didn’t think he was a “real” policeman. He might have been a cop wannabe, but he wasn’t driving a black-and-white, he had no badge, and he wasn’t wearing a regulation uniform for either the STPD or the sheriff’s department. In addition, he wasn’t carrying a handgun, a night stick, or a heavy-duty flashlight, which might serve as a weapon if I needed to be subdued. I was engrossed in my car count so I couldn’t give him my undivided attention.
Blond, midthirties, trim, with a pleasant demeanor. He took out a pen and pad and prepared to take notes or write a ticket, I wasn’t sure which. “Good morning. How are you?” he asked.
“I’m fine, thanks. How about yourself?”