I is for Innocent (Kinsey Millhone 9)

"I'm swamped. You couldn't have called at a worse time," she said. "I'm a sculptor with a show coming up in two days. Every minute I've got is devoted to that."

"What about coffee or a glass of wine later this afternoon? It doesn't have to be nine to five. I can come at your convenience."

"But it has to be today, right? Can't it wait a week?"

"We have a court date coming up." We're all busy, I thought.

"Look, I don't mean to sound bitchy, but she's been gone for six years. Whatever happens to David Barney, it won't bring her back to life. So what's the point, you know?"

I said, "There's no point to anything if you get right down to it. We could all blow our brains out, but we don't. Sure, she's gone, but her death doesn't have to be senseless."

There was a silence. I knew she didn't want to do it and I hated to press, but this was serious.

She shifted her position, still annoyed, but willing to bend a bit. "Jesus. I teach drawing at Adult Ed from seven to ten o'clock tonight. If you stop by, we can talk while the students work. That's the best I can do."

"Great. That's perfect. I appreciate your help."

She gave me directions. "Room ten, at the back."

"I'll see you there."

I arrived home at 5:35 and saw that Henry's kitchen light was on. I walked from my back door to his, peering in through the screen. He was sitting in his rocker with his daily glass of Jack Daniel's, reading the paper while his supper cooked. Through the screen, I was assailed by the heady scent of frying onions and sausage. Henry set his paper aside. "Come on in."

I opened the screen door and stepped into the kitchen. A big pot of water was just coming to a boil and I could see tomato sauce simmering on the back burner. "Hi, babe, how are you? Whatever you're cooking, it smells divine."

He'd be handsome at any age, but at eighty-three he was elegant- tall, lean, with snowy white hair and blue eyes that seemed to burn in his tanned face. "I'm putting together a lasagna for later. William gets in tonight." Henry's older brother William, who was eighty-five to his eighty-three, had suffered a heart attack in August and hadn't been doing well since. Henry had debated a trip back to Michigan to see him, but had decided to postpone the visit until William's health improved. Apparently he was better because Henry'd received a call to say he was coming here.

"That's right. I forgot. Well, that should be an adventure. How long will he stay?"

"I agreed to two weeks, longer if I can stand him. It'll be a pain in the ass. Physically, he's recovered, but he's been depressed for months. Really down in the dumps. Lewis says he's totally self-obsessed. I'm sure Lewis is sending him out here to get even with me."

"What did you do to him?"

"Oh, who knows? He won't say. You know how parental Lewis gets. He likes to have me think about my sins in case there's one I haven't told him about. I stole a girl from him once back in 1926. I think this is to retaliate for her, but maybe not. He's got a long memory and not a shred of beneficence." Henry's brother Lewis was eighty-six. His brother Charlie was ninety-one, and his only sister would be ninety-four on the thirty-first of December. "Actually, I'll bet it wasn't his idea at all. Nell's probably throwing William out. She never liked him that much and now she says all he does is talk about death. She doesn't want to hear it with a birthday coming up. Says it's bumming her out."

"What time's his plane get in?"

"Eight-fifteen, if it doesn't crash, of course. I thought I'd bring him back here for salad and lasagna, maybe go up to Rosie's for a beer after that. You want to join us for supper? I made a cherry pie for dessert. Well, actually, I made six. The other five go to Rosie to pay off my bar tab." Rosie's is the local tavern, run by a Hungarian woman with an unpronounceable last name. Since Henry's retirement from commercial baking, he's begun to barter his wares. He also caters tea parties in the neighborhood, where he's much in demand.

"Can't do it," I said. "I've got an appointment at seven and it may run late. I thought I'd grab a quick bite up at Rosie's before I head out."

"Maybe you can catch us tomorrow. I don't know how we'll spend the day. Depressed people never do much. I'll probably sit around and watch him take his Elavil."

The building that houses Rosie's looks as if it might once have been a grocer's. The exterior is plain and narrow, the plate-glass windows obscured by peeling beer ads and buzzing neon signs. The tavern is sandwiched between an appliance repair shop and an ill-lighted Laundromat whose patrons wander into Rosie's to wait out their washing cycles, chugging beer and smoking cigarettes. The floors are wooden. The walls are plywood, stained a dark mahogany. The booths that line the perimeter are crudely built, destined to give you splinters if you slide too fast across the seat. There are eight to ten tables with black Formica tops, usually one leg out of four slightly shorter than the rest. Mealtime at Rosie's is often spent trying to right the wobble, with the endless intervention of stacked paper matchbooks and folded napkins. The lighting is the sort that makes you look like you've been abusing your Tan-in-a-Bottle.