S is for Silence (Kinsey Millhone 19)

At close range, the word “corpulent” was more appropriate than “heavyset” in capturing his girth. He looked as though a simple walk to his car would leave him wheezing and short of breath. There was no ashtray in sight, but I smelled the cigarette smoke that clung to his clothes and breath. Under his chin, a second chin bulged, leaving his shirt collar so taut it might choke him to death if he bent to tie his shoes. He still had most of his hair, which he wore long and curly on top, brushed back in a style I hadn’t seen since the days when Elvis Presley got his start.

I’d scarcely sat down when his telephone rang. “Excuse me,” he said, and picked up. “This is Winston Smith.” And then, with caution, “What’s up?”

I had no way of knowing who was on the other end of the line, but he flicked a quick look in my direction and angled his body for privacy. “Hang on a sec.” He put the caller on hold. “Let me take care of this and I’ll be right back.”

“Sure thing.”

He left the cubicle. I watched line one blink red until he picked up the call from a nearby phone. On the wall across from me, his sales manuals were lined up on a built-in credenza. In a prominent position, there was a color photograph of a bride and groom on what I assumed was their wedding day. I crossed and picked up the framed photo for closer scrutiny. Winston must have been in his midtwenties, slim, handsome, curly-haired, and boyish, his tuxedo contributing an air of casual elegance. At his side, a hefty Kathy Cramer was squeezed into a wedding dress so tight it must have hurt to breathe. Above the sweetheart neckline, her breasts were plumped like two homemade yeast rolls that had risen and were ready to pop in the oven. In the years since that day, the two had reversed roles. Now she was trim, an exercise addict, while he’d apparently surrendered all hope of getting into shape. What was up with that? I kept thinking about Tannie’s offhand remark, that Winston knew more about Violet than he’d admitted.

I replaced the photo and took my seat again mere moments before he returned, murmuring, “Sorry about that.” He sat down again, but something in his manner had shifted. “My wife,” he said, by way of explanation. “She called while I was with a customer and I had to put her off. Don’t want to do that twice.”

“No problem. I had a chat with her earlier and she showed me the house. Nice place.”

“Should be for the price we paid,” he said with a quick forced smile.

“You play golf?”

He shook his head. “She’s the golfer. I keep my nose to the grindstone. If you notice me limp, it’s from dragging my ball and chain.” He laughed when he said it and I smiled in response, thinking, Ding, ding, ding, ding.

I said, “I could never see the point of golf myself. Chasing a ball and then hitting it with a stick? Though now that I think about it, that describes a lot of sports. What about your daughters? Are they golfers?”

“Amber was taking lessons before she left for Spain, but we’ll see where that goes. She’s easily bored so she’ll doubtless move on to something else. Brittany’s not athletic by any stretch. I’m sure Kathy’d tell you that she takes after me.”

“I understand Tiffany’s getting married in June.”

“Ka-ching, ka-ching, ” he said, pretending to punch up sales on a cash register. “You know how much weddings cost these days?”

“Not a clue.”

“Me, neither. Kathy keeps me in the dark so I can’t object. I’m sure it’s something close to the national debt.”

We both laughed at that, though the observation didn’t seem at all funny to me. Clearly Winston and his wife weren’t operating off the same page.

He pulled out a handkerchief and blotted his upper lip where a subtle sheen of moisture had appeared. He returned the handkerchief to his back pocket. “Anyway, she tells me you have questions about Violet Sullivan.”

“If you don’t mind,” I said, expecting the standard assurance that the subject was really no big deal.

“Doesn’t matter if I do or not, I’m under orders,” he said, again with that quick, easy laugh to show what a wag he was.

Mentally I squinted, listening to the second set of comments embedded in the first. I’m not a fan of doublespeak. His asides were the sort offered by married couples who banter in public, airing their grievances with an eye to soliciting outside support. If Kathy had been with us, she’d have countered with a few ha-has of her own, thus guaranteeing a laugh at his expense. He would have joined in the merriment, which is what seemed pitiful to me. The man was in pain.