W is for Wasted (Kinsey Millhone 23)

“I was. David and I went next door at six o’clock for a potluck supper. I brought a three-bean salad and homemade rolls. Evelyn made that casserole she does with cauliflower, sour cream, and grated cheese. I’ve asked for the recipe four times, but she won’t give it to me, which I told David is just typical of her.”

“Did you have a pleasant evening?”

“We did. The pastor of our church and his wife were there. We had supper and then talked about raising money for the new Sunday-school building.”

“David’s your husband?”

“Yes, but you know he went out some time ago and hasn’t come back since. He’ll be upset if he hears that woman’s been bossing me around. Do you know who she is?”

“I believe she’s your cousin, Alice.”

“The visiting nurse said the same thing, but I know Alice and that’s not her.”

“Do you remember where Terrence was that night?”

“At the house with the rest of us. The pastor’s wife brought meatloaf, which I thought was too dry—though please don’t repeat what I said. When Terrence went to the store for ice cream, the pastor halted the discussion, thinking he might have something to add when he got back. Evelyn told him vanilla and he bought peppermint. Was she upset? Oh, my stars. That woman can throw a fit. Are you a friend of hers?”

“I haven’t met her,” I said. “What’s she like?”

“Crazy as a loon.” She crossed her eyes, stuck her tongue out the side of her mouth, and made a circle with her index finger at her temple.

“Lolly, can you tell me who’s president of the United States?”

She leaned forward and put a finger to her lips. “I didn’t vote for him. Don’t tell.”

“What’s his name again?”

“Richard Nixon.”

I stayed long enough for half a glass of lemonade and some inconsequential chat. I kept a discreet eye on my watch and at 9:45 I excused myself, saying I had to get back to the hotel in order to check out. I thanked Lolly for her time. I thanked Alice for allowing me to come. When she accompanied me back through the house to the front door, I saw no sign of the flowers or the box of candy I’d brought. I hoped Lolly got something out of the deal. Did I trust her recollection? I most certainly did.

•   •   •

I crossed the lobby of the Holiday Inn on my way to the elevators. I’d planned to check out before Mamie and Evelyn arrived, but it occurred to me I should hang on to my room so I could put a call through to Henry prior to my departure. I had just enough time now to pack my belongings and get myself centered before the meeting. I could also use the opportunity to make a few quick notes.

A woman called out, “Kinsey?”

I knew the minute I turned around I was looking at Ethan’s wife. Mamie wasn’t fat by any means, but she was solid. She was taller than I and a good forty pounds heavier. Dark eyes, dark hair skinned back and held with a clip at the nape of her neck. Her face was full, tanned as though she spent all of her waking hours outdoors. She was packed into a pair of black slacks and a crisp white blouse, the shirttail out and belted at the waist. She wore big silver hoop earrings and she carried the manila envelope I’d left behind with Ethan. I knew it was the same because in one corner, I could still see the imprint of Binky’s wee front teeth.

Behind Mamie, seated on the couch, was Evelyn Dace, whose expression I can only describe as sorrowful. She wore a lightweight tweed suit, wren brown, with a white polyester blouse under the jacket topped by a big softly draped bow.

Mamie was holding her hand out. “Mamie Heisermann.” Her voice was of the booming type.

I shook hands with her obligingly, murmuring exactly what one does in situations of the kind.

“Let me introduce you to Evelyn,” she said. “I hope you don’t mind our coming early.”

“Not at all,” I said, though I did mind. The move was meant to catch me off guard, which it had. In the meantime, I couldn’t help but think that Ethan and Mamie were as unlikely a married couple as any I’d seen. She carried herself with authority. He seemed both self-involved and clueless about others’ perception of him. I was impressed by his stage persona, but not with the man himself. I wondered if Mamie had any idea how he behaved when he was out of her sight. Surely, any woman married to a musician has some inkling of what goes on.

I tagged Evelyn Dace at roughly her ex-husband’s age, which I knew was fifty-three at the time of his death. Her eyes were blue, but not the same bright shade as Anna’s. The orbs of her eyes seemed sunken, defined by shadow. She kept her smile modest, as though the hardships in life had robbed her of humor and hope.