X (Kinsey Millhone 24)

I held up the bag. “The items you asked for. Receipt’s in the bag.”

“Thank you,” she said as she took it. “Tell Henry how much I appreciate his kindness. He’s considerate of others.”

“How’s Joseph feeling?”

For a fraction of a second, her look was blank, and then she caught herself. “Better. I fixed him a bowl of soup and now he’s having a rest.”

“Good to hear.” I expected mention of reimbursement, but it didn’t seem to occur to her. When she moved to close the front door, I caught it by the edge.

“You want to pay him in cash or write a check?”

She dropped her gaze. I wondered what I’d have seen if she’d continued to make eye contact. She smiled with her lips together, creating a dimple in each cheek. The effect was curious. Malice surfaced and then disappeared.

“You didn’t tell me how much it was,” she murmured, as though the fault were mine.

“Receipt’s in there if you want to take a look.”

“Of course. If you’ll wait, I’ll find my pocketbook.”

She took the bag and retreated, leaving the door ajar. I could hear her steps receding on the hardwood floor. When she returned minutes later, she handed me a twenty-dollar bill and a five. No change and no receipt, which meant I couldn’t call her on the fact that she’d shorted Henry by sixty-six cents.

•   •   •

On my way back to the studio, I saw McClaskey and Henry seated at his kitchen table with their heads bent together. I was fuming about Edna’s mistreatment of Henry, but if I brought it to his attention, he’d wave the matter aside. Sixty-six cents was minor. He’d never make a fuss about something so insignificant, and he’d never believe she’d acted out of spite that was actually directed at me. He was good-natured and generous. As is true of many such souls, he assumed others operated out of the same good will that motivated him.

I could feel the office beckon. Lately, I’ve noticed an impulse to retreat to a place where I feel competent. Though I was reluctant to admit it, in addition to being annoyed with Edna, I was irritated with Ruth. I had a hypothesis that made perfect sense, and she wasn’t buying it. It was obvious someone was sniffing around the edges of her life. Of course, I had no proof it was Ned Lowe. I’d debunked “George Dayton’s” phony claim, but neither of us knew who he really was or why he’d gone to such lengths. Beyond that, I had no support for my suspicions about the junk man. It meant little that his phone was not in service. His business might be seasonal, and undercapitalized at that. He was a citizen with a big truck and a willingness to dirty his hands.

This is the downside of intuition: when it feels so exactly right, other people’s skepticism is infuriating. Once again, I was reminded I hadn’t been hired to do anything and I wasn’t getting paid. I thought I was being “helpful,” which is usually a mistake. If I wanted to prove my point, I’d have to tackle the list and fill in the blanks. I had the name Susan Telford in Henderson, Nevada. I also had Janet Macy in Tucson and Phyllis Joplin, Ned’s second wife. I might start with her. Perdido was twenty-five miles south. I’d pick up a phone number for her from directory assistance as soon as I had a minute.

I parked in the short drive that ran between my bungalow and the one on my right. I let myself in and picked up the mail strewn on the floor just inside the door. The air smelled unpleasant. There was the strong overlay of scorched coffee, and I chided myself for forgetting to turn off the machine the day before. I caught a whiff of another odor suggestive of plumbing issues. Meanwhile, the message light was blinking on my answering machine. I tossed the mail on the desk, leaned over, and pressed Play.

“Hi, Kinsey. This is Taryn Sizemore. Sorry I missed you, but I was hoping to stop by your office this morning. It finally dawned on me there’s no reason in the world I shouldn’t talk to you about Ned. Apologies for the paranoia, but I’m afraid the man has that effect. If you’re tied up, let me know. Otherwise, I’ll be there as soon as I’m finished with my ten o’clock appointment. My number in case you don’t have it is . . .”

I was busy jotting down the number, so it took me a moment to register my surroundings. I set the pen aside, and when I looked up, I uttered a yelp of dismay. Every item on my desk—including papers and pens, my blotter, my calendar, and the telephone—was off by two degrees. File drawers were open half an inch. The window blinds had been raised and secured at an incline. This doesn’t sound like a big deal, but believe me, it is. As was also true of Ruthie, I like things squared up. Being tidy is essential to my peace of mind. In the chaotic world of crime and criminals, maintaining order is my way of asserting control.