J is for Judgment (Kinsey Millhone 10)

As usual, the place was jumping and my favorite table in the rear was occupied by a gang of rowdies. There was no sign of Rosie, but William was perched on a stool at the bar, surveying the premises with a look of sublime satisfaction. All the patrons seemed to know him, and there was much good-natured bantering going back and forth.

Henry was seated at a table by himself, his head bent above a pad of paper, where he was mapping out a crossword puzzle entitled “I Spy with My Little Eye.” He’d been working on this one for the better part of a week, using espionage novels and old television shows as the underlying theme. He published regularly in the little crossword puzzle books you see in grocery store lines. Aside from the fact that he picks up some extra money, he’s actually known by name among crossword puzzle buffs. He was wearing chinos and a white T-shirt, his face creased with concentration. I took the liberty of pulling out an extra chair at his table, turning it around so that the back rested against the table. I straddled the chair and rested my arms along the top rail.

Henry sent an irritated look in my direction and then relaxed when he saw it was me. “I thought you were one of ‘them.’”

I looked around at the crowd. “Where’d we go wrong? A year ago there was never anybody in the place. Now it’s a zoo. How’s it going?”

“I need an eight-letter word that starts with ‘I.’ It can end in anything … more or less.”

A word flashed through my head, and I counted on my fingers. “Impostor,” I said.

He stared at me blankly, doing the mental arithmetic. “Not bad. I’ll take it. How about five letters down—”

“Stop right there,” I said, cutting in. “You know I’m terrible at this stuff, and it just makes me tense. I scored once by a fluke. I think I’ll retire while I’m ahead.”

He tossed his notepad on the table and placed his pencil behind his left ear. “You’re right. It’s time to pack it in for the day. What are you having? I’ll buy you a drink.”

“Nothing for me. I’m about partied out, but I’ll keep you company if you’re having one.”

“I’m fine for now. How’d you do with Dana Jaffe? Did you get anyplace?”

“I didn’t expect to. I was just making her acquaintance. I also had a chat with Wendell’s ex-partner.”

“And what did he have to say?”

As I filled him in on my conversations with Dana Jaffe and Carl Eckert, I saw Henry’s gaze stray toward the kitchen and I found myself turning automatically. “Well, would you look at that,” I said.

William was emerging with a tray full of food, a not inconsiderable burden for a man of eighty-six. As usual, he was decked out in a three-piece suit with a properly starched white shirt and a crisply knotted tie. He looked enough like Henry to be his twin, though in reality the two men were two years apart. At the moment, William was looking very pleased with himself, high-spirited and energetic. It was the first time I’d registered the changes in him. Seven months before, when he’d moved in with Henry, he’d been morbidly self-obsessed, continually cross-referencing his various illnesses and infirmities. He’d brought his medical records with him when he arrived from the Midwest, and he was constantly assessing the state of his health: his heart palpitations, his digestive tract, his allergies, his suspicions about diseases undiscovered yet. A favorite pastime of his was cruising local funerals, where he commiserated with the other mourners to assure himself he wasn’t dead yet. After he and Rosie fell in love, he’d begun to lighten up, until now he worked a full day, side by side with her. Sensing that we were watching, he grinned happily. He set down the tray of food and began to unload plates. One of the patrons at the table made some remark to him. William crowed with delight and high-fived the guy on the spot.

“What’s he so happy about?”

“He asked Rosie to marry him.”

I stared at Henry, startled. “You’re kidding. He did? God, that’s great. What a hoot! I can’t believe it!”

“‘A hoot’ is not exactly how I’d refer to it. This just goes to show what happens when you ‘live in sin.’”

“They’ve lived in sin for a week. Now he’s making her an ‘honest’ woman, whatever that means. I think it’s sweet.” I put a hand on Henry’s arm, giving it a shake. “You don’t really mind, do you? I mean, way down deep.”

“Let’s put it this way. I’m not as appalled as I thought I’d be. I resigned myself to the possibility the day he moved in. He’s too conventional a fellow to flaunt proprieties.”