J is for Judgment (Kinsey Millhone 10)

“Call her up. Say hello. Introduce yourself.”

I could feel myself squirm. “I’m not going to do that,” I said. “I’m going to let it sit.” “Dogged” is the word that would probably describe my tone, not that I’m bullheaded about things like this.

“Let it sit, then,” he said with the slightest of shrugs.

“I am. I intend to. Anyway, look how much time has passed since my parents were killed. It’d be weird to make contact.”

“You said that before.”

“Well, it’s the truth!”

“So don’t make contact. You’re absolutely right.”

“I won’t. I’m not going to,” I said irritably. Personally, I found it irksome to be agreed with like that. He could have urged me to do otherwise. He could have suggested a plan of action. Instead he was telling me what I was telling him. Everything sounded so much more reasonable when I said it. What he repeated back to me seemed stubborn and argumentative. I couldn’t figure out what was wrong with him unless this was some kind of weird response to all the refined sugar in the brownies.

The conversation shifted to William and Rosie. Nothing new to report. Sports and politics we reduced to one sentence each. Shortly thereafter I went home to my place, feeling out of sorts. Henry seemed fine, but it felt as though we’d had a terrible argument. I didn’t sleep that well, either.

It was still raining at 5:59, and I skipped my run. My cold symptoms had improved, but it still didn’t seem smart to exercise in a downpour. It was hard to realize that just a week ago I was lying by a pool down in Mexico, swabbing myself with unnatural substances. I lingered in bed, staring up at the skylight. The clouds were the color of old galvanized pipes, and the day fairly cried out for some serious reading. I extended one arm and studied the artificial tan, which had faded by now to a pale peach. I raised one bare leg, noticing for the first time all the streaking around my ankle. Jesus, I could do with a shave. It looked as if I had taken to wearing angora knee socks. Finally, bored with self-inspection, I dragged my butt out of bed. I showered, shaved my legs, and dressed, choosing fresh jeans and a cotton sweater since I’d be lunching with Harris Brown. I took myself out to breakfast, loading up on fats and carbohydrates, nature’s antidepressants. Ida Ruth had told me she was coming in late, authorizing my use of her parking spot. I rolled into the office at nine on the dot.

Alison was talking on the telephone when I arrived. She held a hand up like a traffic cop, indicating some kind of message. I paused, waiting for a break in her conversation. “That’s fine, no problem. Take your time,” she said. She put a palm across the mouthpiece while the other party was apparently taking care of other business. “I put someone in your office. I hope you don’t mind. I’ll hold your calls.”

“What for?”

Her attention jumped back to the telephone, and I assumed the other party had finally returned. I shrugged and walked down the interior corridor to my office, where the door was standing open. There was a woman at the window with her back to me.

I moved to my desk and slung my handbag on the chair. “Hi. Can I help you?”

She turned around and looked at me with the sort of curiosity reserved for celebrities at close range. I found myself looking at her the same way. We were enough alike to be sisters. Her face was as familiar as the faces in a dream, recognizable but not bearing up well to close scrutiny. Our features were not identical by any means. She looked not like me, but like the way I felt I looked to others. As I studied her, the resemblance faded. Quickly I could see that we were more dissimilar than similar. She was five feet two to my five feet six, heavier in a way that suggested rich food and no exercise. I’d been jogging for years, and I was sometimes conscious of the ways my basic build had been affected by all the miles I’d put in. She was heavy-breasted, broader in the beam. At the same time, she was better groomed. I had a glimpse of what I might have looked like if I paid the money for a decent haircut, learned the rudiments of makeup, and dressed with flair. The outfit she wore was a cream-colored washable silk: a long, gathered skirt and matching cardigan-style jacket, with a coral-colored silk tank top visible underneath. Through the magic of fashion, some of her chunkiness was hidden, the eye distracted by all the flowing lines.

She smiled and held out her hand. “Hello, Kinsey. Nice to meet you. I’m your cousin, Liza.”

“How did you get here?” I asked. “I only found out yesterday I might have relatives in the area.”