P is for Peril (Kinsey Millhone 16)

I peered into the upper portion of his backdoor. He was seated at the table, which was littered with paperwork: stacks of medical statements, canceled checks, and receipts, all sorted into piles. He was wearing his bathrobe, a ratty blue-flannel number with blue-and-white striped pyjamas visible under it, cuffs drooping over his battered leather slippers. On the floor near his feet, he'd placed a wastebasket and the brown accordion file he was using to organize Klotilde's bills. The grocery bag of bills Rosie'd given him was sitting on a chair and still appeared to be half-full. As I looked on, he ran a hand through his hair, leaving strands sticking out in three directions. He reached for his glass of Jack Daniel's and took a swallow, then frowned when he realized the ice had long since melted. He got up and moved to the sink, where he tossed the watery contents.

I called, "Henry," and then tapped on the glass. He looked over, unperturbed by the interruption, and gestured for me to enter. I tried the knob and pointed. "Door's locked."

Henry let me in. While I doffed my slicker and hung it over the back of the chair, he opened the freezer door and removed a handful of ice cubes, which he plunked in his glass, pouring a fresh round of whiskey over them. I picked up the scent of his afternoon baking- something with cinnamon, almond extract, butter, and yeast.

The litter on the table looked even worse at close range. "This is cute. How's it coming? I'm almost afraid to ask."

"Terrible. Just awful. The codes are gibberish. I can't figure out who owes what or which of these is paid. I had 'em sorted by date, but that turned out to be pointless. Now I'm filing them by doctor, hospital, and procedure, and I seem to be getting somewhere. I don't know how people ever make sense of these things. It's ridiculous."

"I told you not to do it."

"I know, but I said I'd help and I hate to go back on my word."

"Oh, quit being such a wuss and give the damn things back to her."

"What's she going to do with them?"

"She'll figure it out or she can have William do it. Klotilde was his sister-in-law. Why should you get stuck?"

"I feel sorry for her. Klotilde was her only sister and it's bound to be tough."

"She didn't even like Klotilde. They barely spoke to each other and when they did, they fought."

"Don't be so hard on her. Rosie has a good heart," he said. Having bitched, he now felt guilty for complaining behind her back. I could see that arguing with the man was only going to make things worse.

Mentally, I rolled my eyes. "I'll let you off the hook temporarily, but I won't give up."

Henry took a seat at the table. "So what's up with you? You look beat."

"I am." I lifted a stack of medical statements from the seat of the chair and stood there, puzzled about what to do with them.

Henry jumped up. "Here, let me take care of those." He handed me his drink while he shoved the papers to one side and cleared a space at the table. He scooped up the grocery bag and the accordion file and put both on the floor, then took the papers from my hand and put them on the floor as well.

I said, "Thanks" and took a swallow of Jack Daniel's, which flamed through my system like a sudden case of heartburn. I could feel my tension ease and realized, belatedly, how very tired I was. My head had begun to pound in a rhythm with my pulse. Ka-thong, ka-thong. I passed the glass back to him and sank into the chair he'd just cleared.

"What's going on?"

"We found Dr. Purcell's car and his body-assuming it's him. I can't really talk about it yet. Give me a few minutes to collect myself."

"Can I fix you a drink?"

"Don't think so, but if you have any Tylenol, I could use about forty, preferably extra-strength."

"I have something better. You just stay where you are."

"No problem. I'm incapable of moving. I'll fill you in momentarily unless I pass out first."

I crossed my arms on the table in front of me and laid my head down, feeling my body go limp. This was the pre-nap posture we adopted in "kinneygarden" and it still represents the ultimate in personal relief. At the age of five, I learned to drop into a deep sleep the minute my head hit my arms. I'd wake ten minutes later, the nerve endings in my fingers all sparkly for lack of circulation, my cheek hot with dreams.

I heard Henry cross to the refrigerator and transfer containers to the counter. I listened to the restful clink of jars and cutlery. It was like being in a sickbed, hearing homely sounds emanating from a nearby room. I must have dozed for a moment, the same fleeting lapse of awareness that'll send you careening off the highway when it happens at the wheel. Sound faded and returned, a brief slip into unconsciousness. "What are you doing?" I murmured, without lifting my head.