Q is for Quarry (Kinsey Millhone 17)

“What’s he think it is?”

“She, goddammit! And don’t interrupt. I was just getting to that. Doc says it could be scar tissue, it could be the remains of a dying tumor, or it might be our old friend lymphoma cropping up again. They can’t tell from the film. So first thing tomorrow morning, I’m scheduled for a biopsy. Lucky I’m here is how they put it to me. Lucky my back feels like shit, they said. Without back pain, no X-ray. Without the X-ray, this whatever I’ve got would have gone undetected until the next follow-up appointment, which isn’t on the books for months.” He pointed at Dolan. “And don’t say ‘I told you so’ because I don’t want to hear it.”

“I’d never say that—though I’ll admit I did mention it.”

I thought he was pushing his luck, but Stacey laughed.

Dolan said, “So when do you get out?”

“They haven’t told me yet. Meantime, I’m not lying here idle. I put in another call to the Sheriff’s Department. Joe Mandel’s made detective so I’m hoping he’ll let us take a look at the Jane Doe evidence.”

“Kinsey and I can do that.”

“Not without me. You want to keep me alive, you better do what I say.”

“Bullshit. That’s blackmail.”

“That’s exactly right. So tell me about Rickman. I could use a good laugh about now.”

I had dinner that night at Rosie’s, so grateful to have her home I could have kissed the hem of her muumuu. Since the tavern had been closed for two weeks, the smell of beer and cigarette smoke had nearly faded from the air. In her absence, she’d had a cleaning crew come in and scrub the place down. Floors now gleamed, wood surfaces were polished, and the mirror behind the bar reflected the rows of liquor bottles with a sparkle that suggested expensive handblown glass. The crowd that night was light, the usual patrons perhaps still unaware that the restaurant was open for business again.

William stood behind the bar, pulling beers and pouring drinks for the smattering of customers. Henry sat at his usual table, amusing himself with a book of anagrams. At his invitation, I took a seat across from him. I looked over as Rosie emerged from the kitchen with an armload of what appeared to be slim binders. She crossed the room, heading in our direction, clearly pleased with herself. She handed a binder to me and a second to Henry. I thought they might be picture albums, but I opened the front cover and found myself staring at a handwritten menu done in a calligraphic script.

“This is different,” I remarked.

“Is new menu. So I don’t hef to tell every dish what I’m cooking. William wrote by hand and then went to photo copy shop and hed them print. You order anything you want and what you can’t say in Henglish you point.” She stood and looked at us expectantly. Since she’d returned from the cruise, her Henglish seemed to have gotten worse.

Henry surveyed his menu, a curious expression crossing his face. I glanced at mine, running my gaze down the page. The dishes were listed first in Hungarian, complete with letter combinations and accent marks I’d never seen before. Under the Hungarian name for each dish there was the translation in English:

Versenyi Batyus Ponty Carp in a Bundle

Csuka Tejfeles Tormaval Pike Cooked in Horseradish Cream

Hamis Oztokany Mock Venison

Disznó Csülök Káposztával Pig’s Knuckles and Sauerkraut

I couldn’t wait to see what the crowd of softball rowdies was going to think about this.

“You’ve outdone yourself, Rosie,” Henry said.

“Really,” I said. “I can hardly choose.”

She seemed to wiggle with pleasure, order pad in hand. For a minute I thought she intended to lick her pencil point.

Henry smiled at her blandly. “Why don’t you give us a few minutes? This is a lot to take in.”

“You keep and I come beck.”

“Good idea.”

She moved away from our table and began to circle the room, distributing a menu at each booth and table along the way. Henry stared after her with something close to wonderment. “I guess this is what happens when you take someone on a cruise. She’s come home inspired. If I didn’t know her better, I’d say she was putting on airs.”

I set my menu aside. “That’s the least of our worries. What are we going to do? I don’t want to eat a pig knuckle with sauerkraut. That’s disgusting.”

He looked at his menu again. “Listen to this one. ‘Mazsolas es Gesztenyés Borjunyelv.’ You know what that is? Calf’s Tongue with Chestnuts and Raisins.”