S is for Silence (Kinsey Millhone 19)

“BW won’t care. He’s an easygoing guy and he loves to hold court.”

“How would I recognize him?”

“Easy. He weighs three hundred pounds and his head is shaved.”

He glanced at the entrance behind me, and I turned to see Daisy and Tannie coming in the door. They spotted us and crossed to the table with Tannie leading the way. She was sunburned from a day spent outside battling the brush, but she’d managed in the interim to shower and change clothes. Her jeans were freshly pressed and her white blouse was crisp, her hair still damp and tucked under a baseball cap. Daisy wore a red cotton cardigan over a red-and-white-print dress. She’d pulled her blond hair back, clamping it in place with a red plastic clip.

Jake rose as they approached. Tannie gave her dad a buss on the cheek. “Hey, Pop. I see you’ve met Kinsey,” she said, and then slipped into the chair beside mine.

He pulled out a chair for Daisy. “How’re you doing, Daisy? You’re looking good.”

“Thanks. I’m fine. Place smells divine.”

“I got an eight-ounce filet with your name on it.”

Tannie lowered her gaze, but the comment she made was directed to me. “Don’t look now, but Chet Cramer just walked in with Caroleena, the Violet Sullivan clone.”

Of course, I looked straight up, catching Chet Cramer’s eye. His smile was friendly, but I noticed he promptly steered his wife toward another part of the bar. From the glimpse I had, she looked too old to be dying her hair such a harsh shade of red. Her pale complexion was more the result of makeup than the delicate Irish coloring she hoped to simulate. Tight dress, big boobs, getting thick in the waist.

“Does she really look like Violet?”

“Oh, hardly,” Daisy scoffed. “That woman’s a cow. My mother was a natural beauty. Poor Kathy Cramer. I’d be mortified if my father connected up with someone like that.”

The dinner crowd was picking up, so Jake excused himself to tend to business while the three of us settled in with our drinks and a serious contemplation of the menu. We all ordered the filet mignon, medium rare, with a salad up front and a side of baked potato. We were finishing the meal when the subject of Kathy Cramer surfaced again. Having been granted immunity from any accusation of gossiping, I naturally passed along the news about the collapse of the Cramer-Smith marriage.

“Well, good for him. She is such a bitch. I’m happy to hear he’s finally busting out,” Tannie said.

Daisy said, “I’m with you. About time he got a backbone.”

“I’m not sure you can call it ‘busting out’ when she’s giving him the boot,” I said.

Tannie made a pained face. “But he used to be so cute. And really, the name Winston. Could you just die?” she said. “I do think someone should tell him to drop the weight. Even twenty pounds would make a difference. He goes back on the market, I know half a dozen women who’d snap him up.”

“Including me,” Daisy said, offended that Tannie would offer him up without consulting her.

“Oh, right. Just what you need, another guy with an ax to grind. Wait till Kathy hits him up for alimony and child support. He’ll never get out from under.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“What choice does he have?” Tannie asked. “They’ve been married close to thirty years. She had a crush on him since eighth grade. Remember that? No, you wouldn’t. You were still in elementary school. But I’m telling you, even when I was ten, I’d see her moping around town. So pathetic. She’d find ways to bump into him and she’d be going, ‘Oh gee, Winston, I had no idea you’d be here.’ She’d sit behind him in church and stare at him like she could eat him alive. The guy never had a chance.”

I said, “I saw the wedding photo he keeps in his office. He was very trim.”

Tannie said, “True. And she was big as a tank.”

“How’d she lose the weight?”

“How do you think? She’s popping pills like after-dinner mints.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No, I’m not. Black-market speed. She’s got a source, from what I heard.”

“Now that I think about it, she did seem amped,” I said.

The busboy removed our plates and the waitress showed up again to offer us dessert, which all three of us declined.

I watched as a man leaving the bar did a detour toward our table. From across the room, I placed him in his midforties, but by the time he’d reached us, I’d added thirty years. His wavy hair was dark, but the color was a shade I imagined Grecian Formula would produce. His eyes were blue behind heavy black-frame glasses that had hearing aids built into the stems. He was roughly my height, five-six, but the heels on his boots gave him another couple of inches. He wore jeans, a red plaid shirt with a string tie, over which he’d buttoned a powder blue western-cut sport coat, nipped in at the waist.