U Is for Undertow (Kinsey Millhone 21)

“What hook, Diana? He’s not on the hook except in your mind. He’s living his own life and if he’s screwing up right and left, what’s it to you?”

Her smile was tight. “You say that now, but you’re not done with him. Trust me. You gave him credence which has been in short supply of late. He’ll come back. Some new crisis will emerge, some disturbing turn of events . . .”

“That’s my lookout, don’t you think?”

“You really don’t believe me, do you?”

“I’ve heard every word. I understand why you’re pissed off at him, but I take offense at the wholesale condemnation. Give the kid a break. You came here to warn me. You’ve done that and I thank you. I’m on red alert.”

That shut her down. She withdrew as though I’d slapped her.

She snatched up her shoulder bag and took out a business card. “Here’s my number if you should ever need to get in touch. I’m sorry to have taken up so much of your time.”

As she reached the door, she paused. “You want to hear the best part?”

I was going to fire off a smart remark, but I held my tongue.

“Six days after Daddy died, Michael saw the light. He became a retractor. He disavowed his claims about the sexual abuse. He said he realized Marty Osborne had planted all those memories. Oops. Big mistake. He took it all back. So that’s who you’re dealing with. Have a nice day.”

She left the office, banging the door shut behind her.

11

I had dinner that night at Rosie’s, the tavern located half a block from my apartment. It’s the perfect setting for the neighborhood drinking crowd and serves as a ready substitute for my nonexistent social life. In the summer months the softball rowdies dominate the bar, celebrating victories so minor they scarcely warrant column space in the local sports pages. From time to time they put together touch-football teams, the losers paying off the winners with a pony keg. Prior to the Super Bowl, there are endless noisy debates, arguments, and wagers, which are finally settled by pitching in ten bucks each and drawing names from an oversized beer stein Rosie keeps behind the bar.

Rosie is Hungarian by birth and though she’s been in Santa Teresa most of her life, she refuses to give up her accent or her tortured sentence structure. She and Henry’s brother William were married Thanksgiving Day three and a half years ago. It’s an unlikely match, but one that’s turned out to be good for both of them.

I took a seat in my favorite booth at the rear of the bar. Before I could get my windbreaker off, Rosie appeared and set an empty wineglass on the table. She’d apparently just dyed her hair, which was a deeply saturated shade of red I’d never actually seen on a human head. She held up a wine jug with a screw top and a label pasted on the front, MONGREL WHITE, 1988. She upended the jug and poured the wine, which actually made a glug-glug-glug sound as it tumbled into my glass.

“I know you supposed to sip first and say if you like, but this is all I got. Take or leave him.”

“I’ll take.”

“You need eating better. Is too thin so what I’m giving you is bean soup with pork knuckle. I’d say Hungarian name, but you forget so what’s to bother. Henry’s bring me fresh-baked rolls. I give you plenty with a side of Hungarian cheese spread you gonna love.”

“Fine. I can’t wait.”

There was no point in arguing with her because she always gets her way. I find bossy women restful as they take all the decision making out of your hands. Conniving women are the ones who really set my teeth on edge, though Rosie probably does a bit of that as well.

She went to the kitchen, order pad in hand, and returned moments later with the promised repast on a tray. She balanced the tray on the table edge and set the big bowl of soup in front of me, followed by a basket of napkin-wrapped rolls and a ramekin of cheese spread. I placed a hand on the napkin and felt the warm rolls underneath.

I ate with a series of oinky little sounds consistent with a voracious appetite and a thorough appreciation of what was going down my gullet. At 7:00 I decided to head home, my intention being to change into my sweats and lounge around on my sofa reading the paperback mystery I was halfway through. I shrugged into my windbreaker and adjusted the collar. With the sun down, it would be chilly walking even half a block. I zipped up and hoisted my bag across my shoulder. When I tucked a hand in one pocket, my fingers curled around the tag Cheney’d dropped in my palm the day before. I pulled it out and studied it, which I hadn’t had a chance to do. The plastic disk was encrusted with dirt. I crossed the room to the bar where William was working, dapper as usual in his dark gray wool serge suit pants, white dress shirt, and tie. He’d shed his suit coat and placed it on a coat hanger suspended on a wall hook nearby. His only other concessions to his job were the two cones of paper towel he’d secured over his shirt sleeves with rubber bands to keep his cuffs clean.