U Is for Undertow (Kinsey Millhone 21)

I left the office at 5:00 and was home again at 5:10, stripping off my clothes as I scrambled up the stairs. For someone indifferent to her kin, it’s amazing how hard I work at looking good in their eyes. Since I tend to deal with only one aunt or cousin at a time, I don’t want reports going back to the clan that my boots are scuffed or my hair is sticking out in all directions, as is usually the case. I showered and shampooed. I even shaved the requisite legs and armpits just in case I fell in a swoon and one or the other was exposed to view. How did I know how the evening would proceed?

I stood in front of my closet, wrapped in a towel, staring at my clothes for one full minute, which was a long time, given that in ten minutes more I was expected to present myself fully dressed. I nixed the all-purpose dress. Though comfortable, the garment is looking a bit shopworn, which is not to say I won’t be wearing it for years. I considered my tweed blazer, but if I remembered correctly, I was wearing that very blazer the last time Tasha and I met. I didn’t want her to think I had only the one blazer, though that was close to the truth. I pictured Diana Sutton Alvarez. As much as I disliked her, she did dress with class. What was it about her? Black tights, I thought, and quickly rooted through my sock drawer until I came up with a pair. I put on clean choners and then shimmied into the black tights and added a skirt. The fabric was wool and the color was dark so I figured I couldn’t go wrong there. I found my tassel loafers and then struggled to find a top. I put on a white blouse and discovered a button missing. I tucked my shirttail into the waistband of my skirt and then pulled on a hunter green crewneck sweater. The “ensemble” (which means: a bunch of clothes all worn at once) didn’t look half bad, but it needed another touch. I looked around the bedroom. Ah. I’d been using a hand-knit wool scarf along the bottom of the door to the upstairs bath, keeping out the drafts that crept through the crack where there should have been a threshold. I snatched up the scarf, shook off a few woofies, and slung it around my neck. I checked my reflection in the full-length mirror. I was, as they say, a sight for sore eyes.

I grabbed my jacket, my shoulder bag, and my keys, and headed out the door.

By 5:27 I was comfortably ensconced in my favorite booth at Rosie’s, my gaze pinned on the door while I feigned indifference. Rosie took one look at me and knew something was up. I wasn’t sure whether it was my hair, still slicked down and damp, or the blusher and mascara I’d taken such care to apply. I could feel myself squirm under her scrutiny.

As she handed me a menu her penciled-on eyebrows went up. “You heving a date?”

“I’m meeting my cousin Tasha,” I said, primly.

“A cousin? Well, that’s heppy news. Is this the one you can’t stand?”

“Rosie, if you say anything of the sort to her, I’ll sock you in the mouth.”

“Ooo, I’m loving when you talk tough.”

I glanced up in time to see Tasha enter. She paused in the doorway to survey the room. I waved and she waved in return. She took a moment to peel off her coat and hang it on one of the wall-mounted hooks near the entrance. She retained the long scarf she’d worn under her coat collar and rearranged it over her sweater and skirt. She wore high heels and I wore flats. Aside from that, the similarities in our outfits were unsettling, as they were in most other aspects of our personal appearances.

I stood when she reached the table and we did that fake kissing thing, looking like a pair of budgies about to peck each other to death.

Rosie appeared to be transfixed, the same reaction she’d had on prior occasions when she’d seen Tasha and me. Her gaze shifted from my face to Tasha’s.

I turned to her. “Rosie, this is my cousin Tasha. I believe the two of you met before.”

“A cousin. And here, I’m thinking you was an orphing.”

“Not quite. My parents died, but my mother had four sisters so I still have aunts and cousins in Lompoc.”

“And a grandmother,” Tasha put in.

“You hev a grandma?” Rosie said, feigning surprise. “Why you don’t hev her down for visiting?”

“That’s what I’ve been asking her,” Tasha said, not wanting to pass up the chance to get under my skin. I refused to react. If I offered resistance the two of them would gang up and turn on me like chow dogs.

Rosie turned to Tasha. “I’m bringing you good wine. Not like your cousin drinks.”

“Great. I’d appreciate that. The cuisine’s Hungarian?”

Rosie nearly purred when she heard the word “cuisine,” which she took as a compliment. “You know Hungarian dish what is carp in sour cream? Is special tonight. You be my guest.” She turned to me. “I’m giving you some as well in honor of your friend. You lucky to have someone so close. My own sister Klotilde is died.”