V is for Vengeance (Kinsey Millhone 22)

I found Henry’s number in the Detroit area and placed a call. It was close to 7:00 his time. He and his brothers had been home for ten minutes after a day with Nell, who’d been transferred to an in-patient recovery center.

“So how’s she doing?”

“Not bad. In fact, I’d say she’s good. She’s in a lot of pain, but she managed to sit up for an hour, and they’re teaching her to use a walker. She can’t put any weight on her leg, but she’s managing to hobble ten feet or so before she has to sit down again. What’s happening there?”

I filled him in on my shoplifter’s demise, giving him the long version just so he could appreciate how stunned I was and how stricken I felt about my lack of charity. Henry made all the appropriate clucking sounds, which alleviated my guilt to some extent. We agreed to talk in a couple of days and I hung up the phone feeling better, though not absolved. Despite my efforts to deflect the subject, the specter of Audrey Vance continued to hover at the back of my mind. I couldn’t resist the urge to brood. Granted, my connection to her was peripheral. I doubted she’d even noticed me despite our being in range of each other in the lingerie department. The younger woman was certainly aware of me, but there was no point in worrying about her. Without a license plate number, I had no way to track her down.

At 5:30, I locked the office and stopped at McDonald’s on my way home. When it comes to comfort food, nothing tops a Quarter Pounder with Cheese and a large order of fries. I made a point of asking for a diet soda to mitigate my nutritional sins. I ate in my car, which for a week afterward smelled of raw onions and fried meat.

Once home I left my Mustang in Henry’s driveway and headed for Rosie’s. I wasn’t (necessarily) interested in a glass of bad wine. I wanted familiar faces and noise, maybe even a bit of bullying if Rosie had some to spare. I wouldn’t have minded chatting with Claudia, but she didn’t make an appearance, which was probably just as well. I flirted with the notion of using William as a sounding board, but quashed the idea. While I felt a need to discuss Audrey Vance’s untimely end, I didn’t want to get him in a lather about death and dying. In the wake of Nell’s fall and his own elevated glucose, he was already feeling vulnerable. In his mind, it was a hop, skip, and a jump from the idea of death to its imminent arrival.

William was a funeral junkie, presenting himself at visitations, services, and graveside ceremonies once or twice a week. His interest was a natural extension of his obsession with his health. It didn’t matter to him whether he knew the deceased. He’d put on his three-piece suit, tuck a fresh hankie in his pocket, and set forth. Usually he walked. Several Santa Teresa mortuaries are located downtown, within a ten-block radius, which allowed him his constitutional at the same time he was seeing someone off.

I’d told him about the shoplifter when I was in on Saturday night. Under the circumstances, I didn’t think it would be wise to introduce the fact of her toppling over the rail. As it turned out, I needn’t have worried. The place was quiet, with only a scattering of patrons. Above the bar, the color television set was on, though the sound had been muted. The channel was fixed on some off-brand game show, to which no one was paying the slightest attention. There was none of the usual background music coming through the speakers and the energy level seemed flat.

Henry’s table was empty. One of the day drinkers sat alone in a booth, sipping a whiskey neat. Rosie was perched on a stool at the far end of the bar folding white cloth napkins. A young couple appeared in the doorway, checked the menu posted on the wall, and quickly withdrew. William was behind the bar, leaning forward on his elbows, a ballpoint pen in hand. I thought he might be working on a crossword puzzle until I saw Audrey’s photo in the middle of the page. He’d circled three names, hers among them, and underscored the last few lines of the relevant obituaries.

I perched on a stool and peered over the bar. “What are you doing?”

“Working on my short list.”

I meant to keep my mouth shut but I couldn’t help myself. “Remember the shoplifter I told you about?” I pointed to Audrey’s photograph. “That’s her.”

“Her?”

“Uh-hun. She threw herself off the Cold Spring Bridge.”

“Oh, my. I read about that, but had no idea she was the one. Did the paper mention her by name?”

“ID was withheld pending notification of the next of kin,” I said. “I didn’t see the article at all until someone told me where to look.”

He tapped his pen on the paper. “That settles it. There’s a scheduling conflict so I can’t attend all three of these anyway. Audrey Vance it is. You’ll be going, of course.”