W is for Wasted (Kinsey Millhone 23)

“Nothing much. I was asked to ID a guy at the morgue, but I’d never seen him before.”

“Why you?”

“He had my name and number on a slip of paper in his pocket. Blumberg, the coroner’s investigator, assumed we were acquainted.”

“What was that about?”

“Who knows? He was a homeless fellow, found dead in his sleeping bag on the beach. This was Friday morning. I’ve been trying to get a line on him but haven’t picked up much. Business is down so at least it gives me something to do. You need help?”

“I’m just about done with this phase, but I’d love the company. I haven’t seen you since, what, Thursday?”

“Yep. After Rosie and William left,” I said. I set my shoulder bag on the porch and I settled on the step where he’d laid his three-ring binder for ready reference. While Henry returned two pieces of lawn equipment to the garage, I spread the binder open on my lap and studied the list of items he’d checked off. He’d emptied, scoured, and refilled the bird feeders; harvested the last of the summer herbs for drying; pulled faded annuals from flower beds; and transplanted his perennials. He’d also scrubbed and hosed off the outdoor furniture, which was currently air-drying before he stacked it in the storage shed until spring.

When he reappeared, he detached a sprinkler head from the hose and began to round up the length of it in a neat coil.

“What’s next?” he asked.

I put a tick mark by the job he’d just completed. “Once you finish the lawn, all you have left is to air the wool blankets and comforters before you remake the beds. How’s Nell?”

“She’s doing well, but William’s turned into a royal pain in the butt, and I mean, literally. She’d been home from rehab less than an hour before he started complaining his sciatica was acting up.”

“He has a problem with sciatica? Since when?”

Henry waved off the idea. “You know him—highly suggestible and just a tiny bit competitive. I talked to him Friday and heard the whole tale, symptom by symptom. He said it was fortunate he’d taken his cane along though it was barely adequate given the extent of his disability. He’s had to borrow Nell’s walker so he can hobble from place to place. He thought Rosie should rush him to the nearest emergency room, but she was busy fixing dinner, so she made Charlie take him instead. The good news—or the bad, depending on your point of view—is the doctor suggested an MRI and William’s decided to have it done here. He says he’s in dire need of a nerve specialist and asked me to set up an appointment.”

I said, “Wow. He’s not due back until the end of the week. I’m surprised he’d put up with the delay.”

“Well, here’s how it went. I started calling around, assuming it would be weeks before a slot opened up, but Dr. Metzger had a cancellation for tomorrow morning at nine. William’s booked the first flight home.”

“What about Rosie?”

“She’ll stay until the end of the week as planned. I’m sure she’s happy to have him off her hands, and I gather the other sibs are equally relieved. They plan to teach Rosie to play bridge, which William never got the hang of anyway. He gets in at five, which means once I pick him up at the airport, I’ll be at his beck and call. He claims he can barely bend over to tie his shoes.”

“Five o’clock? Great. As in thirty minutes from now?”

He straightened up. “What time is it? It can’t be that late.”

“Four thirty-five by my watch.”

Henry said a word that was so out of character, I had to laugh.

“I can pick him up,” I said, getting to my feet. “It’ll give you a chance to finish your chores and take a quick shower.”

“I hate to ask you to do that in the thick of rush-hour traffic. I’ll go as I am. I don’t smell that bad.” He gave his T-shirt a whiff and made a show of crossing his eyes while he held his nose.

“The airport’s a twenty-minute drive. It’s no big deal. You can pour me a glass of Chardonnay as soon as I get home.”

“I’ll do better than that. I’ll buy you both supper at Emile’s-at-the Beach, assuming William can sit that long.”

“You got a deal.”

•   •   •

Construction of the Santa Teresa Municipal Airport was begun in the early 1940s and the terminal opened for business with six gates that served two national airlines and three puddle jumpers. The pint-size structure was done in the usual Spanish style—a stucco exterior, a red tile roof, and a blaze of magenta bougainvillea artfully draped across the entranceway. Boarding and deplaning were accomplished on foot by way of a rolling set of stairs. Baggage claim was located outside the building in what looked like an extensive temporary carport.