W is for Wasted (Kinsey Millhone 23)
“As I understand it, that’s why Anna’s here. To help with the arrangements.”
“That’s just an excuse.”
William said, “Nonetheless, I’d like to offer my assistance. I have years of experience in planning the formalities. Visitation in advance and graveside services as well. A modest reception afterward would be nice.”
“I appreciate the offer. Anna won’t lift a finger, but when the time comes, we’ll chat.”
“Excellent. I understand there’s a second chap.”
“A second one? I don’t think so.”
“This fellow, Felix. Wasn’t he a friend of yours?”
“Yes, but that doesn’t mean I’ll pay to bury him. I’ve got my hands full as it is.”
William blinked in puzzlement. “Perhaps I’m mistaken. Terrence Dace was your cousin. Isn’t that correct?”
“Something of the sort.”
“As I understand it, Terrence and this Felix fellow were inseparable.”
I could feel uneasiness creeping up my spine. “I wouldn’t go that far. I mean, I don’t think they were close. They were both homeless and hung out at the beach, so they knew each other, but that’s about it.”
“I’m sure they’d take comfort in being together now that they’re . . .” William raised a finger and pointed heavenward.
I looked up, thinking he’d spotted the cat on a branch above our heads. When I caught his meaning, I made a face. “You’re picturing a double feature; two for the price of one.”
“If you care to think of it that way.”
I put my hand across my forehead, like I was coming down with something. “Oh, man. This is all a bit much. Let me give it some thought, okay? Dace I can accept, but I knew Felix a week and a half and I don’t think I’m responsible for his remains.”
“If the county buries him, you know it will be a miserable affair.”
“Probably.”
“Good we agree on that point. I’ll put together my suggestions before we meet again. I’m sure we can fashion a program satisfactory to everyone.”
• • •
I abandoned the idea of Rosie’s and retreated to my studio, undone by the sudden prospects of tandem funerals. During the conversation with William, I hadn’t heard my phone ring, but as I closed the door behind me, I saw the message light winking on my answering machine. I turned on my desk lamp and took a seat. I pressed play and listened to my outgoing recorded greeting, wishing I didn’t sound quite so adenoidal.
A young-sounding fellow said, “Hi, Kinsey. Sorry I missed you. This is Drew from the car wash. Wonder of wonders. My friend finally paid me back, so I’m flush. Give me a call and we’ll see what we can work out.”
He recited his number.
I had no idea who he was or what he was talking about. Sounded like an anonymous drug deal gone wrong except he’d used my first name and I don’t do drugs. Okay, except for NyQuil when I have a cold, but that’s commercially marketed and doesn’t count. What car wash? What money? I listened to the message a second time and comprehension dawned. The guy at the car wash . . . oh, that guy. Drew was the one who’d admired my Boss 429 a lifetime ago. When I’d offered to sell the car for the five grand I paid, he expressed interest, but I hadn’t taken him seriously. I still hoped to get rid of the car, but not just now. In order to off-load the Mustang, I’d have to line up another vehicle, which might take weeks. You don’t just run out and buy the first car that catches your fancy. That’s how I’d acquired the Mustang and look what a dumb move that was.
I tried Drew’s number, which was busy. I left the scratch pad in plain sight to remind myself to try him again.
I peered out of the window. William still sat in the sun, his head back, his eyes closed, this time with Ed on his lap. The cat stood and stared into William’s face intently, perhaps mistaking him for dead. I was praying nobody else would die or I’d have three funerals on my hands. To appease my jangled sensibilities, I made myself another hot hard-boiled-egg sandwich with a line of mayonnaise so thick it looked like a slice of cheese. The copious amounts of salt I shook onto the mayonnaise glistened like artificial snow. I knew if I’d gone to Rosie’s right then, I’d have ordered a glass of wine just to settle my nerves. As often as I thought of Dace, I kept forgetting he was dead. Not only dead, but related to me and I was charged with his care. In the “olden” days when I longed for family—which I’d now thoroughly repented—I always pictured living persons instead of the other kind. Now I had some of each.