W is for Wasted (Kinsey Millhone 23)

“Doesn’t matter. I don’t know anyone named Dace and I certainly don’t know what medications he’s on.”

Her tone turned cool. “Well, I appreciate your time and I’m sorry to have troubled you.”

“No problem.”

And that was the extent of it.

I opened my eyes and looked out at the ocean. Maybe Dace had tried to reach me, but he’d been ill at the time. The doctor whose name I’d missed and the charge nurse, Eloise Cantrell, had probably discovered my name and number in his trouser pocket the same way the coroner’s office had. His handwritten note had said Millhone Investigations along with my office number. Both callers had erroneously assumed that Millhone was a man. Dandy had just told me Dace carried the information with him for months, hoping to sober up before he asked for help.

Though there were still gaps in the story, I was feeling better about the string of events. There’s something inherent in human nature that has us constructing narratives to explain a world that is otherwise chaotic and opaque. Life is little more than a series of overlapping stories about who we are, where we came from, and how we struggle to survive. What we call news isn’t new at all: wars, murders, famines, plagues—death in all its forms. It’s folly to assign meaning to every chance event, yet we do it all the time. In this case, it seemed curious that Pinky Ford, whose life had touched mine six months before, had made another appearance, this time connecting me to the man in the morgue. It did help me to understand how some of the lines connected. Dace’s choosing me wasn’t random. He was acting on the recommendation of a mutual acquaintance. The referral hadn’t netted me a job, but there was always the chance that a casual mention would result in future employment. In the meantime, the two phone calls regarding him and my name and number on that paper in his pocket were no longer mysterious in the overall scheme of things. I paused to correct myself. There had actually been three calls, the last one being from the coroner’s office.

Now that I thought about it, I’d had a number of hang-ups on my office answering machine. There must have been six in all, someone calling while I was out and electing not to leave a message. There was no reason to assume that the caller was the same in every instance and no reason to imagine it was R. T. Dace on the other end. But it was possible. Nothing to be done about it at this point, and I felt a momentary, formless regret.

As long as I was only three blocks from home, I decided to stop off and see what kind of luck Henry was having with the cat. I’d left that morning long before William’s appointment with the neurologist, and I was interested in an update on his condition as well. I found a parking spot across the street from Rosie’s place and noticed that the tenting was down. I could see a workman closing the downstairs windows, and I assumed that both the restaurant and the apartment upstairs had undergone a thorough airing out.

I locked my car, walked the half block, and made my way into the backyard. There was no sign of Henry, no sign of the cat, and no sign of William. Henry’s kitchen door was open, and when I tapped on the frame, there was a lengthy delay and then William hobbled into view from the direction of the living room. He held the door for me and I stepped into the kitchen.

“Henry’s not here, but he’s due back momentarily. Have a seat and don’t mind me if I stand. Hurts too much to get up and down. I’m better off on my feet.”

“I see the termite tenting’s down. Will you be staying here or going home?”

“I’ll go home if I can manage it. I’m sure Henry will be glad to see the last of me.”

“What about all the kitchen equipment and supplies? Won’t they have to be moved back in?”

“I suppose that can wait until Rosie gets home.”

“I’ll be happy to help. If you’ll direct our efforts, Henry and I can do the work.”

I pulled out a kitchen chair and settled my shoulder bag on the floor nearby. William leaned against the counter with his cane to provide balance. I could see past him into the backyard, so I knew I’d spot Henry as soon as he appeared. “How’d your doctor’s appointment go?” I asked.

“Dr. Metzger did a thorough examination and didn’t seem to think an MRI would be necessary for now. He made a point of saying ‘for now.’ ‘Always have ammunition in reserve’ was the way he put it. He prescribed an anti-inflammatory, pain medication, and a muscle relaxant. I’m also to do physical therapy three times a week. I have a heating pad that I’m to use before therapy and an ice pack for after.”