X (Kinsey Millhone 24)

“I saw the empty mulch bags.”

“Oh! No, no. The mulch bed is there for purification purposes. You can’t store gray water for more than twenty-four hours because of the bacteria content, so any runoff has to pass through healthy topsoil.”

“News to me.”

“And to me as well. My big shock was the water bill, which jumped sky-high. I called the water department and the woman checked the meter readings, which she swore were accurate. She says landscape irrigation is the prime culprit. Household use is minimal by comparison. The more lawn I can eliminate, the better off I’ll be. For the moment, the water department is asking us to voluntarily reduce our usage by twenty percent. I’m hoping to get ahead of the game.”

“Well, I’m being careful.”

“I know that and I appreciate your efforts. We still have to tighten our belts. If the city restricts us further, I want to be prepared.”

“You can count on me.”

He clapped his hands together once. “Let me change clothes and we can have supper up at Rosie’s. With all this going on, I haven’t had a chance to shop today, let alone cook,” he said. “Almost forgot to tell you. We have new neighbors.”

“Since when?”

“January first, from what I hear. Shallenbargers, on the driveway side. Joseph and Edna.”

“Good news. I knew the house was on the market, but I didn’t know it sold. I’m sure the Adelsons are thrilled,” I said. “What’s the story? Are they young, old?”

“No one eighty-five and under is old. They’re retired. I just met them this morning. She and Joseph were in the backyard, planting flowers on their little doggie’s grave.”

“What happened to him?”

“Her. Old age. She died shortly after they arrived. I guess they’d been expecting it because they seemed to be bearing up okay. Joseph’s in a wheelchair, so he doesn’t get around so well. His walker’s a bit of a struggle, too, when he’s crossing the grass.”

“At least they’re quiet. I had no idea anyone was living there.”

“She says now they’re settled, they plan to spruce up the place, which it could sorely use. Their backyard used to look worse than mine. It’s already looking better than it did.”

He retreated down the hall on his way to his room, calling over his shoulder, “Help yourself to wine. I’ll be right there.”

“I can wait,” I said.

4

We ambled the half block to Rosie’s through the gathering dark. Streetlights had come on, forming shapeless yellow patches on the sidewalk. Once there, Henry opened the door and ushered me in ahead of him. The tavern’s atmosphere was subdued, much as it had been before the place was taken over by the local sports enthusiasts whose various league trophies still lined the shelf Rosie had had installed above the bar. The 1988 football season had been capped by Super Bowl XXIII on Sunday, January 22, when the 49ers defeated the Bengals by a score of 20–16. For reasons unknown, this had triggered an exodus. One week the sports rowdies were in evidence; the next, they were gone. In one of those inexplicable migrations of restaurant patrons, they’d abandoned Rosie’s as mysteriously as they had appeared. Almost at once, police department personnel drifted in to fill the ecological niche.

Until recently, the favored hangout among cops had been the Caliente Café, or CC’s, as it was known. Then on New Year’s Day, a kitchen fire had broken out, and by the time the fire engines arrived a scant seven minutes later, the entire back side of the restaurant was engulfed in flames and the better part of the structure was reduced to charcoal briquettes. There was some suggestion the devastating fire wasn’t entirely accidental, but whatever the facts, the doors and windows had been boarded over and there was no talk of reopening.

Rosie’s was off the beaten path and less than a mile away, which made it the natural successor for those dispossessed of their watering hole. Rosie’s wasn’t a popular spot. The décor, if one could call it such, was too tacky to attract a sophisticated crowd, and the ambience too staid to appeal to the young. Now police officers and civilian employees stopped in after work and plainclothes detectives from the criminal investigations division had begun to frequent the place, attracted by its anonymity. The cheap prices also exerted an appeal. Absent were the chief of police, assistant chiefs, and others in upper management, which was just as well.

In hopes of engendering loyalty, Rosie had purchased a popcorn machine. Napkin-lined baskets of freshly popped corn were now stationed down the length of the bar with shakers of Parmesan cheese and garlic salt. The smell of hot oil and burnt kernels formed a pungent counterpoint to the scent of Hungarian spices that saturated the air.