R is for Ricochet

Chapter 9

For supper, I fixed myself a hot hard-boiled-egg sandwich slathered with mayo and heavy on the salt, vowing in a vague and insincere way to rectify my diet, which is woefully short of fruits, vegetables, fiber, grain, and nutrition of any sort. I'd intended to make an early night of it, but by seven I was feeling restless for reasons I couldn't name. I decided on a quick trip to Rosie's, not so much for the bad wine as a change of scene.

To my surprise, the first person I saw was Henry's older brother Lewis, who lives in Michigan. He stood behind the bar with his suit jacket off, his arms bare to his elbows and plunged in soapy water while he washed assorted glasses and beer mugs. I crossed to the bar, saying, "Well, this is a surprise. Where did you come from?"

He looked up with a smile. "I flew in this afternoon. William picked me up at the airport and put me straight to work."

"What brings you to town?"

"Nothing in particular. I needed a change. I came up with the plan on the spur of the moment. Charlie was busy and Nell wasn't in the mood, so I booked a seat and made the trip by myself. Travel's invigorating. I'm full of beans," he said.

"Well, good for you. That's great. How long will you be here?"

"Until Sunday. William and Rosie are putting me up. That's why he's teaching me to tend bar, so I can earn my keep."

"Does Henry know you're here?"

"Not yet, but I'll call him as soon as William lets me take a break."

He rinsed the last of the beer mugs and set it on a rack to drain, then dried his hands on the white towel he'd tucked in his waist. He put a cocktail napkin on the bar in front of me and shifted into bartender mode. "What are you drinking? If memory serves, you prefer Chardo

"Better make that a Coke. Rosie's changed Vintners,' though the term hardly applies. The wine she's serving has all the subtlety of solvent."

He hosed me a Coke and placed it in front of me. For a gentleman of eighty-nine, he was the picture of efficiency, his ma

"Thanks."

"You're entirely welcome. My treat."

"Well, aren't you nice! I appreciate that."

I watched him amble toward the far end of the bar to wait on somebody else. What was going on? I'd never known Lewis to fly out una

I was scarcely settled when I sensed the welcomed shift in air current that signaled someone entering the place. Cheney Phillips stood in the doorway. I felt one of those lurches you experience on a plane that leaves you wondering if the flight will be the last you take. I watched him scan the assembled patrons, apparently looking for someone who hadn't yet arrived. His clothing was the usual mix of expensive fabrics and fine tailoring. He favored crisp white dress shirts or soft-collared silk in shades of cream or buttermilk. On occasion, he shifted to a tone-on-tone, usually in dark hues that lent him a faintly sinister air. Tonight, he wore a ci

I gestured assent. "Our paths cross again. I haven't seen you for months and now I've run into you three times in the past four days."

"Not entirely accidental." He pointed to my glass. "What the hell is that?"

"Coke. A soft drink. It's been around for years."

"You need something stronger. We have to talk." Without waiting for my response, he caught Lewis's eye and gestured, indicating the need for service.

I turned in time to see Lewis hustle out from behind the bar and head toward our table. "Yes, sir."

"Two vodka martinis, straight up. Stoli if you have it, Absolut if not. And a side of olives." Glancing at me, he said, "You want ice water?"

"Oh, why not?" I said, ever the bon vivant. "This is Lewis Pitts, my landlord's brother. You've met Henry, haven't you?"

"Of course. Cheney Phillips," he said. He rose to his feet and shook hands with Lewis, who said a few pleased-to-meet-you-type things with the usual pleasantries thrown in. I found myself noting the texture of Cheney's hair, springy dark brown curls that looked as soft as a poodle's coat. I'm not a dog lover at heart. Doggies tend to bark their bad breath in my face, preparatory to jumping up and parking their cumbersome paws on my chest. Despite numerous sharp commands, most dogs behave any way they please. There's the occasional exception. The week before, in a rare moment of goodwill, I'd stopped to chat with a woman who was walking a breed I'd never seen before. She introduced me to Chandler, a Portuguese water dog who sat on command and gravely offered to shake hands. The dog was quiet and well ma

As soon as he was gone, I turned to Cheney. "I take it you're here to meet someone."

His attention was focused on faces halfway across the room, his gaze shifting at precise intervals like a corner-mounted camera. He'd been a vice cop for years and he had a letch for hookers and dope dealers the way some guys are fixated on the size of a woman's boobs. His eyes flicked to mine. "Actually, I came in looking for you. I stopped by your apartment and when I didn't find you there, I figured you'd be here."

"I didn't realize I was so predictable."

"Your best trait," he said. His gaze caught on mine again and the effect was u

Cheney said, "Don't you want to know why I'm here?"

"Sure."

"We have an interest in common."

"Oh, really. And what would that be?"

"Reba Lafferty."

The answer was unexpected and I could feel my head tilt with curiosity. "What's your co

"That's why I went to see Priscilla Holloway. I heard someone was driving down to CIW to bring Reba back. I didn't know it was you until I saw you that day."

Cheney glanced up at Lewis, who'd appeared with our martinis on a tray. He set them down with great care, watching the liquid tremble. The stemware was so cold I could see ice flakes sliding along the outer surface of the glass. The vodka, just out of the freezer, looked oily in the light. I hadn't drunk a martini in ages and I remembered the sharp, nearly chemical taste.

I can never decide what makes Cheney's face so appealing – wide mouth, dark brows, eyes as brown as old pe