Страница 6 из 90
“Oh yum. A pot of flatware soup.”
He smiled. “When I pulled the silver from the canteen, most of it was tarnished. Watch this.”
I peered into the boiling water and watched as the foil turned dark and the tarnish disappeared from all the forks, knives, and spoons. “That doesn’t do any harm?”
“Some people think so, but anytime you polish silver, you’re removing a thin layer of oxidation. That’s a Towle pattern, by the way. Cascade. I inherited service for eighteen from a maiden aunt who died in 1933. The pattern’s discontinued, but if I haunt garage sales, I can sometimes find a piece.”
“What’s the occasion?”
“Silver’s meant to be used. I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of it before. It lends a meal an air of elegance, even when we’re eating in here.” He poked the silverware with a set of tongs, making sure all the pieces were totally submerged. “I put an open bottle of Chardo
“Thanks. Will you be having some with di
“As soon as I finish this.”
He paused to take a swallow of the Black Jack over ice that constitutes his usual late-afternoon pick-me-up. I retrieved the Chardo
We postponed our conversation about the job until we’d each eaten two servings of beef stew. Henry crumbled corn bread in his, but I preferred mine on the side with butter and homemade strawberry jam. Am I in love with this man or what? When we finished our meal, Henry put the dishes and silverware in the sink and returned to the table.
Once he was settled, I gave him the Reader’s Digest condensed version of the story Michael Sutton had related to me. I said, “Where have I heard the name Michael Sutton? Does it mean anything to you?”
“Not offhand. You know what his father does for a living?”
“Not much. He’s deceased. Sutton told me both his parents were gone. He’s got two brothers and a sister, but they’re not on speaking terms. He didn’t explain himself and I didn’t ask.”
“I wonder if his father was the Sutton who served on the city council. This was maybe ten years ago.”
“That I don’t know. I suspect the reference will come to me, if there is one.”
“In the meantime, you have a game plan?”
“I’ve got some ideas percolating at the back of my brain. I want to see what the papers have to say about the Fitzhugh girl. Sutton might have forgotten something relevant or embellished where he should have left well enough alone.”
“You don’t trust him?”
“It’s not that. I’m worried he’s conflating two separate events. I believe he saw two fellows digging a hole. What I question is the co
“I guess time will tell. So what’s the other one?”
“The other what?”
“You said there was another issue up for grabs.”
“Oh, that.”
I leaned toward the empty chair where I’d placed my shoulder bag. I retrieved the still-sealed envelope and passed it across the table. “I don’t have the nerve to open it. I thought you could peek and tell me what it is.”
He put on his reading glasses and studied the front and back of the envelope in the same way I had. He slid a finger under the flap and lifted it, then removed a card with an overleaf of tissue. Inside, there was a smaller card with a matching envelope, so the recipient could RSVP. “Says, ‘The Parsonage. Groundbreaking and Dedication Ceremony, celebrating the removal of the Kinsey Family Homestead to its new location at…’ blah, blah, blah. May 28, 1988. I believe that’s the Saturday of Memorial Day weekend. Four P.M. Cocktails and di
He turned the invitation so it faced me and I could read it for myself. “Big family do,” he said. “Doesn’t say black tie optional, so that’s good news.” He picked up the smaller card with its stamped envelope. “They’d appreciate a reply by May 1. Couldn’t be easier. The envelope’s already stamped so that will save you return postage. Well, now, what do you think of that?”
“This is just not going to go away, is it?” I said. “Why do they keep harassing me? It’s like being nibbled to death by ducklings.”
He pulled his reading glasses down low on his nose and looked at me over the rims. “Two contacts a year isn’t ‘harassment.’ This is an invitation to a party. It’s not like someone put dog turds on the front seat of your car.”
“I barely know these people.”
“And you won’t if you keep avoiding them.”
Reluctantly, I said, “I’ve dealt with Tasha and she’s not so bad. And I’m fond of Aunt Susa
“Not at all. You’re independent. You prefer being alone.”
“True, and I’m pretty sure that’s considered the opposite of mental health.”
“Why don’t you sleep on it and see how it looks in the morning.”
3
Deborah Unruh hated the girl on sight. Her son Greg had dropped out of Berkeley in his sophomore year, claiming his academic courses were irrelevant. Since then, he’d hitchhiked across the country, calling home when his funds were low and he needed money wired to the nearest Western Union office. Deborah and Patrick had last seen him the previous fall, and now, without warning, he’d reappeared, driving a big yellow school bus with a girl named Shelly in tow.
She had a gaunt face, a mass of dark tangled hair, large hazel eyes, and barely visible brows. She wore heavy eye makeup, a black turtleneck sweater, and a long gypsy skirt, the hem of which was torn and gray from trailing on the ground. When she wasn’t barefoot, she wore black tights and ragged te
Deborah let the matter pass without comment, but the girl’s brazen attitude netted her a black mark in Deborah’s eyes. Greg took their welcome for granted, offering no explanation of why they’d come or how long they meant to stay. Deborah offered them the guest room, but he and Shelly declined. They preferred to sleep in the bus, which they parked out behind the garage.
The vehicle was little more than a shell. They’d removed all the seats and outfitted the interior with beds, a low table and chairs, and a camp stove, though Shelly never lifted a hand when it came to meals. They used a milk crate to hold ca