V is for Vengeance

“I left early.”

“The reason I bring it up is I pitched a story to my editor about the people who’ve gone off the Cold Spring Bridge, starting with Audrey and working back to 1964 when the bridge was completed.”

Her tone suggested she’d composed the lead in her head so she could try it out on me. My gaze strayed to the purse still sitting on my desk. Did the clasp harbor a teensy-weensy microphone attached to a recorder picking up every word we said? She hadn’t taken out her spiral-bound notebook, but she was clearly in reporter mode. “How did you know Audrey?” she asked.

“I didn’t. I went to the funeral home with a friend, who was there to pay his respects.”

“So your friend was a friend of hers?”

“I don’t want to talk about this.”

She steadied a look on me, one brow rising slightly. “Really. And why is that? Is there something going on?”

“The woman died. I never met her. Sorry I can’t help you turn her miserable demise into a feature-length article.”

“Oh, please. You can drop the pious tone. I’m not in it for the sentiment. This is work. I understand there’s a question about whether or not she jumped. If you think I’m exploiting her death, you’re missing the bigger picture.”

“Let’s just say this. I’m not a good source. You should try someone else.”

“I did. I spoke to her fiance. He says he hired you to investigate.”

“Then I’m sure you understand why I can’t comment.”

“I don’t know why not when he’s the one who suggested I talk to you.”

“I thought it was because you saw my name in the guest book and couldn’t wait to chat.”

Her smile was thin. “I’m sure you’re as interested as I am in finding out what happened to the poor woman. I thought we could team up.”

“Team up? As in what?”

“Sharing information. You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours.”

“Uh, no. I think not.”

“What if it was murder?”

“Then you can get the inside dope from the cops. In the meantime, don’t you have a string of suicides to research?”

“I’m not your enemy.”

I said nothing. I swiveled in my swivel chair, which made a satisfying squeak. In the silence department, I could outlast her, which she must have realized.

She put the strap of her purse over her shoulder. “I’d heard you were difficult, but I had no idea.”

“Well, now you know.”

The minute she was gone I picked up the phone and called Marvin. He was in a chatty mood. I was not.

“Excuse me for cutting in,” I said, “but did you send Diana Alvarez over here to talk to me?”

“Sure. Nice gal. I figured it would help if we had someone like her on our team. She says newspaper coverage can make a big difference. ‘Huge’ is what she said. You know, getting the word out to the public something fishy’s going on. She said it would encourage people to come forward. Somebody might have seen something without realizing what it was. She suggested I offer a reward.”

I suppressed the urge to bang my head on the desk. “Marvin, I’ve dealt with her before…”

“I know. She told me. Her brother was murdered so she’s sympathetic to the situation.”

“She’s as sympathetic as a piranha gnawing on your leg.”

He laughed. “Good line. I like that. So how’d you do with her? I thought the two of you could brainstorm and come up with a game-plan, maybe develop a few leads.”

“She’s a bitch. I don’t talk to her about anything.”

“Oh. Well, it’s your call, but you’re making a mistake. She could do us some good.”

“Then why don’t you talk to her. Or better yet, she can talk to the police. These are two of the three suggestions I have for her. The third I won’t repeat.”

“You sound testy.”

“I am testy,” I said. “Is there anything else?”

“Actually, there is. I’ve been thinking about this shoplifting stuff and I don’t see that much to get upset about. Sure, Audrey might have lifted a couple of items. I’m willing to concede the point, but so what? It’s not like I approve, but in the greater scheme of things, it’s not that big a deal, right? I’m not whitewashing her actions. All I’m saying is shoplifting’s not the same as knocking off banks.”

“Oh, really. Well, maybe I can put it in perspective,” I said. “Audrey wasn’t operating on her own. You’re disregarding what I told you before, which is that I saw her working with another woman. Trust me when I tell you, there are others involved. These people are highly organized. They make a regular circuit, moving from town to town, stealing anything that isn’t nailed down.”

“I can do without the lecture.”

“No, you can’t. Has anyone ever given you the formula for calculating losses due to retail theft? I learned this years ago at the academy so I may be fuzzy on the math, but what it boils down to is this: the profit margin on each of those pairs of pajamas she stole is roughly five percent.

“This is after subtracting the cost of the goods, salaries, operating expenses, rent, utilities, and taxes. Which means that out of the $199.95 retail price, the store makes $9.99, which we’ll round off to ten bucks just to keep it simple, okay?”

“Sure. I can see that.”

“If you look at the numbers, this means that for every pair of silk pajamas stolen, Nordstrom’s has to make twenty additional sales to break even on the loss of that one. Audrey stole two pairs. Are you following?”

“So far.”

“Good, because this is like a thought problem in elementary school, only you have to multiply by thousands because that’s how many shoplifters are out there year after year. And who do you think pays for the losses in the end? We do, because the cost gets passed on. The only difference between Audrey’s crime and the guy who robs banks is that she didn’t use a gun!”

Then I banged down the phone.

12

Henry had encouraged me to park in his driveway while he was out of town. Without his lighted kitchen window to greet me, it felt like the energy had been sucked out of the entire neighborhood. I let myself in to his place. The first thing I did was to put his oven on preheat, just for the scent of warm spices. I did my walkabout in a haze of caramelized sugar and cinnamon, turning on lights where necessary. I checked the kitchen, laundry room, and both baths to make sure pipes hadn’t burst and a gas leak wasn’t threatening to blow the place sky- high. Bedrooms were clear, no broken windows and no signs of forced entry. I took messages off the answering machine, making sure he wasn’t missing anything critical. I went on to water his plants, first sticking a finger down into the potting soil to make sure I wasn’t overdoing it. Sometimes I think routine is everything in life. The weekend would never come and when it did, it would seem endless. My only hope was to retreat to Rosie’s Tavern as often as possible. I fully expected Marvin to fire me for insolence, but so what? It would save me the annoyance of dealing with Diana Alvarez.

I turned off the oven, doused the lights, and locked up. I stopped in at my place long enough to turn on table lamps and avail myself of the facilities. Then I walked to Rosie’s, where I ordered a glass of Chardonnay and a bite to eat. Dinner wasn’t the worst example I’ve had of Rosie’s cooking, but it was a fair approximation. In the dazzling rotation of dishes in her madcap cuisine, she presents me with a corker on an average of once a month.

I chatted with William, gave my compliments to the chef, said a brief hello to a couple of people I knew, and scurried out the door. By the time I let myself into my place, it was 7:00. I’d managed to kill an hour. Big