V is for Vengeance

eat and enjoy myself, but I have a delicate stomach and it was all I could do to keep from hurling chunks. Your friend have anything I could eat?”

“Hold on and I’ll check.”

I went through Henry’s kitchen cabinets in search of food. I knew all the perishables were gone because he’d given them to me. I found a box of Cheerios, but no milk. He did have a bottle of cold Coke and a small can of V-8. He also had a can of cashews, a packet of graham crackers, and some peanut butter. I considered the Jack Daniel’s, which Pinky could probably use, but decided not to tempt fate. I took out a tray and placed the items on it along with a paper napkin and some flatware. I wouldn’t have minded such a feast myself, but opted against keeping Pinky company. I took the tray into the inner hall and set it down for him. He popped open the Coke and chugged about half. While he was slapping peanut butter between graham crackers, I went into the bathroom and closed the blinds.

Coming out, I said, “You can use the bathroom if you leave the light off. Do you swear?”

Mouth full, Pinky nodded and held two fingers to his temple as though taking a Boy Scout oath. I’ve done the same thing myself and know how little it means.

He swallowed and then used his finger to clear the peanut butter from his teeth. “Can I trouble you for a blanket and pillow?”

“Fine.” The man was exasperating, but I’d signed on of my own free will and didn’t feel I had a right to complain. I opened the door to the hall closet, where Henry keeps his linens. I pulled out a pillow, a wool blanket, and a big puffy comforter. “You can put down a couple of big bath towels if the floor gets too hard.”

“Thanks. This’ll do nice.”

I pointed at him sternly. “Behave.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

I returned to my studio. I would have loved getting into my robe and slippers, but my day wasn’t over yet. Closer to bedtime, I’d pay Pinky another visit to make sure all was well. He struck me as a man with a limited imagination, which meant that entertaining himself might prove strenuous.

For dinner, I made myself a hot hard-boiled egg sandwich with mayo and put it on a paper plate. Then I poured myself a glass of Cake-bread Chardonnay and picked up the Santa Teresa Dispatch, still folded for delivery. I settled on the couch, opened the paper, and munched my sandwich while I read the news. It was the first chance I’d had to relax since I’d left home that morning. The obituaries were unremarkable and world news was standard: war in six different places on the planet, a train wreck, a mine collapse, and an infant born to a woman who was sixty-two years old. The Dow was down, the NASDAQ up, or it might have been the other way around.

The only item of note-and this made me sit up straight-was a squib on page 6 in a section that listed brief reports of local crime. This was the daily summary of chicaneries too minor to warrant full-on reporting. Most were simple: a car had been jacked up and the tires removed; a wallet had been snatched from a woman on lower State Street. What caught my eye was a wee paragraph that indicated that a homeowner, returning after a weekend away, discovered someone had broken into her house and removed a fire safe, previously bolted to the closet floor. Abigail Upshaw, age twenty-six, estimated her losses (which included jewelry, cash, silverware, and assorted items of sentimental value) at approximately three thousand dollars.

Ah. Abbie Upshaw was Len Priddy’s girlfriend, and I thought it safe to assume Pinky was the one who’d burgled the place. According to what he’d told me, he’d gone in search of the damning photographs of Dodie, which he must have thought Len was hiding at his place. That jaunt was fruitless so Pinky had turned his attention to the girlfriend. I still had no idea who was featured in the second set of photographs or what made them so priceless as barter, but maybe I’d find out in due course.

Almost subliminally, I heard the squeaking of my front gate and I looked up from the paper. The arrow on my inner sensor whipped into the red zone. I set the paper aside and went to the front door, where I flipped on the porch light and looked out through the porthole. Marvin Striker appeared on my doorstep, looking impish and ill at ease.

I opened the door. “What are you doing here?”

“I need to talk to you.”

“How’d you know where I lived?”

“I asked Diana Alvarez. She knows everything. You might keep that in mind in case something comes up. May I come in?”

“Why not?” I said. I stepped aside, allowing him to enter.

“Mind if I sit down?”

I gestured at the seating in my wee living room. His choices were the sofabed or one of my two royal blue director’s chairs. He choose one chair and I sat down in the other, which caused both our canvas seats to make embarrassing noises.

I wasn’t feeling cranky with the man, but I didn’t think I should act like we were still the same good buddies we’d been before he’d tried to fire my ass. “What can I do for you?”

“I owe you an apology.”

“Really.”

He reached into his inner suit-coat pocket and pulled out a windowed envelope with a yellow strip across the bottom. The return address in the upper left-hand corner of the envelope was the Wells Fargo Bank in San Luis Obispo, complete with a tiny stagecoach. I took the envelope and read the name of the recipient. Audrey Vance. The yellow strip indicated a change of address from the little house in San Luis to Marvin’s in Santa Teresa. Vivian Hewitt had apparently filled out a form at the post office, forwarding Audrey’s mail to him as I’d asked her to do. He’d already torn open the envelope.

I said, “May I look?”

“That’s why I brought it. Help yourself.”

The statement was subdivided into numerous blocks of information, some in bold print, including phone numbers available for those who wanted to conduct a conversation in English, Spanish, or Chinese. Other nationalities were screwed. There were also columns giving dollar figures for total assets, total liabilities, available credit, interest, dividends, and other income. All of Audrey’s transactions had been itemized, deposits going back to the first of the year. To date, she had $4,000,944.44 in her account. No withdrawals. I was impressed by how quickly the minimal interest on four million added up.

“I don’t think she got that much money managing wholesale accounts,” he remarked.

“Probably not.”

“I wondered if you’d consider taking up your investigation where you left off?”

“Well, now, Marvin, that presents a problem, and I’ll tell you what it is. Your good friend and confidant Len Priddy threatened to hurt me very badly if I pursued the case.”

A flicker of a smile played across his mouth as though he was waiting for the punch line to a joke. “What do you mean, he threatened you?”

“He said he’d kill me.”

“But not literally. He didn’t actually say the words…”

“He did.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a wash of light slide across the windows looking out on the street. I’d closed the lower set of shutters, which were hinged and had a little stick in the middle that adjusted the slats at an up slant, a down slant, or completely closed. The bottom bank was fully closed, but I’d left the uppers open. A car had come to a stop outside, double-parked by my reckoning since I could hear the engine idle.

While Marvin and I explored the subtleties of language, I was wondering if a brick was going to come flying through the glass. Perhaps a Molotov cocktail refuting Marvin’s point about my misunderstanding Len’s comment, which Marvin swore was made in jest. I assured him of the seriousness of Len’s intent and moved on to my definition of common sense, which was to cease and desist behavior that might result in bodily harm. He derided my being so easily intimidated whereas I felt the promise of death was sufficient to dash any residual bravery on my part. It was when I caught the tiny squeak of my gate that I excused myself, saying, “Would you excuse me?”

“No problem.”