“It was the day Lindy flew the Atlantic,” Jimmy interrupted. “She invited us over to listen on her radio. That’s how we met.”
“She had been here about three years at the time,” Loretta continued. “I guess 1924, maybe.”
“How about family? Kids, parents?”
She shook her head. “They were both only children, parents were dead. They never had kids.”
“They?”
“Verna and Frank, her husband. He was killed by a hit-and-run four years ago. A truck went through a red light and ran him over.”
“He was on his motorcycle,” Jimmy added.
“I don’t know what we’ll do without her. Losing Frank was bad enough but…”
She let the rest of the sentence dwindle out and started sobbing.
“Would you like a drink of water or something?” I asked.
She turned to Jimmy and said, “Get me a highball, would you, Jimmy?” And then turned quickly to me. “Will that be alright?” she asked, as if taking a drink of liquor violated some unwritten rule of the dead.
“I’m sure Verna won’t be offended,” I answered, and Jimmy left on his chore.
“She was the most generous person I ever knew,” Loretta Clark went on. “We went to the movies once or twice a week and she always bought the tickets. And she had wonderful taste, nothing but the best for Verna. She called me ‘Sis,’ that’s how close we were.”
“Where was she before she moved here?”
“Texas. But she never talked about it. She was shy in so many ways. Hated to have her picture taken. It even embarrassed her for us to say thanks, that’s just how she was.”
“How’d they meet?” I asked.
“He owned an auto repair shop. Something broke in her car and she took it there to get fixed. He brought her home on his motorcycle. We were astounded. She wasn’t the adventurous type at all. After he left, she was absolutely giddy. They clicked right from the start. Six months later they were married and they were perfect together. She was gaga over him and he absolutely adored her. It took her three years to get over the accident.”
Jimmy returned with a highball the color of battery acid and she knocked down half of it without taking a breath.
“What was her maiden name?” I asked.
“Hicks,” Jimmy offered. “Verna Hicks.”
They talked a little longer but I learned nothing new, excused myself, and headed back to the Wilensky bathroom.
Bones had finished his work and he began a ritual I had watched dozens of times over the years. He lit a Lucky Strike and paced slowly back and forth in front of the tub while he verbalized his initial reaction:
“Last night the widow Wilensky starts to mow the lawn, runs out of light, decides to finish in the morning. Comes in, mixes herself a gin and tonic, fills the tub, lights a candle, turns on the radio, and settles in for a smoke and a drink with her favorite movie magazines. At this point, her life is suddenly being measured in seconds. When the water gets tepid, she starts out of the tub. Her foot slips. She reaches out to keep from falling, grabs the shelf with the radio on it. The shelf pulls loose, she falls back in the tub. The radio is right behind her. In an instant, it turns from an instrument of pleasure to a deadly weapon. It hits the side of her head and falls into the water. There’s a loud pop, about as loud as a. 22 going off, maybe a spark or two, but the widow Wilensky doesn’t hear it. If she had put a toe in the tub, it would have given her a nasty shock, like sticking your finger in a lamp socket. If she’d put her foot in, it would have knocked her across the room, maybe killed her if she had a bad heart. But fully immersed? A hundred and twenty volts hits every pore in her body, every orifice. Everything stops at once-heart, lungs, liver, brain, the works. She’s dead instantly.” He snapped his fingers. “Just like that, she’s the late widow Wilensky.”
“Very poetic,” I said with a smile.
Bones stopped pacing and took one last look at the cadaver. “Of course, that’s off the cuff, but I think an autopsy and the pictures will bear me out.”
“Usually do,” I said.
“Thanks, m’boy,” the coroner said with a fleeting grin. “Okay, let’s get the cleanup squad in here and take what’s left of the lady downtown. I’m pretty backed up. Maybe day after tomorrow before I finish the post.”
“Fine. I’ll sit on my report until then.” I shrugged. “What’s the hurry, right?”
Bones nodded. “Wherever she was going,” he said, “she’s there now.”
Bones left and the cleanup boys moved in. King and I walked out on the porch, and I rolled a cigarette and lit it with my Zippo.
“How about the dog?” King asked.
“Dog?” I said. “What dog?”
“There’s a dog in the backyard. Should I call the pound?”
“The pound?”
“That’s the routine when there’s an animal involved and nobody to take care of it.”
“That’s okay, I’ll take a look. You and Garrett can go along, we’ll finish up here.”
“It was a real honor working with you, Sergeant Bannon,” King said. “I read all about you dropping those four bozos on that western set over at Columbia last year.”
I smiled. “Don’t believe everything you read in the papers,” I said.
“I read the reports.”
I laughed and said, “Don’t you have anything better to do with your time?”
“I got two more years before I can take the exam for third-grade detective,” King said. “I’m studying.”
“Well, I got lucky that time,” I said. “Thanks, King. You did a nice job here.”
“Maybe I could put you down as a reference when I make the application?” He said it as a question, as if he were talking to someone else.
“Sure. Ward King. I can remember that,” I said.
“Thank you, sir,” the cop said, and flipped his forefinger off the bill of his cap. He had a ramrod kind of walk. A stiff ass, I thought, but he did good work.
Agassi was avidly reading through the papers from a hefty strongbox he had found in the large bottom drawer of the desk. There were stacks of bound checks and several papers lying on the desk. Ski Agassi loved research, loved going through papers and files and piecing together the everyday lives of victims. I loved visual details.
“Boy, this lady was really organized,” Agassi said. “Got bank records dating back to 1924. No will so far. No letters, nothing to connect her to anyone.”
“Keep digging,” I told him. I went into the kitchen and dropped the cigarette butt down the drain, then flipped the light switch by the door. The backyard lit up like Christmas.
I opened the door and stared down at a hulking mix of German shepherd, Irish setter, and God knew what else. Red with streaks of black in thick fur. Gold-flecked, inquisitive eyes. Paws the size of salad plates. His tail whisked the back porch.
Sitting down, he came up to my chest.
He growled at me, and I stared back at him but stood very still.
“It’s alright, he’s friendly,” Loretta’s voice said from next door.
“He’s growling at me.”
“He wants a bone,” she said. “When he wags his tail and growls that way, he wants a bone.”
I looked down at him, then cautiously reached out and scratched the top of the dog’s head. “Sorry, pal,” I said, “I’m fresh out of bones.”
“Try the icebox. Verna gets them from the butcher. Dog food’s in the pantry.”
I left the door open and checked the refrigerator, found three shank bones wrapped in red butcher paper, and took one back to the dog, who clamped teeth the size of railroad spikes on it, turned and started out to the yard, then stopped. He looked back over his shoulder at me, then he went down the steps, loped out into the yard, found a suitable dinner spot, circled it a couple of times, lay down, and chomped on his treasure.
“What’s his name?” I asked.
