Free Bitter Finish by Linda Barnes

black-and-white framed studies of water lilies, dating from her amateur photographer days. She still folded her underwear with spartan neatness and scattered scarves and stockings over the mirrored dresser top. Her scent clung to the scarves, familiar and reproachful. When he lifted her pillow, a lacy nightgown was stuffed underneath, just as he'd known it would be.
    He examined the adjoining room, his old room, even more relentlessly. Kate never cared to spend the entire night with a man; connecting doors with a lock on her side, that was her preferred arrangement. He found no trace of Lenny; plenty of dust.
    Five toothbrushes in the bathroom, some old, some new. Impossible to guess the gender of a
toothbrush's owner.
    Grady, then.
    Spraggue rummaged through the kitchen cupboards until he found an unopened jar of strawberry jam. The English muffins in the cellophane packet on the countertop were stale. Toasted and drenched with jam, they'd pass for breakfast. He opened the refrigerator, surveyed Kate's meager supplies, made a mental list of survival groceries.
    The toaster popped. The jam jar surrendered its top after he beat it repeatedly with the edge of a knife. He poured more coffee—thank God, Kate liked good coffee—and sat on a gimpy-legged chair at the kitchen table. While he ate, he read Lenny's address book, starting with the A's and plowing straight through.
    "Grady Fairfield" was scrawled across most of a page, with a number underneath, but no address. Spraggue shrugged, dialed. No answer.
    Kate kept the phone books in the kitchen junk drawer. "Fairfield, G." lived at 455 Solano, Napa.
    Spraggue dumped his dishes in the sink, dressed quickly.
    Kate's old Ford station wagon was out behind the winery, neatly parked in by Howard Ruberman's Buick. Spraggue had hoped to avoid Howard, hated the thought of listening to the dire consequences of Kate's imprisonment on the grapes. But with the Volvo in the police garage, he had no choice. He sent one of the cellar crew off to borrow the wine-maker's keys, stressing the "no need to disturb him."
    Howard came on the run. The car keys couldn't be found. Which pocket did he keep them in? Had he locked them in the car? How was Miss Holloway managing? How would he ever cope all alone? By the time Spraggue coaxed the old wagon into life some fifteen minutes later, he had to stifle the urge to run down Howard. Reciting lines from Still Waters into his portable tape recorder didn't improve his mood.
    Grady's address was as slumlike as Napa got, a swath of weathered gray four-story buildings far enough from the railroad tracks for the trains to miss.
    The fourth-floor-front mailbox was labeled G. Fairfield. Ring bell and wait for buzzer. The door was propped open with a warped board. So much for security.
    The steps were narrow, the hallway dingy. If Grady was a kept woman, her standards were low. He knocked, just in case. The feeble lock yielded easily to the two bits of stiff wire he'd snatched off Kate's workbench.
    Part of the Grady mystery cleared up as soon as he opened the door. She painted. Bold abstract canvases leaned against stark white walls. Two huge red pillows and a standing floor lamp were the main room's only furnishings.
    He shut the door and drew the blinds.
    Searching a room containing two pillows took all of thirty seconds. He bypassed the kitchen, moved on to the single bedroom.
    A double mattress rested on a wooden platform dead center, mirror overhead. A few cushions, a hand-knotted rug in washed-out earth tones, a corner full of baskets, a collection of tall grasses in colored bottles . . .
    The heavy cardboard box with the red-and-blue ad for detergent decorating one side was definitely out of place. It was packed with men's clothing; toothbrush and toiletries on top.
    " You a narc?" The accusing voice was deeper than Spraggue would have expected from the slight red-head—the hair brighter, bushier than he'd imagined.
    He swallowed air and said no. For