Free P is for Peril by Sue Grafton Page B

bed.”
    Rand took Griffith from his mother and retreated, chatting to the child as he went. I waited while she jotted down the names and phone numbers of her husband’s business associates and his best friend, Jacob Trigg. We exchanged parting remarks of no particular consequence, and I left with her assurance I could call if I needed to.
    On the way out, I passed Leila’s stepfather Lloyd, who’d just arrived. He drove an old white Chevy convertible with a shredded sun-faded top and patches of primer where various dents and dings were being prepped for repainting. His brush cut was boyish and he wore glasses with oversized lenses and tortoise-shell frames. He had the body of a runner or a cyclist—long, lean legs and no visible body fat. Even with a nip in the air, all he wore was a black tank top, shorts, and clunky running shoes without socks. I placed him in his late thirties, though it was hard to determine since I glanced at him only briefly as he passed. He nodded, murmuring a brief hello as he approached the front door. As I started my car, the first fat drops of rain were beginning to fall.

5
    Aside from Henry, Rosie’s tavern was empty when I arrived shortly after seven o’clock. I closed my umbrella and leaned it up against the wall near the door. The Happy Hour crowd had apparently been there and gone and the neighborhood drinkers hadn’t yet wandered in for their nightly quota. The cavernous room smelled of beef and wet wool. Several sections of newspaper formed a sodden door mat inside the entrance, and I could see where people had trampled their wet feet across the linoleum, tracking dirt and lines of newsprint. At one end of the bar the television set was on, but the sound had been muted. An old black-and-white movie flickered silently across the screen: a night scene, lashing rain. A 1940s coupe sped along a winding road. The woman’s hands were tense on the wheel. A long shot through the windshield revealed a hitchhiker waiting around the next curve, which didn’t bode well.
    Henry was sitting alone at a chrome-and-Formica table to the left of the door, his raincoat draped over the chair directly across from him, his umbrella forming a puddle of rainwater where it leaned against the table leg. He’d brought the brown paper bag in which Rosie had presented her sister’s medical bills. He had a glass of Jack Daniel’s at his elbow and a pair of half-rimmed glasses sitting low on his nose. An oversized accordion file rested on the chair next to him, the sections divided and labeled by the month. I watched him open a bill, check the date and heading, and then tuck it in the proper pocket before he went on to the next. I pulled up a chair. “You need help?”
    â€œSure. Some of these go back two years if not more.”
    â€œPaid or unpaid?”
    â€œHaven’t figured that out yet. A little bit of both, I suspect. It’s a mess.”
    â€œI can’t believe you agreed to do this.”
    â€œIt’s not so bad.”
    I shook my head at him, smiling slightly. He’s a dear and I knew he’d do the same for me if I needed help. We sat in companionable silence, opening and filing bills. I said, “Where’s Rosie all this time?”
    â€œIn the kitchen making a calf’s liver pudding with anchovy sauce.”
    â€œSounds interesting.”
    Henry shot me a look.
    â€œWell, it might be,” I said. Rosie’s cooking was madcap Hungarian, the dishes impossible to pronounce and sometimes too peculiar to eat, her fowl soup with white raisins being a case in point. Given her overbearing nature, we usually order what she tells us and try to be cheerful about it.
    The kitchen door swung open and William emerged, dressed in a natty three-piece pin-striped suit, a copy of the evening paper tucked under his arm. Like Henry, he’s tall and long-limbed, with the same blazing blue eyes and a full head of white hair.