Free "R" is for Ricochet by Sue Grafton Page A

house. He opened the screen door and banged it shut.
    William shook his head, leaning on his walking stick. “He’s been like this all his life. Unreasonable. Stubborn. Having temper tantrums at the slightest hint of disagreement.”
    â€œI don’t know, William. If I were you, I’d back off and let them work it out for themselves.”
    â€œI’m only trying to help.”
    â€œHenry hates to be helped.”
    â€œBecause he’s mulish.”
    â€œWe’re all mulish when it comes right down to it.”
    â€œWell, something has to be done. This may be his last chance at love. I can’t bear to see him make a hash of it.” There was a gentle pinging sound and William reached into his vest pocket and checked his watch. “Time for my snack.” He took out a small cellophane packet of cashews that he opened with his teeth. He popped two in his mouth, chewing them like pills. “You know I’m hypoglycemic. The doctor says I shouldn’t go more than two hours without eating. Otherwise I’m subject to faintness, weakness, clamminess, and palpitations. Also, tremulousness, which you’ve doubtless observed.”
    â€œReally. I hadn’t noticed.”
    â€œPrecisely. The doctor’s encouraged me to instruct friends and family in recognizing the symptoms because it’s imperative to render immediate treatment. A glass of fruit juice, a few nuts. These can make all the difference. Of course, he wants me to undergo tests, but in the meantime, a diet high in protein, that’s the trick,” he said. “You know, with deficient glucose production, an attack can be triggered by alcohol, salicylates, or in rare cases, by ingesting the ackee nut, which produces what’s commonly known as the Jamaican vomiting sickness…”
    I cupped a hand to my ear. “I think that’s my phone. I better run.”
    â€œCertainly. I can tell you more over supper since you’re interested.”
    â€œGreat,” I said. I began to edge toward my door.
    William pointed at me with his walking stick. “As for this business with Henry, isn’t it better to feel something intensely even if you’re wounded in the process?”
    I pointed at him. “I’ll get back to you on that.”

6
    I had a brief debate with myself about working in a three-mile jog. I’d had to skip my morning run in the interest of reaching CIW by nine. I usually run at 6:00 when I’m still half-asleep and my resistance is down. I’ve discovered that as the day wears on my sense of virtue and resolve both rapidly diminish. Most days, by the time I get home from work, the last thing I want to do is change into my running clothes and drag myself out. I’m not so fanatic about exercise that I don’t occasionally let myself off the hook; however, I’d noticed a growing inclination to seize any excuse to sit on my butt instead of working out. Before I thought too much about it, I went up the spiral stairs to change my clothes.
    I kicked off my loafers, peeled out of my jeans, and pulled my T-shirt over my head, tugging on my sweats and my Sauconys. In circumstances like this, I make a little deal with myself. If I jog for ten minutes and really really hate it, I can turn around and come back. No shame, no blame. Usually by the time the first ten minutes have elapsed, I’m into the swing of it and enjoying myself. I tied my house key in the laces of one shoe, locked the door behind me, and set off at a brisk walk.
    Now that the marine layer had burned off, the neighbors were out in their yards, mowing lawns, watering, and pruning deadheads from the rosebushes massed along the fences. I could smell ocean brine mingled with the scent of freshly clipped grass. My block of Albinil Street is narrow. Aside from vehicles parked on either side, there’s barely room for two cars to pass. Eucalyptus trees and stone pines provide shade for the