Free Rescue by Jeremiah Healy Page A

meet you. Forgive me for not shaking, but I’m afraid the arthritis has made me a little ragged on the amenities.“
    “Not to worry.“
    “Well, we’d probably be more comfortable inside than out.“
    The three of us moved directly at the pace of the walker into a living room whose furnishings were bought on time before I was born. The arms of the plush sofa and matching chairs were covered by crocheted doilies, the rug worn and the coffee table scratched. But the doilies were white and starchy, the rug clean, and the table polished. The arthritis forced Firm to make getting into his chair a five-count exercise, which included doing a one-eighty with the walker and then a slow recline until his butt was past the point of no return and he settled into the cushions. Pettengill took the sofa, me the other chair.
    Finn used his right foot, wearing a Leatherette bedroom slipper, to nudge the walker out of his line of sight but not his reach. “So, Mr. Cuddy, what brings you to Elton?“
    I looked to Pettengill, who nodded. Returning to Firm, I said, “I thought you might want to know where your car is.“
    The old man blinked, the folds of skin making it nearly as much of an exercise as getting into his chair had been. “My car. It isn’t out back in the garage?“
    I looked to Pettengill again. He said, “Oz, when’s the last time you were out to the garage?“
    Finn allowed as how it had been a while.
    I said, “Mr. Finn—“
    “I’d feel more comfortable, you were to interrogate me using ‘Oz,’ if that would be all right with you.“
    When I paused, Finn filled the space. “You see, a man gets to be eighty-six, he kind of likes to feel the peer of the men he talks to, doesn’t remind him as much of being so old.“
    “Fine. Oz—“
    “Also might help my comfort level to have an idea just who you are, Mr. Cuddy.“
    I guessed the first-name basis didn’t run both ways. “I’m a private investigator from Boston . Something happened down there that I’m looking into up here.“
    A cloud worked its way across Finn’s face. “Something having to do with my car.“
    “I’m afraid so.“
    “Tell me. Straight.“
    I looked to Pettengill a third time. He nodded again.
    Watching Finn, I said, “I stopped to help a young woman and a boy with a flat tire just north of Boston . That night, someone matching her description was found dead near the same car, but the boy wasn’t.“
    Finn’s lower lip came out a little, like a toddler pouting. “My car.“
    “Yes. I recognized it from the daisy on the antenna.“
    “Ma’s sunflower.“
    “I’m sorry.“
    “My wife—we always called each other ‘Ma’ and ‘Pa,’ from Ma and Pa Kettle. You know what I mean?“
    “I saw a movie with the characters. Marjorie Main was one, I think.“
    “Yes, well, when we started calling each other that, it was a joke. Got to be less of a joke as we got on in years. Anyway, Ma stuck that plastic thing on the antenna the day we bought the car. Got some kick out of the name, too. Dodge ‘Swinger.’ Not that we ever were. Other than together, I mean. Loved the car, but never cared for the flower, myself. Then, after Ma died, I just couldn’t take it off. The car was the last big thing we’d bought together, you see. Would have seemed like... betrayal, somehow.“
    “Can you tell me about Melinda?“
    Finn looked off, through the window. “Reminded me a bit of Ma when she was her age. Came up to my door last spring—Melinda, now, not Ma, of course. Ma’s been dead these past... Anyway, Melinda came to my door, she was dirty and tired, an old rucksack weighing her down, but she had her head up, sort of... I’m not sure what word I’d use.“
    “Defiant?“
    “Yes, defiant. Or ‘spunky,’ that’s one Ma would have used. Melinda had spunk. Was down on her luck but hadn’t given up. Said she’d be happy to do any work I had for food.“ The Pouting lip. “Dear God, Kyle, I hadn’t heard anybody saying that