I is for Innocent by Sue Grafton Page B

opened the screen door and stepped into the kitchen. A big pot of water was just coming to a boil and I could see tomato sauce simmering on the back burner. “Hi, babe, how are you? Whatever you’re cooking, it smells divine.”
    He’d be handsome at any age, but at eighty-three he was elegant—tall, lean, with snowy white hair and blue eyes that seemed to burn in his tanned face. “I’m putting together a lasagna for later. William gets in tonight.” Henry’s older brother William, who was eighty-five to his eighty-three, had suffered a heart attack in August and hadn’t been doing well since. Henry had debated a trip back to Michigan to see him, but had decided to postpone the visit until William’s health improved. Apparently hewas better because Henry’d received a call to say he was coming here.
    â€œThat’s right. I forgot. Well, that should be an adventure. How long will he stay?”
    â€œI agreed to two weeks, longer if I can stand him. It’ll be a pain in the ass. Physically, he’s recovered, but he’s been depressed for months. Really down in the dumps. Lewis says he’s totally self-obsessed. I’m sure Lewis is sending him out here to get even with me.”
    â€œWhat did you do to him?”
    â€œOh, who knows? He won’t say. You know how parental Lewis gets. He likes to have me think about my sins in case there’s one I haven’t told him about. I stole a girl from him once back in 1926. I think this is to retaliate for her, but maybe not. He’s got a long memory and not a shred of beneficence.” Henry’s brother Lewis was eighty-six. His brother Charlie was ninety-one, and his only sister would be ninety-four on the thirty-first of December. “Actually, I’ll bet it wasn’t his idea at all. Nell’s probably throwing William out. She never liked him that much and now she says all he does is talk about death. She doesn’t want to hear it with a birthday coming up. Says it’s bumming her out.”
    â€œWhat time’s his plane get in?”
    â€œEight-fifteen, if it doesn’t crash, of course. I thought I’d bring him back here for salad and lasagna, maybe go up to Rosie’s for a beer after that. You want to join us for supper? I made a cherry pie for dessert. Well, actually, I made six. The other five go to Rosie to pay off my bar tab.” Rosie’s is the local tavern, run by a Hungarianwoman with an unpronounceable last name. Since Henry’s retirement from commercial baking, he’s begun to barter his wares. He also caters tea parties in the neighborhood, where he’s much in demand.
    â€œCan’t do it,” I said. “I’ve got an appointment at seven and it may run late. I thought I’d grab a quick bite up at Rosie’s before I head out.”
    â€œMaybe you can catch us tomorrow. I don’t know how we’ll spend the day. Depressed people never do much. I’ll probably sit around and watch him take his Elavil.”
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    T he building that houses Rosie’s looks as if it might once have been a grocer’s. The exterior is plain and narrow, the plate-glass windows obscured by peeling beer ads and buzzing neon signs. The tavern is sandwiched between an appliance repair shop and an ill-lighted Laundromat whose patrons wander into Rosie’s to wait out their washing cycles, chugging beer and smoking cigarettes. The floors are wooden. The walls are plywood, stained a dark mahogany. The booths that line the perimeter are crudely built, destined to give you splinters if you slide too fast across the seat. There are eight to ten tables with black Formica tops, usually one leg out of four slightly shorter than the rest. Mealtime at Rosie’s is often spent trying to right the wobble, with the endless intervention of stacked paper matchbooks and folded napkins. The lighting is the sort that makes you look like