Sara Paretsky - Killing Orders

“Mama doesn’t want to talk to you. I thought I made that clear the other day.”

I pulled the screen door open. “Nope. You made it clear you didn’t want me talking to her. That’s by no means the same thing.”

Albert probably outweighs me by eighty pounds, which may be why he thought it would be easy to push me back out the door. I twisted his left arm up behind him and circled around past him. I hadn’t felt so good in weeks.

Rosa ’s harsh voice wafted down the dim hail from the kitchen, demanding to know who was at the door and why Albert didn’t shut it. Didn’t he know what they were paying to heat this house?

I followed the voice, Albert walking sulkily behind me. “It’s me, Rosa,” I said, walking into the kitchen. “I thought we ought to have a little talk about theology.”

Rosa was chopping vegetables, presumably for soup, since a shinbone was browning in oil on the stove. The kitchen still had its old 1930s sink. The stove and refrigerator were old, too, small white appliances set against unpainted walls. Rosa put the pairing knife down on the counter with a snap, turned full face, and hissed angrily, “I have no wish to talk to you, Victoria!”

I pulled a kitchen chair around and sat backward on it, leaning my chin on its back. “Not good enough, Rosa. I’m not a television that you turn on and off at whim. A week ago you called me and played a tremolo passage on the family violin and dragged me out here against my will. On Thursday, suddenly your morals or ethics got the better of you. You looked at the lilies of the field and decided that it was wrong to have me toiling and spinning over your innocence.” I looked at her earnestly. “ Rosa, it sounds beautiful. It just doesn’t sound like you.”

She drew her thin mouth into a tight line. “How should you know? You were never even baptized. I would not expect you to know how a Christian behaves.”

“Well, you could be right. The modern world offers few opportunities to see one in action. But you don’t understand. You tugged hard on my emotions to get me out here. It’s going to be even harder to get rid of me. If you had picked a private investigator out of the Yellow Pages, one who had no connection with you, it would be different. But you insisted on me and it’s me you’ve got.”

Rosa sat down. Her eyes blazed fiercely. “I have changed my mind. That is my right. You should not do anything more.”

“I want to know something, Rosa. Was this your own idea? Or did someone else suggest it to you?”

Her eyes darted around the kitchen before she spoke. “Naturally I discussed it with Albert.”

“Naturally. Your right-hand man and confidant. But who else?”

“No one!”

“No, Rosa. That little pause and the look around the room says the opposite. It wasn’t Father Carroll, unless he lied to me on Thursday. Who was it?”

She said nothing.

“Who are you protecting, Rosa? Is it someone who knows about these forgeries?”

Still silence.

“I see. You know, the other day I was trying to figure an approach that I was better equipped to handle than the FBI. I came up with one, but you’ve just offered me a better. I’ll get some surveillance on you and find out just who you talk to.”

The hate in her face made me recoil physically. “So! What I should have expected from the daughter of a whore!”

Without thinking I leaned forward and slapped her on the mouth.

Slyness joined the hate in her face, but she was too proud to rub her mouth where I’d hit it. “You would not love her so much if you knew the truth.”

“Thanks, Rosa. I’ll be back next week for another lesson in Christian conduct.”

Albert had stood silently in the kitchen doorway throughout our altercation. He walked me to the outer door. The smell of burning olive oil followed us down the hall. “You really should knock it off, Victoria. She’s pretty worried.”

“Why do you stick up for her, Albert? She treats you like a retarded four-year-old. Stop being such a goddamned Mama’s boy. Go get yourself a girlfriend. Get your own apartment. No one’s going to marry you while you’re living with her.”

He mumbled something inaudible and slammed the door behind me. I got into the car and sat heaving for several minutes. How dared she! She had not only insulted my mother, she had manipulated me into hitting her. I couldn’t believe I’d done it. I felt sick from rage and self-disgust. But the last thing I would ever do was apologize to the old witch.

On that defiant note, I put the car into gear and headed for the priory. Father Carroll was hearing confessions and would be busy for an hour. I could wait if I wanted. I declined, leaving a message that I would call later in the weekend, and headed back to the city.

I was in no mood to do anything but fight. Back at the apartment I got out my December expenses but couldn’t keep my mind on them. Finally I gathered all my stale clothes and took them down to the washing machine in the basement. I changed the sheets and vacuumed and still felt terrible. At last I gave work up as a bad idea, dug my ice skates out of the closet, and drove over to the park at Montrose Harbor. They flood an outdoor rink there and I joined a crowd of children and skated with more energy than skill for over an hour. Afterward I treated myself to a late, light lunch at the Dortmunder Restaurant in the basement of the Chesterton Hotel.

It was close to three when I got home again, tired but with the anger washed out of me. The phone was ringing as I started undoing the upper of the two locks on my door. My fingers were stiff with cold; I heard the phone ring eleven times but by the time I got the bottom lock open and sprinted across the hall to the living room, the caller had hung up.

I was meeting Roger Ferrant for a movie and dinner at six. A short nap and a long bath would restore me and even leave a little time to work on my bills.

Lotty called at four, just as I had the taps running, to ask if I wanted to go with her to Uncle Stefan’s tomorrow at three-thirty. We arranged for me to pick her up at three. I was lying well submerged and slightly comatose when the phone began to ring again. At first I let it go. Then, thinking it might be Ferrant calling to change plans, I leaped from the tub, trailing a cloud of Chanel bubbles behind me. But the phone had stopped again when I reached it.

Cursing the perversity of fate, I decided I had put off work long enough, got a robe and slippers, and started in earnest. By five I had my year-end statement almost complete and December’s bills ready to mail to clients, and I went to change with a feeling of awesome virtue. I put on a full peasant skirt which hit me mid-calf, knee-high red cavalier boots, and a full-sleeved white blouse. Ferrant and I were meeting at the Sullivan for the six o’clock showing of Terms of Endearment.

He was waiting for me when I got there, a courtesy I appreciated, and kissed me enthusiastically. I declined popcorn and Coke and we spent an agreeable two hours with half our attention on Shirley MacLaine and half on each other’s bodies, making sure that various parts abandoned on Thursday morning were still where they belonged. The movie over, we agreed to complete the survey at my apartment before eating dinner.

We walked lazily up the stairs together arm in arm. I had just gotten the bottom lock unfastened when the phone started to ring again. This time I reached it by the fourth ring.

“Miss Warshawski?”

The voice was strange, a neutral voice, no accent, a hard-to-define pitch.

“Yes?”

“I’m glad to find you home at last. You’re investigating the forged securities at St. Albert ’s, aren’t you?”

“Who is this?” I demanded sharply.