Sue Grafton - V is for Vengeance

“I just hope the one woman gets nailed, even if her pal got away.”

“You and me both.”

At that point Claudia’s husband arrived, and after a brief introduction, I excused myself. I returned to the bar and when I asked for a second glass of wine, William caught sight of the skid marks across my right palm. “What happened to you?”

I looked down and made a wry face, holding up my hand to show him the full effect. “I fell while I was chasing a thief.”

I gave him the short version of the incident and then, since there was so little in it to recommend my private detecting skills, changed the subject. “I was sorry to hear about Nell’s tumble. Have you talked to her?”

“Not yet. I had a call from Henry when he arrived at the house. He said his flight was uneventful and he was going to the hospital as soon as he dropped his bag.”

“I’m glad he made it with no problems. How’s she doing?”

“Fair, at least from what I’ve been told. The head of the femur was broken off and the shaft was in pieces, probably the result of osteoporosis.”

“That wouldn’t surprise me-at ninety-nine years old. Henry told me about the pin they put in.”

His tone turned from somber to gloomy. “Let’s just hope it ends there. If she’s immobilized for any length of time, her muscles will atrophy and she’ll develop bedsores. Next comes pneumonia and after that…” He fixed me with a bleak look and let the sentence trail off.

“I’m sure they’ll get her up within a day. Isn’t that the current thinking?”

“One can only hope. You know the theory about bad things coming in threes.”

“There was something else bad?”

“I’m afraid so. I received a call from my doctor with the results of my latest blood tests. My blood sugar’s elevated. The doctor said fifty percent of people in the same range end up with diabetes in five years.”

From somewhere under the bar he pulled out a piece of paper and placed it in front of me, pointing at the relevant column. Normal for glucose was 65-99. His was 106. I had no idea if that put him in the danger zone, but he seemed to think so.

I said, “Wow. What’s the doctor suggesting?”

“Nothing. He did mention that stress hormones are sometimes responsible for an inappropriate elevation of blood glucose. I went straight to my Merck Manual and looked it up.” He gazed upward, apparently quoting directly. “‘Diabetic amyotrophy is found characteristically in elderly men, producing a predominant muscle weakness around the hip and upper leg.’”

“And you have that?”

“I’ve been experiencing a weakness off and on this past month, which is why I went to see him in the first place. After a thorough examination, he was at a loss. He had absolutely no idea what was wrong with me.” He leaned forward. “I saw him write ‘etiology unknown’ on my chart. It was chilling. My Merck says the absence of a precise diagnostic marker for diabetes mellitus ‘continues to be a problem.’ ‘Onset tends to be abrupt in children,’ it says, ‘ Insidious in older patients.’ I shudder to think of the word ‘insidious’ applied to me.”

“But surely there’s something you can do for yourself. What about dietary changes?”

“He gave me a pamphlet, which I haven’t had the heart to read. In addition to muscle weakness, I’ve been having stomach problems.”

“Henry mentioned that last night.”

He lifted his brows. “Of course, abdominal tenderness is another indicator for diabetes, as is fruity breath.” He cupped his hands around his mouth and blew. I thought he’d offer me a sniff, which I was prepared to decline. “Fortunately, it hasn’t come to that, but I am urinating more frequently. I’m up half the night.”

“Don’t tell me about the stream,” I said, hastily. “I thought that was related to your prostate.”

“That was my first thought as well. Now I’m not so sure.”

Mentally, I squinted, trying to judge the truth value of his claim. I knew he believed it, but was there foundation in fact? One of these days, despite his tendency to dramatize, William was going to be afflicted with something real. “Do you have a family history of diabetes?” I asked.

“How would I know? There are only five of us left. The sibs and I take after our mother’s side of the family. Her maiden name was Til-mann, hardy German stock. Our grandmother on our father’s side was a Mauritz by birth. There were five other brothers and sisters who carried her genetic line. They all died within days of each other in the influenza epidemic of 1917. Who knows what health problems they’d have developed had they lived?”

“What’s Rosie think about all this?”

“She has her head in the sand as usual, convinced nothing’s wrong. It’s right there in the Merck … every word of it… under ‘Endocrine Disorders,’ page 1289. On the facing page, there’s talk of ‘Precocious Puberty,’ which I was mercifully spared.”

“I’m not sure you should consult medical texts on your own. Most of the terminology makes no sense to the average person.”

“I was a Latin scholar as a youth. As praesens ova cras pullis sunt meliora .”

He fixed me with a look to see if I was following. My face must have been blank because he went on to translate. “‘Eggs today are better than chickens tomorrow.’”

I let that one pass. “But what if you’re misinterpreting? I mean, the doctor didn’t actually say you were diabetic, did he?”

“He’s probably giving me time to adjust. Most doctors don’t want to burden a patient in the early stages. I thought he’d order additional lab work, but apparently he couldn’t see the point. He told his nurse to make me an appointment for the week after next . It’s probably going to be like that from now on.”

“Well, if Henry’s home by then, he should go with you for moral support. When you’re upset, you don’t always hear what’s being said.”

Rosie opened the swinging kitchen door and stuck her head out. “I’m make stuffed kohlrabi. Whatever you got, it’s gonna fix,” she said to him. And then to me, “You gonna hev some, too, with mutton. Sauce is best I ever make.”

I took the interruption as an opportunity to retire to my favorite booth, bad wine in hand. I shrugged off my jacket and slid into the seat, hoping I wouldn’t get a splinter in my butt. I pulled out my paperback and found my place, trying to look engrossed so William wouldn’t follow me across the room to amplify his complaints. I was apprehensive about dinner. Rosie’s Hungarian by birth and favors strange native dishes, many composed of animal organs smothered in sour cream. Earlier that week, she’d served me sautéed sweetbreads (a calf’s thymus gland, if you want the offal truth). I’d eaten with my usual oinky appetite. I was mopping up the plate with half a dinner roll when she told me what it was. Thymus gland? What could I do about it when I’d already eaten it? Short of running to the ladies’ room to jam a fork down my throat, I was stuck. It didn’t help that I’d enjoyed it.

She appeared with my dinner plate, setting it down in front of me. She waited with her hands clasped while I tasted a small bite of meat and faked enthusiasm. She didn’t seem convinced.

“Yummy,” I said. “Really. It’s fabulous.”

She remained skeptical, but she had other orders coming up and she returned to the kitchen. Once she was gone, I picked up my fork and knife and started sawing away. The mutton required more work than I’d anticipated, but the effort took my mind off the sauce, which was not as sublime as she’d indicated. The kohlrabi looked like a little alien spacecraft and tasted like a cross between a turnip and cabbage, a perfect complement to the badly fermented sugar water I was using to wash it down. I wrapped a chunk of mutton in a paper napkin that I then tucked in my shoulder bag. I caught William’s eye and made the universal gesture for the check. I exchanged a few parting remarks with Claudia and Drew, and then headed for home.