Bill Pronzini - With an Extreme Burning

“ Are you interested in the Rice for your brother?” Louise asked. “Or was that just an excuse to come in and pump me about Katy?”

“I don't like the Rice. In fact, I don't like much of anything you're trying to sell.”

The words sounded lame and defensive to Cecca even as she spoke them. But when Louise, purse-mouthed, turned her back and walked away without responding, she had no choice but to let them stand as an exit line.

On her way downstairs she worried that she'd mishandled the situation by making an enemy of the woman. Any other approach, though, would have netted her even less information. Katy had said she was studying watercolors with Louise as recently as a week or so before the accident; that made it definite Louise had lied. Why? Keeping a promise she'd made to Katy? Or did it have something to do with those last two marked-up abstracts, with the person who'd bought them?

One other thing Cecca was certain of: Louise Kanvitz not only knew about the affair, she knew the identity of Katy's lover.

When she got back to Better Lands she checked her voice-mail first thing. Still no word from the Agbergs. The only message was from Elliot Messner in Brookside Park, returning her call of this morning. She tapped out his number.

“Elliot, it's Francesca Bellini.”

“Francesca, hello. Don't tell me you've found a buyer for this pile of mine?”

“I wish I had. No, that's not why I called earlier.”

“Oh? Change your mind about my invitation to dinner?”

“Not that either, I'm afraid.”

He sighed elaborately. “If you have any more bad news,” he said, “don't tell me. I've been in a wrist-slitting mood all day.”

“It may be good news, actually. I have a new listing that you might be interested in. A small farm in Hamlin Valley—eighteen acres, house, barn, chicken coop and run. The buildings need repair work, quite a bit in the case of the barn, but I think they're all structurally sound. And you won't find a more attractive setting anywhere in the area.”

“What's the asking price?”

“Three twenty-five.”

“Firm?”

“It is now, but it's a brand-new listing.”

“So you think it might be on the market for a while?”

“There's no predicting that. This is a depressed market, though.”

“Don't I know it,” Elliot said. “Realistically I won't get more than two fifty for this place, right?”

“Honest answer? Probably not.”

“I don't want to have to finance much on whatever I buy—if anything at all. Even if this Hamlin Valley place is what I'm looking for and I could get it for under three hundred … I don't know. Maybe it's too soon.”

“If you think so,” Cecca said. “On the other hand, it couldn't hurt to take a look at it. See if it is the sort of property you're looking for and what you can expect within your price range.”

“That makes sense. All right, when can I have a squint?”

“Anytime you like.”

“Not today. And I'm tied up on university business in the morning. … How about three tomorrow afternoon?”

“Fine. I'll swing by and pick you up.”

“I look forward to it,” he said, and paused and then said, “Have you ever had the Thirty-five-cent Peasant Pot Roast?”

“The … what?”

“Thirty-five-cent Peasant Pot Roast. Otherwise known as the Best Thirty-five-cent Meal in North Beach.”

“Elliot, I don't know what you—”

“There used to be a restaurant in San Francisco, in the gaslight era, called Brenti's La Gianduja. End of Stockton Street at Washington Square in North Beach. One of the city's best turn-of-the-century eateries. Their customers' favorite entree was the Peasant Pot Roast.”

Uh-huh, she thought, now I get it. “And you happen to have the recipe.”

“I not only have it, I make it splendidly, if I do say so myself. I also have some homemade grappa to go with it. Brenti's always served their pot roast with grappa, you see.”

Cecca was silent.

“Francesca? What do you say? The Best Thirty-five-cent Meal in North Beach, tomorrow night after we look at the Hamlin Valley farm?”

“I'm busy tomorrow night,” she lied.

“I have an open calendar ahead.”

“I don't think so, Elliot. I appreciate the offer, but … I'm just not in the market right now. For pot roast or anything else. Can you accept that?”

“Oh, sure,” he said cheerfully. “But you really don't know what you're missing.”

Meaning him as well as the pot roast, of course. “Well,” she said. “Tomorrow at three, then.”

“Tomorrow at three. And don't blame me for trying, okay? Consider it a compliment.”

There was a sigh in her as she put the receiver down. And a groan, and a shriek. Why did every other man she knew or met, unmarried and married, keep trying to hit on her? She was available, yes, and reasonably attractive, but good Lord! Owen, Jerry, Leo Franklin at the bank, Harvey Samuels at the tennis club, Fred Alt at Garstein Electric, now Elliot Messner … none of them interesting to her, particularly, and all of them sniffing after her like dogs in heat.

She thought cynically: Maybe it's because I'm a bitch. Look who does interest me, the only one. Look who I'm sniffing after.

Jerry said, “I'm worried about Dix.”

“Why? What makes you say that?”

“Well, I went to see him yesterday. Figured enough time had passed. I tried to get him down to the club for a round of golf. He wouldn't budge.”

“He's probably not ready for recreational activities.”

“I suppose that's it. But he didn't look good; he's lost a lot of weight. On purpose, he says, but I don't know. He didn't act like himself either. It's been nearly a month since the accident. He shouldn't still be hiding from the world.”

“I don't think he's hiding,” she said. “I saw him, too, the other day. He didn't seem sickly to me. Or deeply depressed.”

“Well, you've known him a lot longer than I have.” Jerry tasted his Cutty Sark on the rocks. “I invited him to the cookout next Saturday.”

“Is he coming?”

“Said he would if he felt up to it. I'll nudge him again; you might do the same. He needs to spend time with people who care about him, don't you think? Normal social activity in different surroundings?”

“Only if it's what he wants. It won't do him any good if he's pushed into it.”

“I guess you're right.”

Cecca stole a glance at her watch. Ten minutes to six. Still plenty of time; she wasn't due to meet Dix until seven. She sipped some of her own Scotch. Jerry had come by Better Lands just as she was about to leave, to invite her for an after-work drink. She'd tried putting him off, but he'd been insistent in his upbeat way; she hadn't wanted to hurt his feelings or to make an issue of it in front of Tom, and she had wanted a drink. So here they were at Romeo's upstairs bar-lounge, at a table by one of the windows overlooking the boat basin.

Jerry toyed with his glass, his head turned toward the window. The mellow-gold light slanting through the window sharpened and highlighted his features, his classic profile. Golden boy, she thought. He really was a handsome man, the more so because of the character lines in his face, the emotional depth in his blue eyes. But there just wasn't any chemistry between them, at least not on her part. He worked too hard at being charming and charismatic, was too superficially jolly. There was something in his makeup that wouldn't let you burrow underneath the surface to where the serious parts of him lay. A defense mechanism, maybe. He'd been badly hurt once; she sensed that in him. He wouldn't talk about his divorce, or much about his life before he moved to Los Alegres. “The past is dead,” he would say, “it's the present that matters.” Besides, it was the dark, quiet, brooding type that attracted her—Chet, Dix. In spite of herself, she glanced at her watch again.