Bitter Finish Read Online Free PDF Page B

absence of light in the grimy front window. He made a careful three-point turn, parked Kate's gray Volvo behind a dense stand of thorny bushes, out of sight of the road. If Lenny suddenly opted for the quiet of home, he'd never spot it. Nor would it give any passing squad car pause. Soon enough the police would quit thinking about Lenny as the victim. Then they'd consider him as the suspect. One man dead; one man missing. In Boston it might take months to tie the two together; in Napa, hours.
    Kate had left a worn pair of grease-stained work gloves lying on the dash—some things never
changed. She had big, mannish hands, bit her nails to the quick, never wore rings. Still, the gloves were tight. Coarse-woven cotton, they'd stretch.
    He knocked at the front door. No answer. Knocked at the back, admired the door locks, peered in a dirty curtainless window. Didn't look as if Lenny had much worth protecting with two new Yale deadbolts. No windows left ajar, not even the smallest. And no picklocks in his pocket. Damn.
    Enright seemed like the type who'd personally twist the thumbscrews for breaking and entering. Out-of-town private investigators were pretty unpopular even if they kept to the letter. And he wasn't even a licensed P.I. anymore, just a nosy actor.
    Before a defeated return to the car, almost as an afterthought, he lifted a corner of Lenny's soggy welcome mat. A single brass key glittered in the mud.
    It turned easily in the front—door lock.
    Hard to imagine Lenny, perfectly groomed, arrogant Lenny, living in such filth. The stench came mainly from the kitchen, a different stink, thank God, than the sweetish smell of death that hung over the funeral home. A smell, nonetheless, that Spraggue had little desire to investigate. He peered into the empty kitchen, noted the moldy dishes in the sink, and retreated, closing the door behind him.
    The living room was covered with dust. When he walked, he kicked up a cloud in his wake. Certainly, Lenny hadn't lived here, not for the past six months or more. Unless he truly had a mind above housecleaning.
    Some men did. Divorced men, especially. Got used to being cared for by a woman, then refused to accept that the former wife had actually performed services that could be missed, refused to accept the responsibilities of living alone. Men like that generally married again soon. And again. And again. Spraggue opened a door and entered a different world.
    It must have been an enclosed back porch once, added on after the rest of the house was completed. If Lenny had used the back door, kept the door to the rest of the house shut, eaten only in restaurants, he'd never have seen the filthy half of the place. No need. The large pine-paneled back room had a bath off to the right. The gold tile in the bathroom almost matched the shaggy carpet on the bedroom floor. A closet door stood ajar, revealing a generous interior.
    Lenny's children, infants so young their sex was indeterminate, smiled out of framed photos displayed on an untidy rolltop desk. Spraggue stopped short of opening the heavy gold-and-red print draperies, pressed the button on the base of a brass bedside table lamp instead. The air, stale with lack of circulation, carried no unpleasant smells. The linen on the double bed was fresh.
    He inspected the closet. Row after row of neatly pressed shirts, laundry tags still affixed to collars. Suits in plastic cleaner bags. A pile of luggage on the floor to one side. No gaps where a suitcase had been hastily removed, an armful of shirts quickly packed inside.
    The three-drawer bureau by the side of the bed was well organized. No missing piles of folded underwear.
    Only in the bathroom was there any sign of planned departure. The mirrored cabinet over the sink was empty. No toiletries, no cold remedies, no toothbrush.
    Where do you go with only the clothes on your back? Just your toothbrush? Just your shaving gear?
    Spraggue rummaged through Lenny's desk, taking care not to