Past Imperfect (Sigrid Harald) Read Online Free PDF Page B
Author: Margaret Maron
and how did that make Davidowitz feel?
The fancy gold frame had some faded fronds of palm leaves sticking out of the top. Probably put up there on Palm Sunday a year ago and due to be replaced in a few weeks. Christmas didn’t seem like more than just a couple of weeks back and all of a sudden here it was Ash Wednesday again. Soon be spring.
As if by habit, Irene Cluett headed straight to the first chair and patted the arm of the other white recliner. “Sit here, Jarvis,” she said.
She didn’t have to tell me it was Cluett’s. I knew from the rump-sprung look of the seat that it had to be his favorite chair.
Felt weird to put my skinny behind where his fat ass must have wallowed just last night, but I pulled the chair around to face her as Davidowitz lowered his bulky form gingerly onto the daybed.
There was a pink crocheted afghan on the back of Irene’s chair and she draped it over her legs even though the room felt warm to me. I loosened my overcoat and stuffed my gloves in a pocket. Davidowitz slid out of his coat altogether. He took out one of the four or five rolled-up yellow legal pads we all go through on a case and smoothed it flat for taking notes.
Without us asking, Irene had already started talking about Cluett’s last evening—the pot roast and potato dumplings she’d made for his supper—“He likes everything I cook but I do believe that’s really his favorite so I’m glad I fixed it. His last meal. He really enjoyed it, too. Only I made string beans and he always likes cabbage better even though it doesn’t agree with him.” She looked confidentially at Davidowitz. “Gas.”
She described the television programs they’d watched, then how he’d gone out to walk the dog at eight-thirty.
“Did he always walk the dog at the same time?” I asked.
She pursed her thin lips in thought. “It depends. If he’s going over to Sheepshead for a beer, he usually leaves then. If it’s just to let Sheba do her duty, then he’ll stay on the block and go out around bedtime, ten-thirty or so.”
“How often did he walk across the bay?”
“Three or four nights a week,” she sighed. Her fingers were so swollen—arthritis?—that the joints looked like links of tiny little white bratwursts as she plucked at the flowers on the afghan in her lap. “What can I tell you? He’s not supposed to drink much on account of his weight pulling on his heart, but the doctor says he needs to walk and when he walks, he winds up over at the Shamrock. Most times it’s only one beer and out and I figure he probably walks that off coming home so it’s probably not all that bad for him, don’t you think? I mean just one beer?”
“Probably not,” agreed Davidowitz. He’s the good-hearted one.
We let her tell it in her own words—the way she’d gone to bed mad at Cluett when he didn’t come home by the usual ten-thirty, something that might happen once every three or four months. How the dog woke her up around midnight pawing at the back door, which had made her even madder.
“Cold as it was, leaving Sheba outdoors like that? No consideration for a poor dumb animal. Not that she has to wait outside the Shamrock. They let her come in with Mickey in the wintertime if nobody complains, but still— Of course I didn’t know.” She wiped fresh tears from her eyes. “I thought he was probably too loaded to walk home so he’d gone to Barbara’s and Sheba’d gotten away from him and all the time I was mad at him, he was lying out there on the freezing sidewalk and—”
Irene fumbled for the box of tissues on the lamp table and loudly blew her nose. A minute later, her daughter pushed open the door and looked in. “You okay, Ma? Can I get you anything?”
“No, no, I’m fine. Unless—” She looked at Davidowitz and me. “Don’t you want a cup of tea or something?”
We declined. The daughter gave us worried glances, but left without saying anything else.
We let Irene finish describing her
The fancy gold frame had some faded fronds of palm leaves sticking out of the top. Probably put up there on Palm Sunday a year ago and due to be replaced in a few weeks. Christmas didn’t seem like more than just a couple of weeks back and all of a sudden here it was Ash Wednesday again. Soon be spring.
As if by habit, Irene Cluett headed straight to the first chair and patted the arm of the other white recliner. “Sit here, Jarvis,” she said.
She didn’t have to tell me it was Cluett’s. I knew from the rump-sprung look of the seat that it had to be his favorite chair.
Felt weird to put my skinny behind where his fat ass must have wallowed just last night, but I pulled the chair around to face her as Davidowitz lowered his bulky form gingerly onto the daybed.
There was a pink crocheted afghan on the back of Irene’s chair and she draped it over her legs even though the room felt warm to me. I loosened my overcoat and stuffed my gloves in a pocket. Davidowitz slid out of his coat altogether. He took out one of the four or five rolled-up yellow legal pads we all go through on a case and smoothed it flat for taking notes.
Without us asking, Irene had already started talking about Cluett’s last evening—the pot roast and potato dumplings she’d made for his supper—“He likes everything I cook but I do believe that’s really his favorite so I’m glad I fixed it. His last meal. He really enjoyed it, too. Only I made string beans and he always likes cabbage better even though it doesn’t agree with him.” She looked confidentially at Davidowitz. “Gas.”
She described the television programs they’d watched, then how he’d gone out to walk the dog at eight-thirty.
“Did he always walk the dog at the same time?” I asked.
She pursed her thin lips in thought. “It depends. If he’s going over to Sheepshead for a beer, he usually leaves then. If it’s just to let Sheba do her duty, then he’ll stay on the block and go out around bedtime, ten-thirty or so.”
“How often did he walk across the bay?”
“Three or four nights a week,” she sighed. Her fingers were so swollen—arthritis?—that the joints looked like links of tiny little white bratwursts as she plucked at the flowers on the afghan in her lap. “What can I tell you? He’s not supposed to drink much on account of his weight pulling on his heart, but the doctor says he needs to walk and when he walks, he winds up over at the Shamrock. Most times it’s only one beer and out and I figure he probably walks that off coming home so it’s probably not all that bad for him, don’t you think? I mean just one beer?”
“Probably not,” agreed Davidowitz. He’s the good-hearted one.
We let her tell it in her own words—the way she’d gone to bed mad at Cluett when he didn’t come home by the usual ten-thirty, something that might happen once every three or four months. How the dog woke her up around midnight pawing at the back door, which had made her even madder.
“Cold as it was, leaving Sheba outdoors like that? No consideration for a poor dumb animal. Not that she has to wait outside the Shamrock. They let her come in with Mickey in the wintertime if nobody complains, but still— Of course I didn’t know.” She wiped fresh tears from her eyes. “I thought he was probably too loaded to walk home so he’d gone to Barbara’s and Sheba’d gotten away from him and all the time I was mad at him, he was lying out there on the freezing sidewalk and—”
Irene fumbled for the box of tissues on the lamp table and loudly blew her nose. A minute later, her daughter pushed open the door and looked in. “You okay, Ma? Can I get you anything?”
“No, no, I’m fine. Unless—” She looked at Davidowitz and me. “Don’t you want a cup of tea or something?”
We declined. The daughter gave us worried glances, but left without saying anything else.
We let Irene finish describing her