Back W Is for Wasted
Chapters (42)
  1. Also by Sue Grafton
  2. Title Page
  3. Copyright
  4. Dedication
  5. Acknowledgments
  6. Prologue
  7. 1
  8. 2
  9. 3
  10. 4
  11. 5
  12. 6
  13. 7
  14. 8
  15. 9
  16. 10
  17. 11
  18. 12
  19. 13
  20. 14
  21. 15
  22. 16
  23. 17
  24. 18
  25. 19
  26. 20
  27. 21
  28. 22
  29. 23
  30. 24
  31. 25
  32. 26
  33. 27
  34. 28
  35. 29
  36. 30
  37. 31
  38. 32
  39. 33
  40. 34
  41. Epilogue
  42. Author’s Note

“He doesn’t strike me as a man who explains himself.”

“Good point.”

Henry opened the refrigerator door and took a bag of fresh salad mix from the crisper drawer. “I wonder if you’d give these a rinse. The package says ‘ready to eat’ but that’s a relative term. Lettuce spinner’s in there.”

He indicated the corner cabinet that was outfitted with a lazy Susan so that cooking items could be stored in otherwise dead space. I opened the cabinet and removed the spinner, took out the perforated inner bowl, dumped the loose lettuces in, and ran water over the greens. I popped the bowl back into the spinner and pulled the cord, which made the inner bowl rotate at high speed, excess water flung off by the centrifugal force. The rapidly retracting cord snapped back and caught me in the hand. Wow, shit, hurt, ow.

I was happy for the distraction. Henry had mentioned an estimated 6:00 arrival time for Dietz, whom I knew to be punctual. I stole a quick glance at my watch. It was only 5:20, so I figured I was still in the safety zone. I couldn’t imagine why a job referral would warrant a trip to Santa Teresa. Maybe he meant to refer me for a job. I knew I hadn’t sent any business his way. When the knock came at Henry’s aluminum screen door, the sound barely registered, so I was startled when Henry opened the door and I heard Dietz’s voice.

In the first glimpse I had of him, I knew something major had gone down in his life. As usual his hair was shorn close, but the medium gray had now turned almost entirely white. Something in the change suggested he’d been hit with an emotional blast, like a flash fire that leaves singed hair where your eyebrows had once been. I blinked and saw him restored to himself, looking as he always had. The white was the natural progression of a graying process already under way. His nose was long and sharp, humped at the bridge where a fan of lines ran upward intersecting the horizontal lines that traced his forehead. It was the gray eyes and the deep tan that made his face arresting, along with the occasional lopsided smile.