D Is for Deadbeat

loafers.
    "That's a mandoline. It's made in West Germany."
    "I thought a mandolin was a musical instrument."
    "The spelling's different. This is for slicing raw vegetables. You can waffle-cut or julienne."
    "Really?" I said. I had sudden visions of homemade French fries and cole slaw, neither of which I've ever prepared. "How much is that?"
    "A hundred and ten dollars. With the slicing guard, it's one thirty-eight. Would you like a demonstration?"
    I shook my head, unwilling to spend that much money on behalf of a potato. She got to her feet, smoothing the front of her apron. She was half a head shorter than I and smelled like a perfume sample I'd gotten in the mail the week before. Lavender and crushed jasmine. I was impressed with the price of the stuff, if not the scent. I stuck it in a drawer and I'm assailed with the fragrance now every time I pull out fresh underwear.
    "You're Ramona Westfall, aren't you?"
    Her smile was modified to a look of expectancy. "That's right. Have we met?"
    I shook my head. "I'm Kinsey Millhone. I'm a private investigator here in town."
    "Is there something I can help you with?"
    "I'm looking for Tony Gahan. I understand you're his aunt."
    "Tony? Good heavens, what for?"
    "I was asked to locate him on a personal matter. I didn't know how else to get in touch with him."
    "What personal matter? I don't understand."
    "I was asked to deliver something to him. A check from a man who's recently deceased."
    She looked at me blankly for a moment and then I saw recognition leap into her eyes. "You're referring to John Daggett, aren't you? Someone told me it was on the news last night. I assumed he was still in prison."
    "He's been out for six weeks."
    Her face flooded with color. "Well, isn't that typical," she snapped. "Five people dead and he's back on the streets."
    "Not quite," I said. "Could we go someplace and talk?"
    "About what? About my sister? She was thirty-eight, a beautiful person. She was decapitated when he ran a stoplight and plowed into them. Her husband was killed. Tony's sister was crushed. She was six, just a baby…" She bit off her sentence abruptly, suddenly aware that her voice had risen. Nearby, several people paused, looking over at us.
    "Who were the others? Did you know them?" I asked.
    "You're the detective. You figure it out."
    In the next aisle, a dark-haired woman in a striped apron caught her eye. She didn't open her mouth, but her expression said, "Is everything all right?"
    "I'm taking a break," Ramona said to her. "I'll be in the back room if Tricia's looking for me."
    The dark-haired woman glanced at me briefly and then dropped her gaze. Ramona was moving toward a doorway on the far side of the room. I followed. The other customers had lost interest, but I had a feeling that I'd be facing an unpleasant scene.
    By the time I entered the back room, Ramona was fumbling in her handbag with shaking hands. She opened a zippered compartment and took out a vial of pills. She extracted a tablet and broke it in half, downing it with a slug of cold coffee from a white mug with her name on the side. On second thought, she took the second half of the tablet as well.
    I said, "Look, I'm sorry to have to bring this up…"
    "Don't apologize," she spat. "It doesn't do any good." She searched through the bag and came up with a hard pack of Winston's. She pulled out a cigarette and tamped it repeatedly on her thumbnail, then lit it with a Bic disposable lighter she'd tucked in her apron pocket. She hugged her waist with her left arm, propping the right elbow on it so she could hold the cigarette near her face. Her eyes seemed to have darkened and she fixed me with a blank, rude stare. "What is it you want?"
    I could feel my face warm. Somehow the money was suddenly beside the point and seemed like too paltry a sum in any event. "I have a cashier's check for Tony. John Daggett asked me to deliver it."
    Her smile was supercilious. "Oh, a check. Well, how much is it for? Is it per head or some sort of lump sum payment by the carload?"
    "Mrs. Westfall," I said patiently.
    "You can call me Ramona, dear, since the subject matter's so intimate. We're talking about the people I loved best in this world." She took a deep drag of her cigarette and blew smoke toward the ceiling.
    I clamped down on my temper, controlling my response. "I understand that the subject is painful," I said. "I know there's no way to compensate for what happened, but John Daggett was making a gesture, and