W is for Wasted (Kinsey Millhone Mystery)

the ground with a weighted roller he’d rented for the occasion. A scoop of fine lawn mulch had been piled to one side with a shovel resting against the wall.
    He’d recently acquired a cypress potting bench that was now attached to the garage. The unit boasted a zinc top and two drawers where he kept his gardening gloves and the smaller of his gardening tools. On the shelf below he’d placed his galvanized watering cans and a big bag of sphagnum moss. The adjacent wall was designated for the larger tools—his wood-handled garden forks, trowels, cultivators, and graduating sizes of pruning shears. Painted outlines assured that each piece would be returned to its proper place.
    Along with his other fall projects, he was transplanting three dozen marigolds from the original plastic commercial nursery containers to terra-cotta pots. He’d already lined my modest porchlet with half a dozen of these rust-and-gold arrangements, which I thought quite festive.
    “You’ve been busy,” I remarked.
    “Getting the jump on winter. Another couple of weeks we’ll lose daylight savings time and it’ll be close to dark by this hour. How about you? What are you up to?”
    “Nothing much. I was asked to ID a guy at the morgue, but I’d never seen him before.”
    “Why you?”
    “He had my name and number on a slip of paper in his pocket. Blumberg, the coroner’s investigator, assumed we were acquainted.”
    “What was that about?”
    “Who knows? He was a homeless fellow, found dead in his sleeping bag on the beach. This was Friday morning. I’ve been trying to get a line on him but haven’t picked up much. Business is down so at least it gives me something to do. You need help?”
    “I’m just about done with this phase, but I’d love the company. I haven’t seen you since, what, Thursday?”
    “Yep. After Rosie and William left,” I said. I set my shoulder bag on the porch and I settled on the step where he’d laid his three-ring binder for ready reference. While Henry returned two pieces of lawn equipment to the garage, I spread the binder open on my lap and studied the list of items he’d checked off. He’d emptied, scoured, and refilled the bird feeders; harvested the last of the summer herbs for drying; pulled faded annuals from flower beds; and transplanted his perennials. He’d also scrubbed and hosed off the outdoor furniture, which was currently air-drying before he stacked it in the storage shed until spring.
    When he reappeared, he detached a sprinkler head from the hose and began to round up the length of it in a neat coil.
    “What’s next?” he asked.
    I put a tick mark by the job he’d just completed. “Once you finish the lawn, all you have left is to air the wool blankets and comforters before you remake the beds. How’s Nell?”
    “She’s doing well, but William’s turned into a royal pain in the butt, and I mean, literally. She’d been home from rehab less than an hour before he started complaining his sciatica was acting up.”
    “He has a problem with sciatica? Since when?”
    Henry waved off the idea. “You know him—highly suggestible and just a tiny bit competitive. I talked to him Friday and heard the whole tale, symptom by symptom. He said it was fortunate he’d taken his cane along though it was barely adequate given the extent of his disability. He’s had to borrow Nell’s walker so he can hobble from place to place. He thought Rosie should rush him to the nearest emergency room, but she was busy fixing dinner, so she made Charlie take him instead. The good news—or the bad, depending on your point of view—is the doctor suggested an MRI and William’s decided to have it done here. He says he’s in dire need of a nerve specialist and asked me to set up an appointment.”
    I said, “Wow. He’s not due back until the end of the week. I’m surprised he’d put up with the delay.”
    “Well, here’s how it went. I started calling around, assuming it would be weeks before a slot opened up, but Dr. Metzger had a cancellation for tomorrow morning at nine. William’s booked the first flight home.”
    “What about Rosie?”
    “She’ll stay until the end of the week as planned. I’m sure she’s happy to have him off her hands, and I gather the other sibs are equally relieved. They plan to teach Rosie to play bridge, which William never got the hang of anyway. He gets in at five, which means once I pick him up at the airport, I’ll be at his beck and call.