W is for Wasted (Kinsey Millhone Mystery)

said.
    “Well, I know that. The man was a regular kleptomaniac,” I said. “How’d he manage to steal the other two?”
    Pearl laughed. “This is good. This is my favorite story. Remember he had that shirt and glasses belonged to Charles?”
    “In his duffel with the picture ID,” I said. “Green-and-yellow plaid.”
    Pearl pointed to show she approved. “So Charles was laying out at the coroner’s a few days before they figured out who he was. Terrence had already took his ID. He figured nobody ever looked a homeless man in the face, so he put on the green-and-yellow-plaid shirt and glasses Charles was wearing when he had his picture took. He made an appointment in Charles’s name, went into the clinic flashing the photo ID, and pulled the same thing. Stole the chart off the back of the door.”
    “He did it twice?”
    “He did it three times, counting his. Different doctors work different days, and the nurses work different shifts. He made sure he smelt bad enough that everybody was in a hurry to get away from him.”
    I could feel my smile fade. “It’s all in there, isn’t it? Proof he got sick. Proof he told the doctor. All his lab work. Everything.”
    Dandy said, “Yes, ma’am.”
    “What do you want me to do?”
    Dandy said, “I don’t know, but there’s bound to be some remedy, don’t you think?”
    “If I can figure out what it is.”
    I slipped the pills into my shoulder bag and struggled to my feet. I dusted off the back of my jeans and turned toward the parking lot. “I should warn you, his youngest daughter’s in town. Anna. Twenty-six years old. Long dark hair, blue eyes. She’s a piece of work.”
    Pearl piped up as I was walking away. “Hey. You have any spare Seconals?”
    “I left ’em in my other jacket,” I said, as though she just happened to catch me without. She rattled off a list of acceptable substitutes, Nembutals among them, but I didn’t have those either. I gave her five bucks for cigarettes with strict instructions she was to share with Dandy and the preacher man. I knew it was bad form, but given her true preferences, I didn’t think the sin was too great.
    As I returned to my car, I glanced at my watch, surprised that it was close to 1:15. Had I eaten lunch? I thought not. I drove home. A check of the loaf of bread I had on hand showed no signs of green. After a brief search, I came up with a jar of Kraft Olive & Pimento cheese spread. I popped off the top, took out a small spatula, and made what I think of as a hand sandwich. I held a piece of bread in my left palm, slathered it with cheese spread, and then folded it in half. I snagged my shoulder bag, locked up, and dined in style as I was crossing the patio. I guess a hand sandwich could be considered fast food. Four bites.
    I peered in Henry’s screen door and saw him standing at the counter, unloading groceries. I tapped. He leaned over and unlatched the door so I could let myself in. He said, “Have a seat. I’m almost done.”
    I found myself peering down the hall. “Where’s Anna?”
    “Out looking for work.”
    “Enterprising of her. What’s she have in mind?”
    “I’m not sure. She went through the classified ads and circled five or six possibilities. Two were downtown, so I told her she could borrow the station wagon.” He sat down. “You’re not big on cousins.”
    “Not that one, at any rate,” I said. Ed appeared and hopped up into my lap, the little suck-up. I was sure he was just as attentive to Anna behind my back. I rubbed his ears so he’d like me better than her.
    Henry said, “I haven’t seen you since Dietz arrived. I’m looking forward to catching up.”
    “Too late. He’s gone again. He took off this morning with his son Nick . . .” I could tell from Henry’s expression, he’d forgotten Dietz had two sons.
    While Henry emptied the last brown paper bag and put canned goods away, I took a few minutes to refresh his memory. That recital segued into an account of the latest developments in the drama that had begun to unfold three nights before in my argument with Dietz about Pete.
    By the time Henry joined me at the table, I’d skipped from the subject of Pete Wolinsky to Aaron Blumberg’s report about Dace’s death. I also filled him in on the charts I now had in my possession. I reached into my shoulder bag, removed the pill bottle, and put it on the table. “Those are the pills Dace took that he swore were making him sick. Check out the doctor’s