Shipped it from Arizona, where he and his wife and three children live. He works for Amazon. Never comes home much since his dad died.”
She didn’t answer my question, but I’ve learned that with some older folks you don’t push. They come from a different era when people still visited and talked and got to know each other before they got down to the nitty-gritty. My mom said she remembered her parents and their neighbors or friends actually sitting in each other’s kitchens and playing games, drinking coffee or something stronger. I look up again and there is Mrs. Guidry, still glued to her window like a tree frog.
“Nosy thing,” Mrs. Perkins says, and makes a dismissive motion with her hand. “Don’t pay her any mind. She’s like a cat. If you give her the slightest provocation, she’ll follow you around. Would you like tea, Detective?”
What I’d like is an answer, but I’ll have to play along.
“Yes, please. Can we sit in your kitchen? I find it much more pleasant and less formal.” I sounded a little like Betty Crocker just then, but it works. She smiles and crooks a twig-like finger at me to follow.
The kitchen table is made of some dark hardwood and there’s a half-finished monstrous puzzle on top. The picture on the puzzle box is that of a fireman wearing only heavy cotton pants and a red fire hat. He is holding a hose, and what she’d completed showed a heavily muscled chest and part of a six-pack. A four-pack, to be exact. There are words at the bottom of the puzzle:
LET ME PUT OUT YOUR FIRE
I suspect Mrs. Perkins keeps herself entertained, although I’m not sure how she sees well enough to do a puzzle.
She smiles and fills a kettle, turns on the burner and comes back to the table. We both sit.
“Maybe you can help me with this puzzle. I’ve done the darn thing three times and I always get the fireman done first, but this time I can’t seem to find some pieces.”
Maybe she ate them. I look at the floor. Several flesh-colored puzzle pieces are under my chair. I retrieve them and fit them into place.
“There he is,” she says with a huge grin. “Isn’t he adorable? I could just eat him with a spoon.” She blushes, and her hand goes to her face. “I’m sorry.” Then she starts to cry.
I wait her out.
“You must think I’m a silly, dirty old woman.”
It passes through my mind, but I want to get on with this. I say, “No. I don’t think that at all.”
She dabs at her eyes with the tip of a napkin. The teakettle screams like a train whistle. She gets up and takes down what I believe are her best china cups. The handles on the teacups are so small and fragile, I have to pinch them between my thumb and forefinger, and that puts my pinky finger in the air. My mother called that hoity-toity. Pretentious. Lifestyles of the rich and clueless. It is, however, the only way I can hold the damn cup.
I put several teaspoons of sugar in my tea and stir carefully, afraid I’ll break the china or spill it. Mrs. Perkins opens a cabinet above the stove and takes down a bottle of Johnnie Walker. She pours several capfuls in her tea and offers the bottle to me. I decline. I’m on duty. And I’ve spoiled it with sugar already.
She takes a seat. “I have to hide the bottle from Leona,” she says. “She has a drinking problem.”
I laugh. I can’t help it. She smiles and we’re friends. Just like that.
“So, Detective, where were we?”
Before I can open my mouth, a Jack Russell terrier is at my feet, staring at me. I like dogs. I reach down to pet him.
“I wouldn’t do that,” Mrs. Perkins says.
I straighten back up in the chair. The dog is still staring at me. Maybe deciding if I’m lunch, dinner, or just a snack.
“That’s Gonzo. He’s old. He can’t half see. He probably thinks you’re Leona. She always gives him a treat. Don’t pay him any mind. He’ll get tired and lay down.”
I ignore him and pull my feet and ankles under the chair. “You were going to tell me about Mrs. Delmont,” I remind her.
“Oh, yes. Monique. Such a pretty name. Not like Leona or Rowena. That’s my name. Rowena Perkins. Rowena Rafferty when I was unmarried. You can call me Weena. I think ‘Mrs. Perkins’ is just too