Read Online R Is for Ricochet by Sue Grafton - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Sue Grafton
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don't occasionally let myself off the hook; however, I'd noticed a growing inclination to seize any excuse to sit on my butt instead of working out. Before I thought too much about it, I went up the spiral stairs to change my clothes.
I kicked off my loafers, peeled out of my jeans, and pulled my T-shirt over my head, tugging on my sweats and my Sauconys. In circumstances like this, I make a little deal with myself. If I jog for ten minutes and really really hate it, I can turn around and come back. No shame, no blame. Usually by the time the first ten minutes have elapsed, I'm into the swing of it and enjoying myself. I tied my house key in the laces of one shoe, locked the door behind me, and set off at a brisk walk.
Now that the marine layer had burned off, the neighbors were out in their yards, mowing lawns, watering, and pruning deadheads from the rosebushes massed along the fences. I could smell ocean brine mingled with the scent of freshly clipped grass. My block of Albinil Street is narrow. Aside from vehicles parked on either side, there's barely room for two cars to pass. Eucalyptus trees and stone pines provide shade for the assorted stucco and frame houses, most of them small, dating back to the early forties.
By the time I reached the jogging path, I was sufficiently warmed up to break into a trot. After that, I only had to cope with my protesting body parts, which gradually melded into the smooth rhythms of the run. I was home again forty minutes later, winded, sweating, but feeling virtuous. I let myself into the apartment, stripped off my sweats, and took a short hot shower. I was out and drying myself when the telephone rang. I took the call while turning the towel into a makeshift sarong.
"Kinsey? This is Reba. Did I catch you at a bad time?"
"Well, I'm standing here soaking wet, but I should be good for a minute until the chill sets in. What's up?"
"Not much. Pop was feeling bad so he's gone to bed. The housekeeper just left and the home-care nurse called to say she'd be a little late. I was just wondering if you were free for dinner?"
"Sure. I could do that. What'd you have in mind?"
"Didn't you mention a place in your neighborhood?"
"Rosie's. That's where I was headed. I wouldn't call it fancy, but at least it's close."
"I just need to get out. I'd love to join you but only if it doesn't interfere with your plans."
"What plans? I don't mind a bit. You have transportation?"
"Don't worry about that. As soon as the nurse arrives, I'll meet you down there. About seven?"
"That should work."
"Good. I'll be there as soon as I can."
"I'll grab a good table and see you there," I said, and then gave her the address.
After she hung up, I finished my routine, putting on fresh jeans, a clean black T-shirt, and a pair of sneakers. I went downstairs and spent a few minutes tidying my already tidy kitchen. Then I flipped on the lights and sat in the living room with the local paper, catching up on the obituaries and other current events.
At 6:56, I walked the half block to Rosie's through the lingering daylight. Two sets of neighbors were having cocktails outside, enjoying conversation from porch to porch. A cat crossed the street and eased its slim body through the palings in a picket fence. I could smell jasmine.
Rosie's is one of six small businesses on my block, including a laundromat, an appliance-repair shop, and an automobile mechanic, who always has clunkers lined up along his drive. I've been having supper at Rosie's three to four nights a week for the past seven years. The exterior is shabby, a building that might have served as the neighborhood market once upon a time. The windows are plate glass, but the light is obscured by sputtering neon beer signs, posters, announcements, and faded placards from the health department. As nearly as I can remember, Rosie's has never been awarded a rating higher than a C.
Inside, the space is long and narrow, with a high, darkly painted ceiling that looks
I kicked off my loafers, peeled out of my jeans, and pulled my T-shirt over my head, tugging on my sweats and my Sauconys. In circumstances like this, I make a little deal with myself. If I jog for ten minutes and really really hate it, I can turn around and come back. No shame, no blame. Usually by the time the first ten minutes have elapsed, I'm into the swing of it and enjoying myself. I tied my house key in the laces of one shoe, locked the door behind me, and set off at a brisk walk.
Now that the marine layer had burned off, the neighbors were out in their yards, mowing lawns, watering, and pruning deadheads from the rosebushes massed along the fences. I could smell ocean brine mingled with the scent of freshly clipped grass. My block of Albinil Street is narrow. Aside from vehicles parked on either side, there's barely room for two cars to pass. Eucalyptus trees and stone pines provide shade for the assorted stucco and frame houses, most of them small, dating back to the early forties.
By the time I reached the jogging path, I was sufficiently warmed up to break into a trot. After that, I only had to cope with my protesting body parts, which gradually melded into the smooth rhythms of the run. I was home again forty minutes later, winded, sweating, but feeling virtuous. I let myself into the apartment, stripped off my sweats, and took a short hot shower. I was out and drying myself when the telephone rang. I took the call while turning the towel into a makeshift sarong.
"Kinsey? This is Reba. Did I catch you at a bad time?"
"Well, I'm standing here soaking wet, but I should be good for a minute until the chill sets in. What's up?"
"Not much. Pop was feeling bad so he's gone to bed. The housekeeper just left and the home-care nurse called to say she'd be a little late. I was just wondering if you were free for dinner?"
"Sure. I could do that. What'd you have in mind?"
"Didn't you mention a place in your neighborhood?"
"Rosie's. That's where I was headed. I wouldn't call it fancy, but at least it's close."
"I just need to get out. I'd love to join you but only if it doesn't interfere with your plans."
"What plans? I don't mind a bit. You have transportation?"
"Don't worry about that. As soon as the nurse arrives, I'll meet you down there. About seven?"
"That should work."
"Good. I'll be there as soon as I can."
"I'll grab a good table and see you there," I said, and then gave her the address.
After she hung up, I finished my routine, putting on fresh jeans, a clean black T-shirt, and a pair of sneakers. I went downstairs and spent a few minutes tidying my already tidy kitchen. Then I flipped on the lights and sat in the living room with the local paper, catching up on the obituaries and other current events.
At 6:56, I walked the half block to Rosie's through the lingering daylight. Two sets of neighbors were having cocktails outside, enjoying conversation from porch to porch. A cat crossed the street and eased its slim body through the palings in a picket fence. I could smell jasmine.
Rosie's is one of six small businesses on my block, including a laundromat, an appliance-repair shop, and an automobile mechanic, who always has clunkers lined up along his drive. I've been having supper at Rosie's three to four nights a week for the past seven years. The exterior is shabby, a building that might have served as the neighborhood market once upon a time. The windows are plate glass, but the light is obscured by sputtering neon beer signs, posters, announcements, and faded placards from the health department. As nearly as I can remember, Rosie's has never been awarded a rating higher than a C.
Inside, the space is long and narrow, with a high, darkly painted ceiling that looks
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