almost human again, he sat down to his feast, his mind taking a
mini-holiday with a remembrance of his boyhood.
Until Nate was seven, his father
had taught agricultural science at U Mass in Amherst, Massachusetts. The
Darrows lived in Springfield, in an old inherited family home on Rittenhouse
Terrace, the kind of neighborhood where 1960s housewives would take their
turkeys to the nearby bakery to be roasted in the big ovens at Thanksgiving. In
typical New England style, the huge house was divided between two families, with
the Darrows in the upper half so that Nate’s room was a cozy dormer room in the
attic. The downstairs neighbors were the DeLaurentis, who introduced his family
to pizza in the early ’60s. Mrs. DeLaurenti, mother of Nate’s best friend Tony,
had set the bar high.
Then the Darrows had moved west when
his father had taken a job as a research professor at Oregon State, the
agricultural school in Corvallis, first researching hazelnuts, and later wine
grapes. College towns – and he’d lived in several – usually had decent pizza,
but Portland was taking his taste buds back to his youth. His older brother,
Bud – not a very original nickname, but far preferable to the “Silas” his
parents had stuck him with – would shovel the DeLaurentis’ walk all through a
Massachusetts winter for the promise of a pizza party. In his mind, Darrow went
through all the different varieties Mrs. DeLaurenti had made, naming each
aloud. At first he couldn’t remember if the Roma tomatoes went with the
mushrooms or with the sausage.
These little memory exercises were
something Darrow practiced to relieve the stress of being a cop. He did the
same thing when trail-running, an effective sort of self-distraction when his
calves threatened to cramp. Kind of a yoga thing. Some of the old guard he
worked with called him a head case.
A soft knock broke the spell.
Darrow rose stiffly from his
rocking chair and padded to the door. His slipper-socks made little sound as he
wound his way around unpacked boxes to peep through the tiny glass hole in the
door. With a groan he recognized Paul Kenyon raising his fist to knock again.
This, Darrow thought, was just about the fitting cap to a long and bad day.
The librarian’s murder
investigation had taken on a macabre life of its own. One after another,
members of the Pioneer Literary Society had taken it upon themselves to call
the mayor and demand a quick end to the investigation and the publicity –
mostly the publicity. The mayor was pressuring the police chief to make an
arrest. The chief’s deputy had made several calls to Darrow’s captain. Darrow,
at the bottom of that food-chain, felt he’d spent the day in a hyperbaric
chamber.
“Hey, Paul,” Darrow said with
forced joviality as he opened the door. Paul Kenyon was being a bit too earnest
about his task of assisting the police, Darrow thought. The chief had sent this
eager pest over the other morning with some vague reference to Paul’s mother “being
somebody,” with the heavy implication that she could turn them all into
castratos if she wasn’t pandered to.
“What brings you out tonight?”
And how the hell did you get my address, Darrow thought privately.
Kenyon hesitantly entered the
apartment. “I really didn’t want to disturb you at home, Detective, but after
talking to Mother, I realized the information I have is too important to keep
to myself any longer.”
Darrow ushered Kenyon into his
living room. It was still mostly packing boxes. A bricks-and-boards bookcase
was taking shape against one wall. The only seats were Darrow’s rocker and a
couple of folding chairs. The last wedge of pizza shriveled in its box.
“No trouble at all, Paul. I won’t
make excuses for the place, though,” Darrow said, clearing a sweat-reeking
singlet off the metal chair closest to the rocker, then plopping back down. “It’s
definitely still a work in progress.”
Kenyon sat and launched directly
into his
mini-holiday with a remembrance of his boyhood.
Until Nate was seven, his father
had taught agricultural science at U Mass in Amherst, Massachusetts. The
Darrows lived in Springfield, in an old inherited family home on Rittenhouse
Terrace, the kind of neighborhood where 1960s housewives would take their
turkeys to the nearby bakery to be roasted in the big ovens at Thanksgiving. In
typical New England style, the huge house was divided between two families, with
the Darrows in the upper half so that Nate’s room was a cozy dormer room in the
attic. The downstairs neighbors were the DeLaurentis, who introduced his family
to pizza in the early ’60s. Mrs. DeLaurenti, mother of Nate’s best friend Tony,
had set the bar high.
Then the Darrows had moved west when
his father had taken a job as a research professor at Oregon State, the
agricultural school in Corvallis, first researching hazelnuts, and later wine
grapes. College towns – and he’d lived in several – usually had decent pizza,
but Portland was taking his taste buds back to his youth. His older brother,
Bud – not a very original nickname, but far preferable to the “Silas” his
parents had stuck him with – would shovel the DeLaurentis’ walk all through a
Massachusetts winter for the promise of a pizza party. In his mind, Darrow went
through all the different varieties Mrs. DeLaurenti had made, naming each
aloud. At first he couldn’t remember if the Roma tomatoes went with the
mushrooms or with the sausage.
These little memory exercises were
something Darrow practiced to relieve the stress of being a cop. He did the
same thing when trail-running, an effective sort of self-distraction when his
calves threatened to cramp. Kind of a yoga thing. Some of the old guard he
worked with called him a head case.
A soft knock broke the spell.
Darrow rose stiffly from his
rocking chair and padded to the door. His slipper-socks made little sound as he
wound his way around unpacked boxes to peep through the tiny glass hole in the
door. With a groan he recognized Paul Kenyon raising his fist to knock again.
This, Darrow thought, was just about the fitting cap to a long and bad day.
The librarian’s murder
investigation had taken on a macabre life of its own. One after another,
members of the Pioneer Literary Society had taken it upon themselves to call
the mayor and demand a quick end to the investigation and the publicity –
mostly the publicity. The mayor was pressuring the police chief to make an
arrest. The chief’s deputy had made several calls to Darrow’s captain. Darrow,
at the bottom of that food-chain, felt he’d spent the day in a hyperbaric
chamber.
“Hey, Paul,” Darrow said with
forced joviality as he opened the door. Paul Kenyon was being a bit too earnest
about his task of assisting the police, Darrow thought. The chief had sent this
eager pest over the other morning with some vague reference to Paul’s mother “being
somebody,” with the heavy implication that she could turn them all into
castratos if she wasn’t pandered to.
“What brings you out tonight?”
And how the hell did you get my address, Darrow thought privately.
Kenyon hesitantly entered the
apartment. “I really didn’t want to disturb you at home, Detective, but after
talking to Mother, I realized the information I have is too important to keep
to myself any longer.”
Darrow ushered Kenyon into his
living room. It was still mostly packing boxes. A bricks-and-boards bookcase
was taking shape against one wall. The only seats were Darrow’s rocker and a
couple of folding chairs. The last wedge of pizza shriveled in its box.
“No trouble at all, Paul. I won’t
make excuses for the place, though,” Darrow said, clearing a sweat-reeking
singlet off the metal chair closest to the rocker, then plopping back down. “It’s
definitely still a work in progress.”
Kenyon sat and launched directly
into his
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