Depression over my failure with Mrs. Frizell made me sleep heavily that night, too heavily, so that I woke late on Sunday feeling thick and unrefreshed. The air outside had turned unexpectedly thick and heavy, too, not good for jogging. Ninety degrees and muggy in early June? Did this mean that the dread greenhouse effect was kicking in and I should trade in my high-performance car for a bicycle? I didn’t think I could worry about Mrs. Frizell, Mitch Kruger, and the environment all on the same weekend.
I drank a cup of coffee and drove my high-performance car over to a Y where I sometimes swim. Sunday is family day: the pool was about equal parts chlorine and screaming children. I retreated to the weight room to spend a dull half hour on the machines. Working on machines is monotonous, and people in weight rooms too often seem to share the look of private self-satisfaction you get when you preen in front of a mirror—Gosh, I’m so beautiful, with such fabulous muscle development, I think I’ve fallen in love.
I stood it as long as I could, then wandered into the gym to find a pickup basketball game. I was in luck. Someone was just leaving to get her kids out of the pool. We could only keep the court for another twenty minutes, but by the time the men arrived to take over I was wet with sweat and the feeling of heaviness had gone from my head.
When I went in to shower I realized I’d left my gym bag in the weight room. Returning to pick it up, I was surprised to see Chrissie Pichea on the lat machine I’d been using. Not surprised to see her working on her trapezius, just that she was at the Y. I’d figured her for a high-end Lincoln Park or Loop gym. She turned red when she recognized me.
“Since you and Todd took care of Mrs. Frizell’s dogs, I have time to build up my pecs,” I said heartily, picking up my bag.
Her face tightened in anger. “Why don’t you just mind your own business!”
“I’m like you—I like to help the neighbors. Or when you go barging in on Mrs. Tertz and Mrs. Frizell, is that just your own business you’re minding?”
She released the weights so fast, they crashed loudly as they landed. “Just who died and left you God?”
I smiled at her. “Old, tired line, Chrissie. Don’t let the weights go so fast—it’s a good way to tear a muscle.” I sauntered from the room, whistling under my breath. Gosh, Vic, you’re so witty, I think I’m falling in love.
Back home I felt alert enough to phone Mrs. Frizell’s son in San Francisco. He answered on the eighth ring, when I’d begun to think he must be away for the weekend. I reminded him that we’d spoken last Monday after I found his mother in her bathroom.
“Yes?”
I explained what had happened to the dogs. “I went to see her yesterday. She’s not in good shape. It might kill her to learn her dogs have been put to sleep. The nursing staff want to talk to you first—they don’t want to run that kind of risk without her family knowing… I gather you’re her only family?”
“It’s possible my father’s still alive, in whatever Shangri-la he fled to before I was born. Since they never got divorced he’s technically still her closest family member, but I don’t suppose he’d care much more now than he has anytime in the last sixty years. Anyway, I authorized a lawyer who lives near her to serve as her guardian. Why don’t you talk it over with him?” His voice was bitter, six decades of grievance giving it an edge.
“There’s a bit of a problem with that: he’s the one who got the county to put her dogs to sleep. He doesn’t much care about the effect that has on your mother—he only wanted to be appointed guardian so he could get rid of the dogs.”
“I expect you’re exaggerating that,” he said. “What’s your own interest in my mother?”
Just a concerned neighbor? A busybody who can’t keep her nose out of other people’s lives? “She’s a client of mine. I can’t abandon her just because her mind is wandering.”
“A client? What kind of—I go over Mother’s bills once a quarter, after the bank has paid them. I don’t recall your name—Sharansky, did you say?”
“No, I keep saying ‘Warshawski.’ You wouldn’t find a bill—I’ve been doing pro bono work for her.”
“Yes, but what are you doing for her? There are plenty of people around preying on the elderly. You’d better spell your name for me. I’d like Pichea to look into this.”
“How do you know he isn’t one of those people preying on the elderly?” I asked. “Who did you get to investigate him? Are you going to continue examining your mother’s bills now that you’ve given him carte blanche to run her life?”
“He gave me the name of his law firm. I called and they assured me of his credentials and his disinterestedness. Now, if you’ll spell your name for me—”