A Few Minutes Past Midnight by Stuart M. Kaminsky Read Free Book Online Page B

who had just come in with shopping bags and taken seats at the end of the counter.
    Bag of potatoes in my hand, I got out of my car about fifteen minutes later in front of Mrs. Plaut’s boardinghouse on Heliotrope. I was home. I walked up the narrow walkway to the porch and went inside. I could smell something inside. It smelled warm, sweet, and a little odd.
    “Mrs. Plaut,” I called, moving to the open door of her apartment on the first floor.
    I could hear her humming inside, deep inside. There was no way she could hear me, but I made the effort louder this time, much louder.
    “Mrs. Plaut,” I called.
    Her bird went crazy, flapping wings and losing feathers inside its cage. Mrs. Plaut kept humming. I took a chance and entered moving toward her kitchen.
    I found her wiping her hands on her apron. She sensed that someone was there and turned, a thin ancient figure with a crop of curly white hair.
    “Mr. Peelers,” she said. “You should knock.”
    “I did,” I shouted.
    “Nonetheless,” she said. “You should knock. You have …”
    “Potatoes,” I said, handing her the bag.
    She took the gift, looked inside, and said, “Potatoes. Good. I’m canning. I’m pickling and canning.”
    An even dozen jars with “Kerr” written on them stood on the counter near the sink.
    “I see,” I said.
    “Watermelon pickles, fig pickles, chop suey pickles,” she said, pointing to one jar filled with a brown substance.
    “Chop suey pickles?” I said.
    “Cucumbers, onions, green peppers, red peppers, salt, vinegar, water, sugar, celery salt, curry powder. Chop suey pickles. There’s a war on, you know.”
    “I know,” I said.
    She began putting lids and screw bands on the jars.
    “Can’t get caps. There’s a war on, you know,” she repeated.
    “It hasn’t escaped my attention,” I said, knowing she couldn’t hear me.
    “I have pages for you,” she said as she worked. “I’d like you to read them tonight.”
    She turned to me for confirmation.
    I nodded and said, “Tonight.”
    “You and Mr. Gunther should come for dinner,” she said. “Potato surprise. Five o’clock. Miss Simcox and Mr. Bidwell will be joining us.”
    Simcox and Bidwell were new boarders. Two of the old boarders had married each other and moved out about a month ago. I’d seen little of the new boarders. Simcox was a good-looking, lean woman in her forties who worked in the office at Macy’s. According to Mrs. Plaut, Emma Simcox was her grandniece. Mrs. Plaut’s natural pallor was morning newspaper white. Miss Simcox was definitely a light-skinned Negro. There was no family resemblance, but Emma Simcox did call Mrs. Plaut “Aunt Irene.” Ben Bidwell, on the other hand, was a car salesman at Mad Jack’s in Venice. Mr. Bidwell was about fifty, skinny, dark-haired, and one-armed. He had lost the arm at Verdun. Emma Simcox was quiet and shy. Ben Bidwell was either full of optimism and energy, or so depressed he couldn’t talk. It promised to be an entertaining dinner.
    I checked my watch. I always checked my watch even though it made no sense. It had been my father’s. It ran, but what it told me had only a chance relationship to whatever the time might be. I did have a Beech-Nut Gum wall clock in my room that was reasonably accurate.
    “We’ll be here,” I said.
    “Vitamin pie for dessert,” she said.
    I knew I shouldn’t ask but I did.
    “Vitamin pie?”
    “Sent to the Florida Citrus Commission for the recipe. Filled with vitamin C. In the top of a double boiler you mix six tablespoons of cornstarch, four tablespoons of sugar, three-quarters of a cup of corn syrup, a little salt, and you add boiling water, then cook for fifteen minutes. Next you stir it till it thickens and add three beaten egg yolks, cook for another minute and add three-quarters of a cup of canned grapefruit juice and a Number Two can of grapefruit sections. After you pour it in a pastry shell you add more grapefruit sections and cover it with