K Is for Killer

by Sue Grafton

  "Maybe Mom told us that, too. About the other guy, more than one."

  I said, "Uhn-hun," in my most skeptical tone. "What happened, did Lorna give you a copy?"

  "Nooo," she said, giving it two sliding syllables, high note to low, offended by the notion.

  "Then how'd you know there was more than one man?"

  "I guessed. What do you care?"

  I stared at her. The obvious conclusion leapt to mind. "Were you the one who wrapped it and put it out in the mailbox?"

  "No. And anyway, I don't have to answer." This time the tone was sullen, but the blush came up again. This was better than a polygraph.

  "Who did?"

  "I don't know anything about anything, so you might as well change the subject. This is not a court of law, you know. I'm not under oath."

  An attorney in the making. For a moment I thought she'd put her fingers in her ears and start humming, just to shut me out. I cocked my head, trying to catch her eye. "Trinny," I sang. She was studiously engaged in the T-shirt in front of her, adding a gaudy orange spiral of puff paint. I said, "Come on. I don't care what you did, and I swear I will never say a word to your parents. I've been wondering who sent the tape to them, and now I know. In a way, you did us all a favor. If your mother hadn't been upset about it, she wouldn't have come to me, and the whole investigation might have died where it was." I waited and then gave her a line prompt. "Was it Berlyn's idea or yours?"

  "I don't have to answer."

  "How about a nod if I guess right?"

  Trinny added some lime-green stars to the T-shirt. It was getting tackier by the minute, but I felt as though we were getting someplace.

  "I'll bet it was Berlyn."

  Silence.

  "Am I right?"

  Trinny lifted one shoulder, still without making eye contact.

  "Ah. I'm assuming that little gesture means 'yes.' So Berlyn sent the tape. Now the question is, how'd she get it?"

  More silence.

  "Come on, Trinny. Please, please, please?" I learned this interrogation method back in grade school, and it's particularly effective when the subject matter is a cross-your-heart-type secret just between us girls. I could see her softening. Whatever our confidences, we're usually dying to tell, especially if the confession involves the condemnation of someone else.

  Her tongue moved across her teeth as though she were testing for fuzz. Finally she said, "Swear you won't tell?"

  I held up my hand as if taking an oath. "I won't say a word to another soul. I won't even mention that you mentioned it."

  "We just got sick of hearing how wonderful she was. Because she wasn't all that great. She was pretty and she had a great bod, but big deal, you know?"

  "Really," I said.

  "Plus, she took money for sex. I mean, Berlyn or me would never have done that. So how come Lorna got elevated to the stars? She wasn't pure. She wasn't even good."

  "Human nature, I guess. Your mother doesn't get to have Lorna in her life, but she keeps that perfect picture in her heart," I said. "It's hard to let go when that's all you have."

  Her voice had begun to rise. "But Lorna was a bitch. All she thought about was herself. She hardly gave Mom and Daddy the time of day. I'm the one helps out, for all the good it does. I'm as sweet as I know how, and it doesn't make any difference. Lorna's the one Mom loves. Berlyn and me are just bullshit." Emotion was causing her skin to change colors, chameleonlike. Tears rose like water suddenly coming to the boil. She put a hand to her face, which twisted as a sob broke through.

  I reached out and touched her hand. "Trinny, that's just not true. Your mother loves you very much. The night she came to my office, she talked about you and Berlyn, all the fun you have, all the help around the house. You're a treasure to her. Honestly."

  She was crying by then, her voice high-pitched and pinched. "Then why doesn't she tell us? She never says a word."

  "Maybe she's afraid to. Or maybe she doesn't know how anymore, but that doesn't mean she isn't crazy about you."

  "I can't stand it. I can't." She sobbed like a child, giving rein to her grief. I sat and let her work it through on her own. Finally the tears subsided and she sighed heavily. She fumbled in the pocket of her cutoffs, pulling out a ratty hankie, which she pressed against her eyes. "Oh, God," she said. She propped her elbows on the table and then blew her nose. She looked down, realizing she'd picked up the imprint of wet paint on her forearm. "Well, shit. Look at that," she said. A bubble of laughter came up like a burp escaping.

  "What's going on?" Berlyn was standing at the front door, her expression blank with suspicion.

  Both of us jumped, and Trinny let out a gasp. "Berl! You scared me half to death," she said. "Where did you come from?" She wiped her eyes in haste, trying to cover up the fact that she'd been crying.

  Berlyn had a plastic carryall of groceries in one hand, her key ring in the other. She fixed Trinny with a look. "Pardon me for sneaking. I didn't know I was interrupting. I parked in the driveway big as life." Her gaze jumped to mine. "What's the matter with you?"

  "Nothing," I said. "We were talking about Lorna, and Trinny got upset."

  "Just what I need. I've heard enough about her. Daddy's got it right. Let's just drop the subject and get on to something else. Where's Mom? Is she up yet?"

  "I think she's in the shower," Trinny said.

  Belatedly, I became aware of water running somewhere.

  Berlyn dumped her purse on a chair and moved over to the counter, where she began to unload grocery items. Like Trinny, she wore cutoffs, a T-shirt, and flip-flops, professional attire for the working plumber's helper. The roots on her blond hair were showing through. Despite the four-year age difference, her face was a projection of Lorna's in middle age. Maybe young death isn't bad, perfect beauty suspended in the amber of time.

  Berlyn turned to Trinny. "Could you give me a hand?" she said, aggrieved. "How long has she been here?"

  Trinny shot me a pleading look and went over to help her sister.

  "Ten minutes," I supplied, though I hadn't been asked. "I just stopped by for the stuff your mother left. Trinny was showing me how to make T-shirts, and then we got talking about Lorna's death." I reached for the box, thinking to flee the premises before Janice emerged.

  Berlyn studied me with interest. "So you said."

  "Ah. Well. Fun as this is, I better be on my way." I got up, slung the strap of my handbag over my shoulder, and picked up the box, ignoring Berlyn. "Thanks for the painting lesson," I said to Trinny. "I'm sorry about Lorna. I know you loved her."

  Her smile was pained. She said, "Bye," and gave me a halfhearted wave. Berlyn went into the den without a backward look, closing the door behind her with a decided snap. I stuck my tongue out at her and crossed my eyes, which made Trinny laugh. I mouthed, "Thank you," to Trinny and took my leave.

  It was nearly six o'clock when I unlocked my office door and put the box of Lorna's files on my desk. Everybody else in the firm was gone. Even Lonnie, who usually works late, had packed it in for the day. All my tax forms and receipts were still sitting where I'd left them. I was disappointed the elves and fairies hadn't come along to finish up my work. I gathered all the bits and pieces and tucked them in a drawer, clearing space. I doubted Lorna's papers would yield any information, but I needed to take a look. I put some coffee on and sat down, set the lid of the box aside, and began to work my way through the manila folders. It looked as if someone had lifted Lorna's files directly from a desk drawer and placed them in the banker's box. Each file was labeled neatly. Tucked in the front were copies of various probate forms that Janice must have picked up from the attorney. It looked as though she were doing the preliminary work of culling and assembling, making penciled notes. I studied each sheet, trying to form a picture of Lorna Kepler's financial status.

  An accountant could probably have made quick work of this stuff. I, on the other hand, having made a C minus in high school math, had to frown and sigh and chew my pencil.
Janice had filled out a schedule of Lorna's assets, listing the cash in her possession at the time of her death, uncashed checks payable to her, bank accounts, stocks, bonds, Treasury bills, mutual funds. Lorna had no pension plan and no life insurance. She did have a small insurance policy for the jewelry she'd acquired. She hadn't owned any real property, but her liquid assets came to a little under five hundred thousand dollars. Not bad for a part-time clerk-harlot. Janice had included a copy of Lorna's will, which seemed clear enough. She'd left all her valuables, including jewelry, cash, stocks, bonds, and other financial assets, to her parents. Attached to the will was a copy of the completed "Proof of Holographic Instrument" that Janice had filed. In it, she attested that she was acquainted with the decedent for twenty-five years, had personal knowledge of her handwriting, that she had "examined the will and determined that its handwritten provisions were written by and the instrument signed by the hand of the decedent."

  Danielle had speculated that Lorna wouldn't have a will, but the document seemed consistent with Lorna's systematic nature. Neither Berlyn nor Trinny had been left any money, but that didn't seem unusual. Two thousand bucks apiece might have gone a long way toward softening their attitudes, but she might not have understood the animosity they harbored. Or maybe she knew and felt the same about them. At any rate, the estate wasn't complicated. I didn't think it necessitated the services of an attorney, but the Keplers might have been intimidated by all the official paperwork.

  I checked back through the last few years of Lorna's income tax. Her only W-2's were from the water treatment plant. Under "Your Occupation," she had listed herself as "secretary" and "mental health consultant." I had to smile at that. She'd been meticulous in reporting income, taking only standard deductions. She'd never donated a dime to charity, but she'd been (largely) honest with the government. To the recipient, I suppose the services of a prostitute might be classified under mental health. As for the payments themselves, I guess no one at the IRS had ever wondered why the bulk of her "consulting fees" were paid to her in cash.

  Janice had notified the post office to forward Lorna's mail to her, and she'd tossed in a stack of unopened statements: windowed envelopes from various sources, all of them marked "important tax information." I opened a few, just to check the year end against my list. Among them was a statement from a bank in Simi Valley that I'd seen on her tax forms for the last two years. The account had been closed out, but the bank had sent her a 1099-INT, reporting the interest accrued during the first four months of the year. I tucked that in with the other statements. All the credit cards had been canceled and notices sent to each company. I sorted through some of the files Lorna'd kept: canceled checks, receipts for utilities, various credit card slips.

  I laid out the canceled checks like a hand of solitaire. At the bottom, under "Memo," she'd dutifully written in the purpose of the payment: groceries, manicure, haircut, linens, sundries. There was something touching about the care she'd taken. She hadn't known she'd be dead by the time these checks came back. She hadn't known her last meal would be her last, that every action she'd taken and each endeavor she'd engaged in were part of some finite number that would soon run out. Sometimes the hardest part of my job is the incessant reminder of the fact we're all trying so assiduously to ignore: we are here temporarily... life is only ours on loan.

  I put down my pencil and eased my feet up on the desk, rocking back on my swivel chair. The room seemed dark, and I reached over and flipped on the lamp on the bookshelf behind me. Among Lorna's possessions, there was no address book, no calendar, no appointment book of any kind. That might have sparked my curiosity, but I wondered if it didn't speak to Lorna's caution about her clients. Danielle had told me she was very tight-lipped, and I felt this discretion might extend to the keeping of written notes as well.

  I reached for the manila envelope that held the crime scene photographs. I sorted through until I found the angles that showed the papers on her table and countertop. I pulled the light over closer, but there was no way to see if there was an appointment book visible. I glanced at my watch. I was dog-tired. I was also bored and hungry, but I could feel my senses quicken as the darkness gathered depth. Maybe I was turning into a vampire or a werewolf, repelled by sunlight, seduced by the moon.

  I got up and shrugged into my jacket, leaving Lorna's papers on my desk. What was bothering me? I scanned the desktop. A fact... something obvious... had passed through my hands. The problem with being tired is that your brain doesn't work so hot. Idly I paused and moved a batch of papers aside, leafing through the forms. I looked at the holographic will and Janice's supporting statement. I didn't think that was it. In theory, it would seem self-serving that Janice was in a position to attest to the legitimacy of a will from which she largely benefited. However, the truth of it was that if Lorna had died with no will at all, the result would have been the same.

  I picked up the bank notices and shuffled through them again, pausing when I got to the statement from the bank in Simi. The interest was minimal since she'd closed the account in April. Before that, she'd maintained a balance of roughly twenty thousand dollars. I looked at the closing date. The zero balance showed as of Friday, April 20. The day before she died.

  I pulled out the files Lieutenant Dolan had given me. The personal property inventory mentioned all manner of items found on the premises, including Lorna's handbag and her wallet, containing all her credit cards and a hundred bucks in cash. Nowhere was there mention of twenty thousand dollars. I took the notice with me to the Xerox room around the corner, made a copy of the statement, and stuck it in my handbag. Serena Bonney had been the first person on the scene. I checked my notes for her father's address, packed up Lorna's papers with the crime scene photographs, and took the banker's box with me down the stairs to my car.

  The address I'd picked up for Clark Esselmann turned out to be a sizable estate, maybe seven or eight acres surrounded by a low sandstone wall, beyond which the rolling lawns had been erased by the dark. Landscaping floods washed light across the exterior of the house, which was constructed in the French country style, meaning long and low with a steeply pitched roof. Mullioned windows formed a series of staunch yellow grids along the facade, while the tall fieldstone chimneys jutted up like black towers against the charcoal sky. Low-voltage lights defined the foliage and walkways, allowing me a fair sense of what it must have looked like by day. Interior lights winking in a small structure some distance from the main house suggested a guest house or perhaps maid's quarters.

  When I reached the main entrance, I could see electronic gates. A key pad and intercom were planted at expensive-car window height. Naturally my VW left me disadvantaged, and in order to buzz I had to pull on the emergency brake, open the car door, and torque my whole body, risking vicious back spasms. I pushed the button, wishing I could order a Big Mac and fries.

  A disembodied voice came in response. "Yes?"

  "Oh, hi. I'm Kinsey Millhone. I have some house keys that belong to Serena Bonney."

  There was no reply. What did I expect, a gasp of astonishment? Half a second later the two halves of the gate began to swing back in silence. I eased my VW up the circular driveway, lined with junipers. The entry was cobblestone, with a separate lane leading to the left and on around to the rear. I caught a glimpse of garages, like a line of horse stables. Just to be contrary, I bypassed the front door and drove around the side of the house to a brightly lighted gravel parking pad in back. The four-car garage was linked to the main house by a long, covered breezeway, beyond which I could see a short stretch of lawn intersected by a man-made reflecting pond, submerged lights tucked among its rocks. All across the property, lighting picked out significant landscape features: ornamental shrubs and tree trunks appearing like oils painted on black velvet. On the clear black surface of the pond, water lilies grew in clumps, breaking up a perfect inverted image of the house.

  Night-blooming jasmine filled the air with perfume. I backtracked to the front
door and rang properly. Moments later Serena answered, dressed in slacks and a white silk shirt.

  "I brought your keys back," I said, holding them out to her.

  "Those are my keys? Oh, so they are," she said. "Where did these come from?"

  "Lorna's mother came across them. You must have given Lorna a set when she was house-sitting for you."

  "Thanks. I'd forgotten. Nice of you to return them."

  "I've also got a question, if you can spare me a minute."

  "Sure. Come on in. Dad's out on the patio. He just got out of the hospital today. Have you met him?"

  "I don't think our paths have ever crossed," I said.

  I followed her through the house and into a large country kitchen. A cook was in the process of preparing the evening meal, barely glancing up from her chopping board as we passed through. An informal dining table large enough to seat eight was located in a bay of French doors on the far side of the room. The ceiling rose a story and a half, with crisscrossing wooden beams. An assortment of baskets and bunches of dried herbs hung on wooden pegs. The floor was a pale, glossy pine. The layout of the room allowed space for two separate cooking islands about ten feet apart. One was topped with dark granite with its own inlaid hardwood cutting surfaces and a butler's sink. The second housed a full-size sink, two dishwashers, and a trash compactor. A fireplace on a raised hearth held a blazing fire.

  Serena opened the French doors, and I followed her out. A wide flagstone patio ran the width of the house. Outside lights seemed to create an artificial day. A black-bottomed lap pool, a good seventy-five feet by twenty, defined its outer edge. The water was clear, but the black tile seemed to erase its inner dimensions. Pool lights picked up a shifting web of emerald green that somehow made the bottom look endlessly deep. Diving into that would be like a plunge into Loch Ness. God knew what creatures might be lurking in the abyss.

  Clark Esselmann, in his robe and slippers, a stick in his hand, was teasing a black Labrador retriever into the ready position. "Okay, Max. Here we go now. Here we go."