M Is for Malice

by Sue Grafton

  I ran down the hall on tiptoe, making a hasty detour into Bader's room. I put the key back in the door where I'd found it, then crossed swiftly into his home office. I opened a file cabinet and shoved the folder between two unrelated files where I could find it later. I crossed the room again and went out into the corridor. I walked quickly toward the heavy drapes at the end of the hall, pushed my way through the arch, and hurried along the back corridor. I clattered down the stairs and into the kitchen. There was no sign of Myrna. Enid was calmly pouring a thick yellow batter into the springform pan.

  I put my hand on my chest to still my breathing. "Jesus. That was something. I thought for a minute there we were really in for it."

  She looked up at me blankly. I could tell she didn't have the faintest idea what I was talking about.

  I stopped in my tracks. "The temblor," I said.

  "I wasn't aware of any temblor. When was this?"

  'Enid, you're kidding. Don't do this to me. It must have been at least four points on the Richter scale. Didn't the lights flicker down here?"

  "Not that I noticed." I watched her use a rubber spatula to sweep the last of the batter from the bowl into the pan.

  "The whole house was shifting. Didn't you feel anything?"

  She was silent for a moment, her gaze dropping to her bowl. "You hang on to people, don't you?"

  "What?"

  "You have trouble letting go."

  "I do not. That's not a bit true. People tell me I'm too independent for my own good."

  She was shaking her head before I reached the end of the sentence. "Independence has nothing to do with hanging on," she said.

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Ghosts don't haunt us. That's not how it works. They're present among us because we won't let go of them."

  "I don't believe in ghosts," I said, faintly.

  "Some people can't see the color red. That doesn't mean it isn't there," she replied.

  When I reached the office, Dietz was sitting in my swivel chair with his feet up on the desk. One of the sandwich packets had been opened and he was munching on a BLT. I still hadn't eaten lunch so I reached for the other sandwich. I removed a soft drink from the refrigerator and sat down across from him.

  "How'd you do at the Dispatch?"

  He laid the four Maddison obituaries on the desk so I could study them. "I had Jeff Katzenbach dig through the files. Mother's maiden name was Bangham, so I went over to the library and checked the city directory for other Banghams in the area. None. Three of those obits I've verified at the Hall of Records, checking death certificates. Claire's still a question mark."

  "How so?" I popped the top on my soda can and began to pick at the cellophane and plastic packet in which my sandwich was sealed.

  Dietz was saying, "There's no suggestion how she died. I'd be interested in seeing if we can get the suicide confirmed just to put that one to bed. I got the name of a P.I. in Bridgeport, Connecticut, and left a lengthy message with her service. I'm hoping someone will return my call."

  "What difference does it make how she died?" I tried biting the seal on the cellophane. Was this kiddie-proof, like poison? Dietz held his hand out for the wrapped sandwich and I passed it across the desk to him.

  "Suppose she was murdered? Suppose she was the victim of a hit-and-run accident?" He freed the sandwich and gave it back to me.

  "You've got a point," I said. I paused to eat while I reread the information. The obits were in date order, starting with the father's death in late November 1967. Dietz had had all four of them copied onto one page.

  MADDISON, Francis M., 53,

  departed suddenly on Tuesday, November 21. Loving, adored husband of 25 years to Caroline B. Maddison; beloved father to daughters, Claire and Patricia. He was a service manager at Colgate Automotive Center and a member of the Community Christian Church. He was much loved and will be missed by family and friends. Funeral: 11:30 A.M. Friday. In lieu of flowers, donations to the American Heart Association would be appreciated.

  I glanced up at him and said, "Fifty-three. That's young."

  "They were all young," Dietz said.

  MADDISON, Patricia Anne, 17,

  died Thursday, May 9, at Santa Teresa Hospital. She is survived by her loving mother, Caroline B. Maddison, and a devoted sister, Claire Maddison. At the family's request, services will be private.

  MADDISON, Caroline B., 58,

  died Tuesday, August 29, at her home after a lengthy illness. She was born on January 22 to Helen and John Bangham, in Indianapolis, Indiana, graduating from Indiana University with a degree in home economics. Caroline was a devoted wife, mother, a homemaker, and a Christian. Preceded in death by her husband, Francis M. Maddison, and her daughter Patricia Anne Maddison. Survived by loving daughter Claire Maddison of Bridgeport, Connecticut. No services are planned. Contributions may be made to Hospice of Santa Teresa.

  MADDISON, Claire, 39,

  formerly of Santa Teresa, died Saturday, March 2, in Bridgeport, Connecticut. Daughter of the late Francis M. and Caroline B. Maddison, Claire was preceded in death by her only sister, Patricia. Claire graduated from Santa Teresa High School in 1963 and the University of Connecticut in 1967. She pursued her secondary teaching credential and M.A. in Romance Languages at Boston College. She taught French and Italian at a private girls' academy in Bridgeport, Connecticut. Service, Tuesday in the Memorial Park Chapel.

  I read Claire's death notice twice. "This was just last year."

  "Thank goodness she'd gone back to her maiden name," he said. "I don't know how we'd have found her if she'd been using her ex-hubby's moniker."

  "Whoever he was," I said. "She'd probably been divorced for ages. There wasn't much family to speak of. You watch the names of the survivors diminish until there's no one left. It's depressing, isn't it?"

  "I thought the mother might have surviving family members in Indiana, but I can't seem to get a line on them," Dietz said. "I tried directory assistance in Indianapolis. There weren't any Banghams listed, so at least on the face of it, we're not talking about a large close-knit clan. just to be on the safe side, I checked the CALI Directory and put a call through to an Indianapolis private investigator. I asked him to check Caroline Bangham's birth records to see if that nets us anything. We might not glean much, but he said he'd get back to us."

  I made a face. "You know what? I think we're spinning our wheels on this one. I just don't buy the idea that some distraught family member would seek revenge eighteen years later."

  "Maybe not," he said. "If it weren't for Bader's death, there wouldn't have been a reason to look for Guy at all. He Might have gone on living in Marcella for the rest of his days."

  "It wasn't strictly Bader's death. It was the will," I said.

  "Which brings us back to the five million."

  "I guess it does," I said. "I'll tell you what hurts. I feel like I was part of what happened to Guy."

  "Because you found him."

  "Exactly. I didn't cause his death, in any strict sense of the word, but if it hadn't been for me, he'd be safe the way I see it."

  "Hey, come on. That's not true. Tasha would have hired herself some other detective. Maybe not as good as you..."

  "Don't suck up."

  "Look, someone would have found him. It just happened to be you."

  "I suppose," I said. "It still feels like shit."

  "I'm sure it does."

  The phone rang. Dietz answered and then handed me the handset, mouthing the name Enid.

  I nodded and took the phone. "Hi, Enid. This is Kinsey. How are you?"

  "Not so good," she said, fretfully. "Did Myrna call you?"

  "Not as far as I know. Let me check my messages." I put a hand across the mouthpiece. "Did the Maleks' housekeeper call or leave a message for me?"

  Dietz shook his head and I went back to Enid. "No, there's nothing here."

  "Well, that's odd. She swore she was going to call you. I made her promise she would. I w
ent to the supermarket and I was only gone fifteen or twenty minutes. She said she'd be here when I got back, but she's. gone and there's no sign of her. I thought you might have asked her to come in."

  "Sorry. I never heard from her. What's she want to talk to me about?"

  "I'm not sure. I know something's been bothering her, but she wouldn't be specific. Her car's still out back. That's what's so strange," she said.

  "Could she have gone to the doctor's? If she really wasn't feeling well, she might have called a cab."

  "It's always possible, but you'd think she would have waited to have me take her. This is just so unlike her. She told me she'd help me with dinner. I have a meeting at seven and I have to be out of here early. We discussed it in detail."

  "Maybe she's out walking somewhere on the property."

  "I thought of that," she said. "I went out there myself, calling, but she's disappeared."

  "Enid, let's be realistic. I don't think being gone less than an hour constitutes a disappearance."

  "I'm worried something's happened."

  "Like what?"

  "I don't know. That's why I called you. Because I'm scared."

  "What's the rest?"

  "That's it."

  "No, it's not. You're leaving something out. I mean, so far this doesn't make sense. Do you think she's been abducted by aliens, or what?'

  I could hear her hesitation. "I got the impression she knew something about the murder."

  "Really? She said that?"

  "She hinted as much. She was too nervous to say more. I think she saw something she wasn't supposed to see that night."

  "She told me she was sleeping."

  "Well, she was. She'd taken some pain medication and a sleeping pill. She slept like the dead, but then she remembered later that she woke up at one point to find someone standing at the foot of her bed."

  "Wait a minute, Enid. You're not talking about this woo-woo stuff..."

  "Not at all. I promise. This is what she said. She said she thought she'd been dreaming, but the more she thought about it, the more convinced she was that it was real."

  "What was?"

  "The person she saw."

  "I gathered that, Enid. Who?"

  "She wouldn't tell me. She felt guilty she hadn't said anything before now."

  "Myrna feels guilty about everything," I said.

  "I know," Enid said. "But I think she was also worried about the consequences. She thought she'd be in danger if she opened her mouth. I told her to tell the police, in that case, but she was afraid to do that. She said she'd rather talk to you first and then she'd talk to them. It's not like her to go off without a word."

  "You did check her room?"

  "That's the first thing I did. And that's the other thing that bothers me. Something doesn't seem right. Myrna's very fussy. Everything has to be just so with her. I don't mean to criticize, but it's the truth."

  "Her room is messed up?"

  "It's not exactly messed up, but it doesn't look right."

  "Who else is there? Is anybody home besides you?"

  "Bennet was here, but I think he's gone. He came in for lunch. I fixed him a sandwich and he took it up to his room. He must have left again while I was at the market. Christie and Donovan are due back any minute. I don't mean to be a bother, but I don't feel right about this."

  Dietz was giving me an inquisitive look. Having eavesdropped on my end of the conversation with her, he was suitably mystified. "Hang on a second." I put a palm across the mouthpiece. "How long will you be here?"

  "At least an hour," he said. "If you'd ever get off the phone, I might get this call from the East Coast that I've been waiting for. What's the problem?"

  "It's Myrna. I'll tell you in a minute." I went back to Enid. "Why don't I come over there," I said. "She might have mentioned something to Christie before they left for the funeral home. You're sure she didn't leave a note?"

  "Positive."

  "I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

  "I don't want you to go to any trouble."

  "It's no trouble."

  I took my sandwich and soda with me, driving with one hand while I finished my lunch. I kept the chilled soda can between my thighs. Shifting gears is a pain in the ass when you're trying to dine in style. At least I knew the route. I could have done it with my eyes shut.

  Enid had left the gate open for me. I pulled into the courtyard and left my car in a spot I was beginning to think should be reserved for me. Donovan's pickup truck was parked to one side of the garage. At first, I thought he was back, but then I remembered that he'd been driving the BMW when he left. Both the open garages were still empty. The driveway angled up along the house on the left. For the first time, I noticed a separate parking pad nearby with spaces for three vehicles. Currently, I could see a bright yellow VW convertible and what looked like a Toyota, a pale metallic blue, maybe three or four years old.

  Enid had the backdoor ajar and was standing in the opening. She'd taken off her apron to do the marketing and she now wore a jacket as though chilled by circumstance.

  I moved into the utility room. "Still no sign of her?" I asked, following Enid through a door that opened into a rear hall.

  "Not a peep," she said. "I'm sorry to be a bother. I'm probably being silly."

  "Don't worry about it. You've had a murder in the house. Everybody's nerves are on edge. Is one of those cars out there hers?"

  "The Toyota," she said. She paused in front of a door at the end of the hall. "This is hers."

  "Have you tried knocking on her door since we talked?"

  Enid shook her head. "I think I scared myself. I didn't want to do anything until you arrived."

  "Geez, Enid. You're scaring me," I said. I knocked on the door, my head tilted against the panel, listening for sounds that might indicate Myrna was back. I was reluctant to barge right in. She might be napping or naked, just out of the shower. I didn't want to catch her with her dentures out or her wooden leg unstrapped. I tapped again with one knuckle. "Myrna?"

  Dead silence.

  I tried the knob, which turned easily. I opened the door a crack and peered around the frame. The sitting room was empty. Across from me, the door to the bedroom was standing open and the room appeared to be empty. "Myrna, you in here? It's Kinsey Millhone," I said. I waited a moment and then crossed the room. In passing, I put my hand on the television set, but the housing was cold.

  "I told you she wasn't here," Enid said.

  I looked into the bedroom. I could see why Enid felt something was wrong. On the surface, both rooms seemed tidy and untouched, but there was something amiss. It was the little things, the minutiae. The bed was made, but the coverlet was not quite smooth. A picture on the wall was ever so slightly tilted.

  "When was the last time you actually saw her?" I leaned down and peeked under the bed, feeling like an idiot. There was nothing under there except an old pair of bedroom slippers.

  "Must have been noon."

  "Was Bennet here at that point?"

  "I don't remember. He was gone when I got back from the market. That's all I know."

  In the sitting room, the shade on the floor lamp was askew and it was clear from the dents in the carpet the base had been moved from its usual place. Had there been a struggle of some kind? I looked in the closet. Enid followed me like a kid, about three steps back, possibly feeling the same eerie sense of intrusion that I felt.

  "Can you tell if all her clothes are here? Anything missing? Shoes? Coat?"

  Enid studied the rack. "I think everything's here," she said and then pointed. "That's her suitcase and her garment bag."

  "What about her handbag?"

  "It's in the kitchen. I knew you'd ask so I opened it. Her wallet's in there, driver's license, cash, all that stuff."

  I moved into the bathroom. I heard a little pop under my shoe, followed by the kind of scratching sound that makes you think of broken glass on ceramic floor tile.

  I looked down
. There was a touch of dry soil, as from the bottom of a shoe, and two tiny pieces of gravel. "Be careful. I don't want us to disturb that," I said to Enid, who was crowding into the room on my heels.

  "Was someone in here?"

  "I don't know yet. It could be."

  "It looks like someone tried to straighten up and didn't do a very good job of it," she said. "Myrna always left notes if she was going somewhere. She wouldn't just walk out."

  "Don't start babbling. I'm trying to concentrate."

  I checked the medicine cabinet. All the obvious toiletries were still sitting on the shelf: toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant, odds and ends of makeup, prescription bottles. The shower curtain was bone-dry, but a dark blue washcloth had been draped over the rim of the basin and it had been recently used. I peered closely at the basin. There was a trace of water around the small brass ring fixture for the outflow valve. Unless my eyes were deceiving me, the water was ever so faintly pink. I lifted the washcloth and squeezed out some of the excess water. There was a splash of bright red against the white of the basin. "You better call 9-1-1. This is blood," I said.

  While Enid went off to call the police, I closed the door to Myrna's apartment and I retraced my steps through the utility room to the backdoor. In the kitchen, I could hear Enid on the phone, sounding shaken and slightly shrill. Someone must have been waiting to catch Myrna alone. Outside, I crossed the small back patio and took a right at the driveway. Myrna's car was locked, but I circled the exterior, peering in at the front seats and back seats. Both were empty. Nothing on the dashboard. I was curious if the trunk was locked, but I didn't want to touch it. Let the cops do that. To the right, the driveway formed a dead end with space for three more cars. Beyond that, I saw a long line of drab pink stucco wall and a tangle of woods. Suppose she'd been killed in haste? What would you do with the body?