by Sue Grafton
I parked and I was making my way through the squeaky gate when I stopped in my tracks.
Was I out of my tiny mind? The implications of the situation descended like a hundred-pound weight. I had a brief vision of myself knocking on Ethan’s door. Hi, you don’t know me, but I’m a very, very, distant relative. Your father cut you out of his will and left everything to me.
This was not going to go well. Dace’s kids knew nothing of me and I knew precious little about them. In one stroke, Dace had relieved them of a sizable inheritance and placed the burden on me. Why would they be pleasant or courteous or even civil when I was delivering such bad news? They’d be pissed as hell. Maybe notifying Ethan by mail was a better approach. If he or his sisters wanted to contest the terms of the will, he could contact me through his attorney. That would save me driving 150 miles to get the shit kicked out of me. I didn’t want to deal with their rage or their indignation. If the three of them were indifferent to news of their father’s death, I didn’t want to deal with that either. Dace had made a mess of his life, but he’d tried to make amends. Drink and drugs aside, he’d been dealt a bad hand. It was time for someone to give the poor guy a break.
Just then, Henry came striding around the corner of the building with a bucket of water and a folded newspaper under one arm, narrowly avoiding bumping into me. I yelped as water sloshed out of the bucket and down the front of my all-purpose dress. I don’t know which of us was more surprised.
He put the bucket down. “Sorry. I’m so sorry, but I had no idea you’d be standing there.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. I’d thought to reassure him, but I must have telegraphed something of my upset and confusion because his look changed from surprise to concern. He reached out and touched my arm. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. I’m fine. It’s been a hell of a day.”
“You look like you lost your best friend.”
“Worse. It’s much worse. I don’t even know where to begin.”
“I’ve got time.”
“No, really. You’re in the middle of something. I don’t want to interrupt.”
“Washing windows. I haven’t even started yet. What’s worse than losing a friend?”
“Someone left me half a million bucks. Give or take,” I added in the interest of being accurate.
“The bastard. That’s terrible!”
He expected me to laugh, but all I could do was moan. There have been occasions when his kindness has caused me to burst into tears. I couldn’t even manage that. He set the bucket and the newspaper on the walk and took me by the arm. He steered me toward the back patio, where he sat me down in an Adirondack chair. I propped my elbows on my knees and hung my head, wondering if I was going to throw up or faint.
He grabbed a lightweight aluminum lawn chair and swung it over close to mine. “What in the world is going on?”
I pressed my fingers against my eyes. “You won’t believe this. I don’t believe it.”
“I’m not sure I will either, but give it a try.”
“Remember the guy in the morgue with my name in his pocket?”
“Of course. The one who died on the beach.”
“Turns out we’re related—probably by way of my Grandmother Dace. He came here in hopes of finding a distant family member and it turns out I’m it. Not only that, but he was on the fritz with his kids so he left all his money to me, which means I’ll have to drive to Bakersfield and spring the news on them. Half a million bucks and I’d never even met the man.”
“Where’d he get the money? You said he was homeless.”
“Homeless, but not broke. Big difference. He spent twelve years in prison for a crime he didn’t commit. Once he was exonerated, he sued the state.”
“For half a million dollars?”
“For twelve million. The settlement was six hundred thousand dollars. After a few minor withdrawals, there’s five hundred and ninety-five thousand, three hundred and fifty dollars left.”
“No strings attached?”
“Are you kidding me? It’s all strings. He also named me executor of the estate so I now gotta jump through legal hoops. And what am I supposed to do about a funeral? The guy has to have a decent burial. What if his kids won’t step up to the plate? I’ll have to take care of that on top of everything else. I don’t get it. How did I end up babysitting a dead guy?”
He slapped his knees decisively and got up. “I have the solution. You come with me. This calls for a pan of brownies.”
And that’s when I burst into tears.
• • •
As soon as the brownies were cool enough, I ate half the pan and then stayed through supper. Henry plied me with comfort foods: homemade chicken noodle soup and homemade dinner rolls slathered with butter and strawberry jam. Weeping deadens your sense of taste and smell, so I had to suck it up and compose myself. For dessert—as a reward for cleaning my plate—I had two more brownies, which left him with two. Through the meal, we argued about the trip, which I was now thoroughly opposed to. It felt good to focus on a plan over which I had some control.
Henry thought my original instinct was correct. “Dace’s children are probably already feeling put upon and betrayed,” he said. “What good could possibly come of their learning about his death through a notice in the paper or a letter in the mail?”
“Better than hearing it from me,” I said. “How am I going to explain they’ve been disinherited? If I show up on Ethan’s doorstep with that news, he’ll think I’m there to gloat.”
“You’ll do fine. You’re articulate. Open a dialogue. Tell them how you got caught up in this. You know about the last few months of Terrence Dace’s life. His children should have the information.”
“I don’t know anything about the last few months of his life. I’m only going on what I’ve been told.”
“Matters not. You said Dace made a point about the executor of his will delivering the news.”
I was shaking my head in despair. “I can’t do it. Truly. They’re bound to react badly. It’s like begging to be abused. First they find out he died and then they find out he’s screwed ’em over in death the way he screwed ’em in life.”
“You don’t know that for a fact.”
“What, that he screwed ’em over in life? Look at it from their perspective. God knows what they went through during his arrest, trial, and sentencing. They must have been mortified. After that, Mom divorces him and he goes to prison, presumably for life. He put them through the wringer.”
“But he didn’t commit a crime. He was falsely accused. The legal system was at fault. The judge, the lawyers, and police made a terrible mistake. You’d think his kids would be thrilled to find out he was telling the truth.”
“Not so. From what Dandy tells me, the visit was a bust.”
“Do you think he told his kids how much money he had?”
“Beats me. Dandy and Pearl suspected he had money, but apparently he never revealed how much. I don’t want to be the one who drops that bomb on them. Once the kids find out I’m sole beneficiary, no telling what they’ll do.”
Henry shook his head. “You’re just trying to save your own skin.”
“Of course I am! Wouldn’t you do the same?”
“That’s neither here nor there. Tell them what happened. Lay the whole story out the same way you told me. It’s not your fault they severed the relationship. It’s not your fault he named you in his will.”
“You think they’ll take such a charitable view?”
“Well, no, not likely, but it’s better if you take the high road and handle this one-on-one.”
I put my head down on the table and groaned.
“Kinsey, the money isn’t theirs. It was never theirs. Their father had the right to do anything he wanted with it.”
“What if they feel entitled to it? They’re his natural heirs. Why wouldn’t they feel they had a right to it?”
“In that case, it becomes a lega
l issue and they’ll have to hire an attorney.”
I thought about it briefly. “I guess if they raise a huge stink, I could offer to divide the money among the three of them.”
“In no way! Absolutely not. If he’d wanted them to have the money, he’d have set it up that way. He named you executor because he trusted you to carry out his wishes, which are plainly stated.”
I reached out and grabbed his arm. “I just had a great idea! You can come with me. You’re good at things like this. You’re diplomatic and I’m not. I’ll make a botch of it. If you’re with me, I’ll have an ally.”
“Nope. No can do. I’ve got William to contend with. Someone has to get him to his physical therapy appointments.”
“He can take a cab. He’s already said he would.”
“You’re forgetting Ed. I can’t very well go off and leave the little guy. We’re in the bonding process. He’d feel betrayed.”
“You think a cat can feel betrayed?”
“Of course. Why would he not? He might not understand the concept as such, but he’d certainly be crushed if I abandoned him after finally winning his trust.”
“William could look after him, couldn’t he? He’s just as much a part of Ed’s life as you are.”
“He most certainly is not!”
“Well, nearly. I mean, Ed knows William. It’s not like you’d be leaving a stranger in charge.”
“Why don’t you look at it another way? There’s a big chunk of your history buried in Bakersfield. You’re actually related to these people. I’m not sure how, but that’s a question worth pursuing. Think of yourself as a diplomat. You’re a delegate from your branch of the family reaching out to theirs. I grant you the introductions might be awkward, but as long as you’re going, you can fill in some gaps in your family tree. Actually, Dace did you a good turn. This is a rare opportunity, a chance to integrate. Forget the emotional content and play it straight.”
I stared at the floor. “I wish I had your confidence.”
“You’ll be fine.”
• • •
I left Henry’s at 9:00 that night and made a quick trip to the nearest service station to put gas in the car. On the way home, I stopped by the bank and pulled cash from an ATM. I was in bed by ten. I didn’t sleep well, but then I didn’t expect to sleep well. I woke at 2:30 and again at 4:00. The next time I opened my eyes it was 5:15 and I decided to call it quits. I got up, made the bed, and pulled on my sweats. I started a load of laundry and left it to churn while I did my three-mile jog. The run was the last thing in the world I wanted to do, but I knew it was the right stress-busting move. When I returned thirty minutes later, I shifted the damp clothes into the dryer and then took my shower.
By the time I’d dressed and eaten my cereal, I was feeling better. Talking through the problem with Henry had helped me put it in perspective. I was making things too complicated. The trip to Bakersfield was a necessary element in my responsibilities as executor of Dace’s estate. It was a mistake to overthink the task. I had no clue what kind of reception I’d get. The best tack was to go with an open heart and deal with whatever came to pass. Looking back, I can’t believe I was able to say this to myself with a straight face.
My clothes were still warm from the dryer as I packed my duffel. I was eager to hit the road, but I had matters to tend to first. When the Santa Teresa County Clerk-Recorder’s Office opened at 8:00, Burke Benjamin and I were the only two people in line. I presented myself, paperwork in hand, paid the fees, filed the petition for probate, and submitted the original of Dace’s will. I could have strung out the process, waiting to file until I returned from Bakersfield, but I knew I’d reached the point of no return and I liked the sense that forward motion was inevitable. The clerk assigned a case number and gave me a court date that fell in the middle of December, which meant I had ample time to take care of the busywork. Burke made sure I had certified copies of all the necessary documents. At her suggestion, I picked up forms to fill out for the notice I’d need to have published in the Santa Teresa Dispatch. Burke said she’d cover anything that came up in my absence.
I made a quick stop at the office to pick up the mail that had come in the day before. I sat down at my desk and took care of a detail or two. Mostly, I tidied up so if I ran off the road and died, my survivors would think my desk was always neat. At 9:00, I put in a call to Mr. Sharonson at Wynington-Blake Mortuary, asking him to retrieve R. T. Dace’s body from the coroner’s office and move him to the funeral home. I could tell Mr. Sharonson was on the verge of rolling out condolences, but I pretended I had another call coming in on my one-line phone and thus made short work of it.
Before I hit the road, I stopped at the house to let Henry know I was on my way. He was out somewhere, but he’d left a hinged wicker picnic basket on my doorstep. I lifted the flap and saw that he’d packed me a sandwich, an apple, some potato chips, and six chocolate chip cookies. He’d also tucked in a map of Bakersfield. Ed, the cat, had contributed a parting gift as well. He’d caught and killed a mole, graciously leaving me the head, which he’d licked clean of fur right down to the bone. I was on the road by 9:30.
The die, as they say, was cast.
13
PETE WOLINSKY
June 1988, Four Months Earlier
Friday morning, June 17, a lengthy typewritten report arrived in the mail, postmarked Reno, Nevada. The report itself was dated June 15, 1988, and covered the surveillance on Mary Lee Bryce during her stay at the conference hotel over the Memorial Day weekend. The bill attached was for three thousand dollars plus change. The cash expenditures and credit card charges were neatly itemized with all the relevant receipts attached. Pete ran the total himself and found it to be correct. The PI hadn’t fudged by a penny, which Pete found hard to believe.
Pete hadn’t wanted to do the legwork himself because he didn’t have the money to fly to Reno. He’d canceled the second set of round-trip plane tickets he’d paid for, though he realized he’d forgotten to turn them in for his refund, which the travel agent assured him would be forthcoming. He had no intention of shelling out any of the twenty-five hundred bucks Willard had paid. Once the cash was safely tucked away, Pete contacted Con Dolan, now retired from the STPD and always up for a chat. He mentioned needing to sub out a job and Dolan had said he’d get back to him with a contact name shortly. Once Dolan passed along the contact numbers, Pete made the call and laid out his problem. While the fellow didn’t seem wild about the work, he agreed to do it, quoting what Pete considered an exorbitant fee. Pete asked the PI to include an invoice when the work was done and he submitted his report. As this was a matter between two professionals, a verbal agreement was sufficient.
Pete laid the report on his desk, pressing the pages flat, and then leaned close enough for the typeface to come into focus. His eyesight was getting worse. The last time he’d seen an optometrist, he was told he might be helped by corrective surgery, but the procedure sounded risky to him and the expense made the option unlikely. He followed the lines of print with his finger so he wouldn’t lose his place.
The report came as a surprise. There was no indication whatever that Mary Lee Bryce was spending time with Dr. Linton Reed for romantic purposes or any other kind. Apparently, they attended most of the same symposia and were both present for many of the papers being presented. She was in the audience for the one given by Dr. Reed, but she didn’t appear to hang on his every word. The two never sat together and barely even spoke. They shared no meals, didn’t meet for drinks, and their rooms were not only on different floors, but at opposite ends of the hotel. When their paths did cross, they maintained the appearance of civility, but that was about it. The Nevada PI had even snapped photos in which Mary Lee Bryce and Dr. Reed were both in the same frame, their body language attesting to their mutual disinterest if not mutual disdain. This didn’t constitute proof of any kind, but it was telling.
What surfaced instead was the fact that Mary Lee Bryce met twice with a re
porter named Owen Pensky, who worked for the Reno Gazette-Journal. She and Pensky had met in the hotel bar Thursday night, heads bent together briefly over drinks. The second assignation was a late supper on Sunday after the official conference sessions were wrapped up for the day. The two were apparently engaged in a lively discussion, and while there were no displays of affection, their interest in each other was clear. Pete studied the series of black-and-white photographs of the two, candid shots that were surprisingly clear given the use of a telephoto lens, which often distorted images or rendered them grainy.
Even more titillating were the additional documents attached. Secondary sources revealed that Mary Lee Bryce, whose maiden name was Jacobs, was a classmate of Pensky’s at Reno High School, the two having graduated in the class of 1973. Included with the written report were photocopies of the relevant pages of the yearbook, showing the two at various school activities. Mary Lee Jacobs and Owen Pensky were both members of the debate team and both worked for the school paper, which was called The Red and Blue. While it wasn’t clear that they were boyfriend and girlfriend, they had many interests in common. How many times had Pete heard tales of high school classmates reconnecting at reunions years after having parted company? Nothing more potent than old fantasies suddenly given new life.
The Nevada investigator had done some extracurricular digging into Pensky’s background and turned up newspaper accounts of a scandal of major proportions. Two years before, Owen Pensky had been working for the New York Times as a feature writer. He’d already made quite a reputation for himself when he was accused of lifting passages from the work of another journalist. The charge of plagiarism gave rise to an investigation that uncovered evidence that Pensky was also guilty of inventing sources for certain features he’d published. Every article he’d ever written became suspect. He’d been fired and he’d left New York in disgrace. After ten months scrambling for employment, he’d finally managed to pick up work at one of the Reno papers, a low point for a fellow who’d been everybody’s darling such a short time before.