W Is for Wasted km-23

by Sue Grafton

  Dietz said, “At least he was sincere about the river cruise. Take a look at this.”

  He leaned forward and handed me a glossy brochure that featured a color photograph of a sleek boat on a body of water. This was not a 2,600-passenger cruise liner tracking the Norwegian fjords. This was river travel. A village was laid out along the shore, with a low rolling mountain beyond. The bell tower on the church was reflected like a shimmering mirage at the water’s edge. Everything about the image was inviting, including the sight of passengers on the upper deck where a swimming pool was visible. “I could learn to live like that,” I said.

  “I told you money has its advantages.”

  “For sure. I just couldn’t picture anything I wanted. Now I’m getting it,” I said. “It’d be nice if he’d set aside some cash to pay for the trip. I’m sure Ruthie could use the getaway.”

  “You think she’d go without him?”

  “Not really. I think if she had the money, she’d pay off his creditors before she did anything else.”

  I watched Dietz pick up a sheaf of papers. As his eyes traced the lines of print, he let out a bark of outrage. “Son of a bitch! Look at this! What the hell is he doing here?”

  I took the typewritten pages and glanced at the first. “What am I looking at?”

  “My report. He stole the whole damn thing. Retyped it and dicked around with the language, but essentially it’s my work, with all my receipts attached. I’ll bet he was reimbursed for everything, including my time. This is my original. Look at that.”

  I leafed through both reports, keeping the two documents side by side for comparison purposes. Pete had rewritten Dietz’s account on his own letterhead, embellishing in places, altering the wording so it sounded more folksy. Attached were invoices showing two sets of round-trip tickets from Santa Teresa to Reno, trips he’d certainly never made. He’d done a clumsy job of substituting his name for Dietz’s in the hotel bill, but he probably thought his client wouldn’t know the difference. I couldn’t think why he’d kept Dietz’s original. He’d have been smarter to destroy it unless he’d hoped to lift details to fashion a follow-up report. I doubted he had any intention of paying Dietz at all and what options did Dietz have? Trying to collect in California for work done in Nevada would have been an exercise in frustration. Taking Pete to small claims court would have been time consuming, and even if Dietz had won a judgment, what was he to do with it? Pete was flat broke.

  “I hope he made good use of my photographs while he was at it,” he said.

  He opened the manila envelope that bore his return address and removed the pictures he’d taken.

  I peered over his shoulder. “That’s the gal you were hired to spy on?”

  “Mary Lee Bryce, right.” Dietz shuffled through the prints while I looked on. “This is her when she first arrived at the hotel and this is Owen Pensky, the high school classmate she met with. Here’s one of her with the boss she was supposed to be having the affair with.”

  “No love lost there,” I remarked.

  “Unless they’re really good at faking it.”

  “I bet Pete collected up front and in cash. He wasn’t the type to bill after the fact.”

  “Depressing, but you’re probably right.”

  “So if Willard Bryce has already paid Pete, there’s no point in asking him for the money. He’d turn you down cold.”

  “When you said Pete was a scumbag, I thought you were exaggerating.”

  “I should point out that you had a better motive to shoot Pete than any armed robber did. All that guy got was an empty wallet and a cheap watch.”

  Dietz tossed aside the manila envelope. “You know what bugs me? Here I was so worried his death was connected to the job I did. If I’d known he was ripping me off, I wouldn’t have given it another thought.”

  “He did provide a great excuse for spending time with me.”

  “Well, there’s that.”

  I checked the receipts for the two sets of plane tickets. “You think he actually paid for tickets? These are copies of copies. I wonder what happened to the originals.”

  “He had to pay for ’em or he wouldn’t have tickets in his possession in the first place. I’m sure he didn’t make two trips to Reno. Hell, he didn’t even make one.”

  “Maybe he has a refund coming.”

  “Maybe he collected the money and spent it all. Who cares?”

  “I’m sure Ruthie would appreciate the windfall.”

  “Fine. Give her the file and let her figure it out.”

  “Such a grouch,” I said.

  Dietz was dropping files back into the banker’s box he’d placed in front of him. “What time is it?”

  I checked my watch. “Ten fifteen. Why?”

  “I told Nick I’d be back in time to take him to lunch.”

  “It’s the middle of the morning. We have eight boxes to go!”

  “Not me. I’ve had it.”

  “I don’t want to do this on my own.”

  “Then don’t. Nobody’s paying you.”

  “Come on. Don’t you have any curiosity at all about who else he might’ve been working for? Suppose he had half a dozen other clients who were all set to pay?”

  “He didn’t. That Bryce fellow was the only one.”

  “But suppose there was another one?”

  “What if there was? If I’d done business with Pete and heard he’d been shot dead, I’d count myself lucky and lay low.”

  Dietz hauled himself to his feet. I extended my hand and he pulled me into an upright position.

  He stepped into the kitchenette to wash his hands. Mine were as filthy as his, but I planned to go on working, so there wasn’t any point in being dainty.

  He picked up his car keys, looking way too cheerful for my taste. “I’ll check with you later. Why don’t you plan on having dinner with us?”

  “You better chat with Nick first. He may have other ideas.”

  “You think?”

  “Dietz, so far he hasn’t been here one full day. He came to talk to you about his plans and from what you’ve said, he hasn’t even told you the whole story yet. You need to pay attention to these things.”

  “How complicated could it be?”

  I would have laughed, but he hadn’t meant to be funny. I said, “Forget about tonight. Find out what’s on his mind and we’ll get together some other time.”

  Once he was gone, I turned my attention to the remaining eight boxes, which I confess didn’t have quite the same appeal. Doing a tedious chore in the company of a friend makes the labor seem less onerous. These files had been packed haphazardly without the benefit of Pete’s casual organizational skills. This was the work of his landlady, who was already annoyed with his bounced checks and probably not that sorry to hear about his unhappy fate. On the other hand, I was feeling slightly more charitable about the man. He might have been a skunk, but he wasn’t a malicious skunk; just someone with a tendency to deceive. Nothing wrong with a lie or two when the situation demanded it.

  I sat down again and started to work. Ruthie was right about his being a pack rat. In the next box I tackled, the topmost file caught my attention. I opened the folder and had a quick look, leafing through photocopies of various articles related to a diabetes study and some to an NIH grant for a clinical trial being run out at UCST. All of it pertained to Linton Reed—the clinical trial, his educational background, his CV, and numerous scientific papers that made reference to a drug called Glucotace. I was curious about Pete’s sudden passion for medical matters. When I knew him, he seldom pursued a subject unless he smelled some monetary benefit. Clearly his interest in Linton Reed went beyond any suggestion that he was in a relationship with Mary Lee Bryce. That theory had been knocked flat. I set the folder aside, placing it on top of the one that contained Dietz’s surveillance notes and his photographs.

  Next layer down, I came across a thick cross-section of signed contracts, surveillance logs, typed reports, and confiden
tial client information from the old Byrd-Shine days, material Pete shouldn’t have had in his possession. I couldn’t imagine how he’d managed to get his hands on the files or why he’d held on to them all these years.

  Tucked in one end of the same box, I found a pen mike and a handful of tape cassettes, along with his tape recorder, crude and clunky looking by today’s standards. I checked the window in the lid, where I could see a cassette still in place. The Sony Walkman had been his pride and joy. I remembered running into him years before when he’d first bought it. He was excited about the technology, which he considered cutting edge. He’d given me a lengthy demonstration, crowing with delight. At this point, the device seemed ancient. New cassette recorders were half this size.

  Pete had a penchant for illegal wiretaps. He was a big fan of planting mikes behind picture frames and slipping listening devices in among the potted ferns. I guess we all have our preferences. I put the tape recorder where it had been, replaced the lid on the box, and marked it with a big X. I’d chat with Ruthie and explain why I wasn’t returning it. Even a decade later, Byrd-Shine business was confidential. The contents should either be shredded or permanently consigned to my care.

  I did a cursory search of another five boxes before I lost heart. Dietz was right. I wasn’t getting paid, so why bust my butt? I suppose I’d been hoping to find a fat manila envelope filled with spare cash, but apparently among the treasures Pete clung to, money wasn’t one. It wasn’t noon yet, but I was hungry. I was also grubby enough that I longed for another shower. There’s something about used paper and old storage containers that leaves you feeling chalky around the edges. I trotted myself up the spiral stairs, stripped down, and started my day all over again, emerging from the hydrotherapy feeling happier. I swapped out my sooty jeans for fresh and pulled on a clean turtleneck. I knew Rosie’s would be open for lunch, so I grabbed my shoulder bag and a denim jacket and headed out. I was in the process of locking my door when I spotted William out of the corner of my eye.

  He was sitting bolt upright in an Adirondack chair, wearing his customary three-piece suit, starched white dress shirt, and a dark tie, carefully knotted. He had his face tilted up to absorb the October sunshine, and his hands rested on the cane he’d propped between his highly polished wingtip shoes.

  “Hey, William. What are you doing out here?”

  “I came to visit Ed.”

  “Is he here?”

  William opened his eyes and looked around. “He was a minute ago.”

  We both did a quick survey, but there was no cat to be seen.

  “Where’s Henry? I’m assuming you’ve met his houseguest.”

  “Anna’s your cousin, isn’t she?”

  “A cousin of sorts. She lives in Bakersfield unless she’s decided on a permanent change of residency. I take it they’re off someplace.”

  “A beauty-supply shop. They’ll be back in a bit. You don’t care for her?”

  “I don’t. Thanks to her I got stuck with a huge bar bill and then she tried bumming a ride with me. I had no intention of driving her down here so what does she do? She takes a bus and now she’s moved in next door. Don’t you think that’s pushy?”

  “Very. I don’t like pushy people.”

  “Neither do I.”

  I pulled over a lightweight aluminum lawn chair and sat down next to him. “How’s your back doing these days?”

  “Better. I appreciate your concern. Henry’s bored with the subject and Rosie thinks I’m faking it,” he said. “Actually, now that I have you here, there’s something we ought to chat about.”

  “Sure. What’s up?”

  “I just returned from a visitation and service at Wynington-Blake.” His tone had shifted at the mention of the mortuary.

  “I’m sorry. Was this for a friend of yours?”

  “No, no. I never met the man. I came across his obituary while I was waiting for my last physical therapy appointment. Gentleman named Hardin Comstock. Ninety-six years old and he was allotted one line. No mention of his parents or his place of birth. Not a word about hobbies or what he’d done for a living. It’s possible there was no one left to provide the information.”

  “Who paid for the funeral?”

  “He took care of his own expenses before he passed. I admired his forethought. I think he might have hired a small band of professional mourners. There were three people there who didn’t seem to know each other, let alone the man to whom they were paying their respects. Tastefully done, I must say, except for the inclusion of that unfortunate hymn, “Begone Unbelief.” Never cared for that one. Rhyming the word ‘wrestle’ with ‘vessel’ strikes me as unseemly.”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “I was the only other visitor, so I felt obliged to sing along. When I came to the word ‘wrestle,’ I hummed instead. I couldn’t help myself. I hope you don’t think I was out of line.”

  “Well within your rights. No question. Entirely up to you,” I said.

  “Thank you, though that’s not what I wanted to discuss.”

  “Ah.”

  “After the service, your friend Mr. Sharonson took me aside, expressing his concern that you hadn’t yet met with him to discuss arrangements for your family member.”

  “Family member?”

  “Terrence Dace.”

  “Oh, Dace. Oh, him. I’m sorry, I drew a blank. I was focused on Hardin Comstock and the reference threw me. I did have Dace’s body transported from the coroner’s office, but that’s as much as I’ve done. I’m postponing decisions until I hear from his kids, which might get tricky. It’s hard to say at this point.”

  “As I understand it, that’s why Anna’s here. To help with the arrangements.”

  “That’s just an excuse.”

  William said, “Nonetheless, I’d like to offer my assistance. I have years of experience in planning the formalities. Visitation in advance and graveside services as well. A modest reception afterward would be nice.”

  “I appreciate the offer. Anna won’t lift a finger, but when the time comes, we’ll chat.”

  “Excellent. I understand there’s a second chap.”

  “A second one? I don’t think so.”

  “This fellow, Felix. Wasn’t he a friend of yours?”

  “Yes, but that doesn’t mean I’ll pay to bury him. I’ve got my hands full as it is.”

  William blinked in puzzlement. “Perhaps I’m mistaken. Terrence Dace was your cousin. Isn’t that correct?”

  “Something of the sort.”

  “As I understand it, Terrence and this Felix fellow were inseparable.”

  I could feel uneasiness creeping up my spine. “I wouldn’t go that far. I mean, I don’t think they were close. They were both homeless and hung out at the beach, so they knew each other, but that’s about it.”

  “I’m sure they’d take comfort in being together now that they’re . . .” William raised a finger and pointed heavenward.

  I looked up, thinking he’d spotted the cat on a branch above our heads. When I caught his meaning, I made a face. “You’re picturing a double feature; two for the price of one.”

  “If you care to think of it that way.”

  I put my hand across my forehead, like I was coming down with something. “Oh, man. This is all a bit much. Let me give it some thought, okay? Dace I can accept, but I knew Felix a week and a half and I don’t think I’m responsible for his remains.”

  “If the county buries him, you know it will be a miserable affair.”

  “Probably.”

  “Good we agree on that point. I’ll put together my suggestions before we meet again. I’m sure we can fashion a program satisfactory to everyone.”

  • • •

  I abandoned the idea of Rosie’s and retreated to my studio, undone by the sudden prospects of tandem funerals. During the conversation with William, I hadn’t heard my phone ring, but as I closed the door behind me, I saw the message light winking on my answering machine. I turned on my
desk lamp and took a seat. I pressed play and listened to my outgoing recorded greeting, wishing I didn’t sound quite so adenoidal.

  A young-sounding fellow said, “Hi, Kinsey. Sorry I missed you. This is Drew from the car wash. Wonder of wonders. My friend finally paid me back, so I’m flush. Give me a call and we’ll see what we can work out.”

  He recited his number.

  I had no idea who he was or what he was talking about. Sounded like an anonymous drug deal gone wrong except he’d used my first name and I don’t do drugs. Okay, except for NyQuil when I have a cold, but that’s commercially marketed and doesn’t count. What car wash? What money? I listened to the message a second time and comprehension dawned. The guy at the car wash . . . oh, that guy. Drew was the one who’d admired my Boss 429 a lifetime ago. When I’d offered to sell the car for the five grand I paid, he expressed interest, but I hadn’t taken him seriously. I still hoped to get rid of the car, but not just now. In order to off-load the Mustang, I’d have to line up another vehicle, which might take weeks. You don’t just run out and buy the first car that catches your fancy. That’s how I’d acquired the Mustang and look what a dumb move that was.

  I tried Drew’s number, which was busy. I left the scratch pad in plain sight to remind myself to try him again.

  I peered out of the window. William still sat in the sun, his head back, his eyes closed, this time with Ed on his lap. The cat stood and stared into William’s face intently, perhaps mistaking him for dead. I was praying nobody else would die or I’d have three funerals on my hands. To appease my jangled sensibilities, I made myself another hot hard-boiled-egg sandwich with a line of mayonnaise so thick it looked like a slice of cheese. The copious amounts of salt I shook onto the mayonnaise glistened like artificial snow. I knew if I’d gone to Rosie’s right then, I’d have ordered a glass of wine just to settle my nerves. As often as I thought of Dace, I kept forgetting he was dead. Not only dead, but related to me and I was charged with his care. In the “olden” days when I longed for family—which I’d now thoroughly repented—I always pictured living persons instead of the other kind. Now I had some of each.