W Is for Wasted km-23

by Sue Grafton

  I finished lunch and put a call through to the service station to inquire about my tire. The attendant seemed surprised to hear from me and it was clear he’d forgotten. Happily, the mechanic in the service bay had taken care of it. I drove the four blocks and read a comic book while the newly repaired tire was swapped out for the spare. While the mechanic was at it, he insisted on rotating and balancing the tires, a process I had little patience with but endured nonetheless.

  When I got home, I scurried through the backyard like a thief, unlocking my door in haste. It would only be a matter of time before Anna came knocking on my door, trying to con me out of who knows what.

  I settled on the sofa with a book, pausing to peek out the window now and then to see if William was still there. For a while he remained, making notes on the back of an envelope. The afternoon stretched on. When I found myself sliding down on the sofa, I pulled a quilt over me for warmth. For unpaid time off, due to lack of work, this was close to perfect. All the comforts of home and it wasn’t costing me a cent. Next thing I knew, I’d drifted off to sleep.

  Of course I didn’t hear from Dietz. I couldn’t believe he was so clueless when it came to his son. I’ve never even had a kid and I still had a better sense of what was going on. It was natural for Nick to be territorial. Not that there was any reason to be alarmed. Dietz and I were not an item. In the ebb and flow of our relationship, the tide was usually going out. I’d thought of Dietz as a gadabout, a freewheeling soul whose ties were few and whose life was his own. But nobody with kids can evade the commitment indefinitely. Dietz had lived as though he had no one to answer to. Naomi had stepped into the breach for him and filled the parenting role. Now that she was gone, he was “it.” Apparently, he hadn’t twigged to the fact that Nick and Graham would be looking to him for guidance, companionship, and spare cash. For the first time in all the years I’d known him—five by my count—I saw Dietz as a man with baggage. In the singles world, “baggage” is a dirty word, denoting ex-wives, double mortgages, spousal support, writs, liens, offspring of all ages, split-vacation time, alternating holidays, family-counseling sessions, attorneys’ fees, PTA conferences, private schools, college tuition, accusations, court appearances, and vicious spats on every conceivable subject, including any new relationship the offending parent was engaged in that the other parent objected to.

  In my brief fling with Jonah Robb I’d had a taste of this. I was relegated to the wings, a peripheral character in the play that he and his wife/ex-wife had produced, cast, and starred in from seventh grade until the present. I’d bowed out in short order, smart enough to realize I’d never count for anything where he and Camilla were concerned. Let’s not even talk about his two girls, whose names I still had trouble remembering. Courtney might have been one. This new development with Dietz didn’t bode well for anyone. Nick had figured that out the first time he laid eyes on me.

  It wasn’t until after dark that I roused myself, brushed my teeth, doused my flattened hair with water, and ventured out. I couldn’t help but check Henry’s house, where I could see lights on in his kitchen, his back bedroom windows aglow as well. I should have warned him about Anna, but how did I know she’d show up unannounced?

  I headed for Rosie’s. I knew William would be tending bar, but I didn’t think he’d raise the subject of any postlife ceremonials as long as she was nearby. Rosie has no patience for his fascination with the festive aspects of our mortality. As I pushed the door open, I spotted her sitting at one of the tables near the back, getting her nails done. Anna had brought her manicure supplies, which she’d spread across the Formica surface: buffers, emery boards, files, cuticle scissors, and bottles of nail polish. Was that why she and Henry had gone to the beauty-supply place? She was already taking scandalous advantage of him. Rosie’s hands rested on a fresh white towel, a reservoir of warm soapy water nearby. She seemed pleased with the attention, sending me a shy smile in behalf of this lovely relative of mine.

  Fine, I thought. Far be it from me to say a word. They’d all have to figure it out for themselves.

  I slid into my usual back booth, which was much too close to Anna’s “work station.”

  She turned sulky at the sight of me. “I’m earning a living here if it’s all the same to you,” she said.

  “What a refreshing change,” said I, in response.

  When Rosie’s nails were done, she got up and sidled in my direction. Her garish pink polish was still drying, so she couldn’t use her order pad. She blew on her nails from time to time while she dictated the dinner fare. This is what I ate through no desire of my own. Paprikás Ponty (paprika carp, in case you hadn’t heard) with a side of sweet-and-sour cabbage. Also, a dish made with onion, green peppers, tomatoes, and a tablespoon of sugar, tossed together and fried in a dollop of lard. Oh, boy. I was just cleaning sauce from my plate, using the crust of one of Henry’s homemade rolls, when I looked up and saw Cheney Phillips coming in the door. He made a quick visual survey and when he spotted me sitting in the back booth he headed in my direction. Now what, I thought.

  Anna had packed her equipment and she was reaching for her jacket when she caught sight of him. Cheney Phillips was, no doubt, the first Santa Teresa stud she’d clapped eyes on. She sat down again.

  He slid in across from me. “Hey.”

  “Hey yourself. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “No reason in particular. Your name came up in conversation today. I was in the neighborhood so I stopped by. You look good.”

  “Thanks. So do you.” I glanced at Anna, who was looking at Cheney as though she’d like to nibble him around the edges. I was hoping he wouldn’t catch sight of those blue eyes of hers, not to mention the boobs.

  Rosie appeared at the table, order pad in hand. She’s irresistibly drawn to attractive men, and while she’s wildly flirtatious she’d never look one in the eye. She made sure her newly polished nails were handsomely displayed while she kept her gaze pinned on mine. “Your friend would care for liquid refreshment, perhaps?” Her Hungarian accent was particularly pronounced that night.

  I looked at Cheney. “Are you working or do you want a drink?” I said by way of translation. There was no question about what she’d asked, but I knew she’d appreciate my intercession.

  Cheney said, “Ask her if she has Dreher Bak or Ko˝bányai Világos.”

  Rosie waited patiently until I repeated his request and then said, “Is good. Preference is excellent and I’m bringing Ko˝bányai Világos.”

  I said, “Why don’t you give Anna a plate of Paprikás Ponty. I think she’d enjoy it. My treat.”

  Rosie said, “For the lovely Anna, is good.”

  As she glided away, Cheney smiled, showing a flash of white teeth. I hadn’t seen him recently and I looked at him with an air of detachment. His hair was in need of a cut. He was clean-shaven and smelled of soap, which I’m always a sucker for. He wore a caramel-colored turtleneck under the sort of sport coat you want to reach out and touch. The fabric looked like suede and the color was a smoky chocolate brown. I know it’s very naughty to compare one man to the next, but with Dietz lurking in the background, I couldn’t help myself. If Jonah Robb had wandered in just then, I’d have found myself in range of the three men I’d slept with in the last six years. I’m not at all promiscuous. Far from it. I’m largely celibate, which is not to say I’m immune from temptation. Technically speaking, with three guys, that’s only one every other year, but it still seemed alarming for someone with my old-fashioned values and a well-developed self-protective streak.

  At least I could see tangible evidence of my taste in men. While the three of them looked nothing alike, they were smart guys, good souls, competent, well seasoned, and knowledgeable. All of us were involved in law enforcement to one extent or another—Cheney and Jonah more so than Dietz and me. Temperamentally, we were all compatible—competitive, but good-natured enough that we could have formed a bowling team or played a few hands of bridge, assuming any of us
knew how.

  Rosie reappeared and placed a paper coaster on the table, then set a freezer-chilled clear glass mug in the center. She placed a beer bottle beside the mug. “Does your friend want I should pour?”

  “Tell her thanks. I’ll take care of it.”

  “He appreciates the offer,” I said to her. “He says it’s kind of you to ask.”

  “Is no worry. Anytime is happy to be of assistance.”

  Cheney said, “I got that.”

  I watched while he tilted the bottle against the edge and filled the mug with a tawny brew.

  Rosie was still waiting.

  “He says he’ll take you up on it sometime and thanks so much,” I said.

  She told me he was welcome and I passed the news along. When she’d departed for the second time, he paused long enough to sample the beer, which seemed to meet with his approval.

  I said, “Bullshit aside, what brings you here?”

  “I got a call from Ruth Wolinsky. She tells me you and your friend Dietz are interested in Pete’s clientele.”

  “That’s because Pete stiffed Dietz for three grand. We were hoping he had money coming in that hadn’t surfaced yet. So far, no such luck. What’s the story on the shooting?”

  “Ballistics says there were two guns at the scene, neither of which was found.”

  “Ruthie told me Pete had two guns.”

  “He had a Glock 17 and a Smith and Wesson Escort registered in his name. The S-and-W was locked in the trunk of his car. No sign of the Glock. Ruth says he was never without the two. In his bed table drawer we found a shitload of nine-millimeter ammo that matched the slug that killed him. It looks like Pete was shot with his own gun.”

  “I take it you weren’t referring to the S-and-W when you mentioned a second gun.”

  “Nope. There was one stray casing, a forty-five caliber, which suggests he and his assailant were both armed and probably struggled for control. The slug was buried in the dirt to one side of the path. All in all, four shots were fired—three from the Glock and one from the forty-five.”

  “With his watch and his wallet missing, you think the robber stole his gun as well?”

  “Took it or tossed it. We had guys in wet suits wading the lagoon. Water’s shallow for a distance of fifteen feet or so before the bottom falls away. Mud and algae are such that visibility is zilch. We also did a grid search of the surrounding terrain. Location of the two guns may be a function of how well the guy could throw, unless he took them with him.”

  “What about Pete’s car keys?”

  “In his pocket. We dusted the Fairlane inside and out, but the only prints we identified were his. The shooter might have been reluctant to add grand theft auto to his other offenses.”

  “Any chance Pete knew him?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine. There were no eyewitnesses and no one heard the shots. Not to speak ill of the dead, but Pete was a bit of a shady character.”

  “No need to tell me. I notice I’m feeling more charitable, but that’s because I feel sorry for his wife.”

  “I’m with you,” he said. “So what’s this I hear about you and some homeless guy? Is the last name Dace?”

  “Randall Terrence Dace. Turns out we’re cousins—fourth, once removed, by marriage—one of those.” I decided not to mention the proximity of his youngest child. If Cheney so much as glanced in her direction, she’d gallop over and fling herself onto his lap, the better to slurp him.

  “What happened to him?”

  “He drank heavily for years. He was also hooked on prescription meds. When he died, he was fifty-three years old and he looked like an old man. When I saw him at the morgue I had no idea we were related. Turns out I’m his sole heir and executor of his estate.”

  “That ought to keep you hopping.”

  “Actually, it has. The man left me half a million bucks.”

  Casually, Cheney leaned forward. “Are you dating anyone?”

  I laughed and he had the good grace to look sheepish.

  “That came out wrong. No connection. I was just wondering,” he said.

  Robert Dietz popped to mind, but I didn’t know what to make of him. Were we on again or off?

  “That’s a tough one,” I said. “I’ll have to think about it and let you know.”

  I watched Anna’s departure without moving my head. No point in calling attention to her when Cheney had just declared himself. I kept him company for an additional half hour just in case she was lurking outside.

  29

  Tuesday morning, I caught my alarm clock one split second before it went off and rolled out from under the covers. The loft felt chilly and I was tempted to crawl right back in. Instead, I pulled on my sweats and laced up my running shoes before I brushed my teeth. I avoided the sight of myself in the mirror. I pulled on a knit hat, which I knew would be too hot once I got into the run. For now it did double duty: to contain my coiffeur and to muffle my ears against the damp morning air.

  The three-mile jog satisfied my need for oxygen, for action, for solitude, and for a sense of accomplishment. With daylight savings time in effect until the end of the month, the tag end of my run was accompanied by a spectacular dawn. At the horizon, above the silver band of the Pacific, a wide expanse of brooding gray changed to a dark red, and from that to a matte blue. Within a minute, the atmosphere had lightened and all the rich hues were gone. Gulls rode the air currents, screeching with happiness. The wind was down and the tops of the palms scarcely moved. Slow-motion waves thundered along the sand and the surf, then receded to a hush. By the time the sun was fully up it was 7:06, and I was back in my living room, prepared for a final go-round with the remaining two boxes of Pete’s crap.

  Instead of getting cleaned up, I sat down and ate my cereal, put on a pot of coffee, and then washed my bowl and spoon while the coffee-maker gurgled to its conclusion. Still in sweats, I sat on the floor with my coffee cup and made quick work of the first box, which was filled with old catalogs and outdated service manuals for appliances I suspected were long gone. The contents yielded no receipts and no personal correspondence. I did come across a black-and-white newspaper photo of Pete and Ruthie on their wedding day. Saturday, September 24, 1949. They’d have been married forty years when September rolled around again.

  Pete was gaunt-faced and young. His hair seemed comically thick back then and he had eyebrows to match. His shoulders protruded like the rounded metal ends of a coat hanger. The sleeves of his suit jacket were too short, so his bony wrists extended a good two inches. He did look pleased with life and more than proud to have Ruthie on his arm. She was easily as tall as he was. The dress she wore was a pale chiffon with shoulder pads and ruffles down the front. Her hair was concealed beneath a white straw hat with a broad brim, a length of white tulle serving as a band. She had a corsage pinned to her left shoulder. I looked closer and identified white roses and white carnations. The newly married couple stood on the low steps of the First United Methodist Church with a scattering of wedding guests in the background. I set the photo aside for her.

  The second box contained nothing of interest. I repacked the files I’d spread on the floor and hauled fourteen boxes out to the Mustang. I kept the fifteenth, which contained the Byrd-Shine files, Pete’s eavesdropping equipment, and the Bryce file, which was largely Dietz’s work. I took another look at the papers Pete had photocopied, which included the proposal Linton Reed had submitted in support of his theory about Glucotace. This is what had netted him the operating funds for the study he was running. I wondered what Pete had made of it.

  By the time I’d loaded the car, the trunk was full, the passenger seat was impassable, and the backseat was stacked two boxes high and four across. There wasn’t much room back there to begin with and now the view out the rear window was largely blocked.

  I slipped the wedding photo into my shoulder bag and then drove to Pete and Ruthie’s house. I pulled around to the alleyway that ran behind the property. I could have
parked in front and let the engine idle while I knocked on her door and explained what I was up to, but I wasn’t taking Pete’s possessions, I was returning them. Since he stored his boxes in the garage, I figured I should unload them there and talk to her afterward.

  Pete’s Ford Fairlane was no longer parked by the shrubs. I surmised, correctly as it turned out, that the new owner had put in an appearance and had made off with his new vehicle, such as it was. He’d left Pete’s gun-cleaning kit and the bag of birdseed in the alley, along with a bulging plastic bag that I was guessing contained the contents of the two map pockets and the glove compartment. I toted the items as far as the side door to the garage and left them there while I moved boxes into the already overcrowded space. When I’d finished, I grabbed the kit, the birdseed, and the bag of odds and ends, and knocked on the back door.

  Ruthie appeared in an old-fashioned floor-length peignoir, a filmy pale blue with pin-tucking down the bodice and a matching nightgown under it. For the first time in all the years I’d known Pete, it dawned on me he had a sex life. The notion was so embarrassing, I averted my gaze. Ruthie’s hair was plaited in a long gray-and-blond braid that lay over her left shoulder. It was 9:30 by then and I’d assumed she was the sort who’d be up at the crack of dawn and ready to start her day.

  When she opened the door, she said, “Oh, it’s you. I couldn’t imagine who was knocking at my back door. If I’d known you were coming, I’d have put on some clothes. I have the day off, so I was having a lazy morning.”