by Sue Grafton
“Is this Ebony?”
He seemed surprised. “You know her?”
“Not well, but I know who she is.”
“She disapproves of the way I run things.”
“Enough to do this?”
He stared at me for a moment and then reached for the phone. “I’d better call my attorney.”
“You and me both,” I said.
I left and headed back into town.
As far as I knew, the D.A.‘s office hadn’t been notified, and no charges had been filed. A valid arrest warrant has to be based on a complaint supported by facts showing, first of all, that a crime has been committed, and second, that the informer or his information is reliable. At this point, all Mac had was an anonymous telephone call and some circumstantial evidence. He’d have to take action. If the accusation was correct, then CF had to be protected. My guess was that he’d go back through my workload, case by case, to see if there was any whisper of misconduct on my part. He might also hire a private detective to look into the affairs of Wood/Warren, Lance Wood, and possibly me ��� a novel idea. I wondered how my life would hold up if it were subjected to professional scrutiny. The five grand would certainly come to light. I wasn’t sure what to do about that. The deposit was damning in itself, but if I tried to move the money, it would look even worse.
I remember the rest of the day in fragments. I talked to Lonnie Kingman, a criminal attorney I’d done some work for in the past. He’s in his early forties, with a face like a boxer; beetle-browed, broken nose. His hair is shaggy and his suits usually look too tight across the shoulder blades. He’s about five foot four and probably weighs two hundred and five. He lifts weights at the same gym I do and I see him in there doing squats with three hundred pounds of plates wobbling on either end of the bar like water buckets. He graduated summa cum laude from Stanford Law School and he wears silk shirts with his monogram on the cuff.
Attorneys are the people who can say things in the mildest of tones that make you want to shriek and rend your clothes. Like doctors, they seem to feel obliged to acquaint you with the full extent of the horror you could face, given the current path your life is on. When I told him what was happening, he tossed out two possible additions to the allegation of insurance fraud: that I’d be named with Lance Wood as co-conspirator, and charged as an aider and abettor to arson after the tact. And that was just what he came up with off the top of his head.
I could feel myself pale. “I don’t want to hear this shit,” I said.
He shrugged. “Well, it’s what I’d go for if I were D.A.,” he said offhandedly. “I could probably add a few counts once I had all the facts.”
“Facts, my ass. I never saw Lance Wood before in my life.”
“Sure, but can you prove it?”
“Of course not! How would I do that?”
Lonnie sighed like he was going to hate to see me in a shapeless prison dress.
“Goddamn it, Lonnie, how come the law always helps the other guy? I swear to God, every time I turn around, the bad guys win and the little guys bite the Big Wienie. What am I supposed to do?”
He smiled. “It’s not as bad as all that,” he said. “My advice is to keep away from Lance Wood.”
“How? I can’t just sit back and see what happens next. I want to know who set me up.”
“I never said you couldn’t look into it. You’re an investigator. Go investigate. But I’d be careful if I were you. Insurance fraud is bad enough. You don’t want to take the rap for something worse.”
I was afraid to ask him what he meant.
I went home and unloaded the boxes full of office files. I took a few minutes to reword the message on my answering machine at home. I put a call through to Jonah Robb in Missing Persons at the Santa Teresa Police Department. As a lady in distress, I don’t ordinarily call on men. I’ve been schooled in the notion that a woman, these days, saves herself, which I was willing to do if I could just figure out where to start.
I’d met Jonah six months before while I was working on a case. Our paths had crossed more than once, most recently in my bed. He’s thirty-nine, blunt, nurturing, funny, confused, a tormented man with blue eyes, black hair, and a wife named Camilla who stalks out intermittently with his two little girls, whose names I repress. I had ignored the chemistry between us for as long as I could, too wise (said I) to get pulled into a dalliance with a married gent. And then one rainy night I’d run into him on my way home from a depressing interview with a hostile subject. Jonah and I started drinking margaritas in a bar near the beach. We danced to old Johnny Mathis tunes, talked, danced again, and ordered more drinks. Somewhere around “The Twelfth of Never,” I lost track of my resolve and took him home with me. I never could resist the lyrics on that one.
We were currently at that stage in a new relationship where both parties are tentative, reluctant to presume, quick to feel injured, eager to know and be known as long as the true frailties of character are concealed. The risking felt good, and as a consequence the chemistry felt good, too. I smiled a lot when I thought of him and sometimes I laughed aloud, but the warmth was undercut by a curious pain. I’ve been married twice, done in more times than I care to admit. I’m not as trusting as I used to be and with good reason. Meanwhile, Jonah was in a constant state of upheaval according to the fluctuations in Camilla’s moods. Her most recent claim was that she wanted an “open” marriage, his guess being that the sexual liberties were intended more for her than for him.
“Missing Persons. Sergeant Schiffman.” For an instant my mind went absolutely blank. “Rudy? This is Kinsey. Where’s Jonah?”
“Oh, hi, Kinsey. He’s out of town. Took his family skiing for the holidays. It came up kind of sudden, but I thought he said he’d let you know. He never called?”
“I guess not,” I said. “Do you know when he’s expected back?”
“Just a minute. Let me check.” He put me on hold and I listened to the Norman Luboff Choir singing “Hark, the Herald Angels Sing.” Christmas was over. Hadn’t anybody heard? Rudy clicked back in. “Looks like January third. You want to leave a message?”
“Tell him I hung myself,” I said and rang off. I have to confess that in the privacy of my own home, I burst into tears and wept with frustration for six minutes flat. Then I went to work.
The only line of attack I could think of was through Ash Wood. I hadn’t spoken to her since high school, nearly fourteen years. I tried the directory. Her mother, Helen Wood, was listed and so was Lance, but there was no sign of Ash, which probably meant that she’d moved away or married. I tried the main house. A woman answered. I identified myself and told her I was trying to locate Ash. Often I tell lies in a situation like this, but the truth seemed expedient.
“Kinsey, is that really you? This is Ash. How are you?” she said. All the Wood girls have voices that sound the same; husky and low, underlaid with an accent nearly Southern in its tone. The inflection was distinct, not a drawl, but an indolence. Their mother was from Alabama, if my memory hadn’t failed me.
“I can’t believe my luck,” I said. “How are you?”
“Well, darlin’, we are in a world of hurt,” she replied, “which is why I’m so glad to hear from you. Lance mentioned that he’d seen you at the plant last Friday. What’s happening?”
“That’s what I called to ask you.”
“Oh Lord. I’d love to bring you up-to-date. Are you free for lunch by any chance?”
“For you… anything,” I said.
She suggested the Edgewater Hotel at 12:30, which suited me. I’d have to change clothes first. My standard outfit consists of boots or tennis shoes, form-fitting jeans, and a tank top or a turtleneck, depending on the season. Sometimes I wear a windbreaker or a denim vest, and I’ve always got a large leather shoulder bag, which sometimes (but not often) contains my little .32. I was relatively certain Ashley wouldn’t appear in public like this. I hauled out my all-purpose dress, panty hose, and low heels. One day soon, I
gotta get myself something else to wear.
Chapter 5
*
The Edgewater Hotel sits on twenty-three acres of ocean-front property, with lawns sweeping down to the sea. An access road cuts through, not ten feet from the surf, with a sea wall constructed of local sandstone. The architecture of the main building is Spanish, with massive white stucco walls, arched doorways, and deeply recessed windows. Horizontal lines of red tile define the roof. A glass-walled dining patio juts out in front, white umbrella tables sheltering the patrons from sunlight and buffeting sea winds. The grounds are landscaped with juniper and palm, hibiscus, bottle brush and fern, flower beds filled year round with gaudy annuals in hot pink, purple, and gold. The day was chill, the sky icy white and overcast. The drab olive-green surf was churned up by the outer fringes of a storm system that had passed us to the north.
The valet parking attendant was far too discreet to remark, even with a look, the battered state of my ancient car. I moved into the hotel lobby and down a wide corridor furnished with a series of overstaffed, couches, interspersed with rubber plants. The ceiling overhead was wood-beamed, the walls tiled halfway up, sounds muffled by a runner of thick carpet patterned with flowers the size of dinner plates.
Ash had reserved a table in the main dining room. She was already seated, her face turned expectantly toward me as I approached. She looked much as she had in high school; pale-red hair, blue eyes set in a wide, friendly face mottled with freckles. Her teeth were very white and straight and her smile was engaging. I had forgotten how casually she dressed. She was wearing a blue wool jumpsuit with a military cut, and over it a bulky white sheepskin vest. I thought, with regret, of my jeans and turtleneck.
She was still maybe twenty pounds overweight, and she moved with all the enthusiasm of an ungainly pup, leaping up to hug me when I arrived at the table. There had always been a guileless quality about her. Despite the fact she came from money, she had never been snobbish or affected. Where Olive had seemed reserved, and Ebony intimidating, Ash seemed utterly unselfconscious, one of those girls everybody liked. In our sophomore year, we had ended up sitting in adjoining homeroom seats and we’d often chatted companionably before classes began. Neither of us was a cheerleader, an honor student, or a candidate for prom queen. The friendship that sprang up between us, though genuine, was short-lived. I met her family. She met my aunt. I went to her house and thereafter neatly bypassed her coming to mine. While the Woods were always gracious to me, it was obvious that Ash functioned at the top of the social heap and I at the bottom. Eventually the disparity made me so uncomfortable that I let the contact lapse. If Ash was injured by the rejection, she did a good job of covering it. I felt guilty about her anyway and was relieved the next year when she sat somewhere else.
“Kinsey, you look great. I’m so glad you called. I ordered us a bottle of Chardonnay. I hope that’s okay.”
“Fine,” I said, smiling. “You look just the same.”
“Big rump, you mean,” she said with a laugh. “You’re just as thin as you always were, only I half expected you to show up in jeans. I don’t believe I ever saw you in a dress.”
“I thought I’d act like I had some class,” I said. “How are you? When I didn’t find you listed in the phone book, I thought you’d probably gotten married or left town.”
“Actually, I’ve been gone for ten years and just got back. What about you? I can’t believe you’re a private detective. I always figured you’d end up in jail. You were such a rebel back then.”
I laughed. I was a misfit in high school and hung out with guys known as “low-wallers” because they loitered along a low wall at the far end of the school grounds. “You remember Donan, the boy with the gold tooth who sat right in front of you in homeroom? He’s an Ob-Gyn in town. Got his teeth fixed and went to med school.”
Ash groaned, laughing. “God, that’s one way to get your hand up a girl’s skirt. What about the little swarthy one who sat next to you? He was funny. I liked him.”
“He’s still around. Bald now and overweight. He runs a liquor store up on the Bluffs. Who was that girlfriend of yours who used to shoplift? Francesca something.”
“Palmer. She’s living with a fellow in Santa Fe who designs furniture. I saw her about a year ago when I was passing through. God, she’s still a klepto. Are you married?”
“Was.” I held up two fingers to indicate the number of husbands who had come and gone.
“Children?” she asked.
“Oh God, no. Not me. You have any?”
“Sometimes I wish I did.” Ash was watching me with shining eyes and somehow I knew anything I said would be fine with her.
“When did we see each other last? It’s been years, hasn’t it?” I asked.
She nodded. “Bass’s twenty-first birthday party at the country club. You were with the most beautiful boy I ever saw in my life.”
“Daniel,” I said. “He was husband number two.”
“What about number one? What was he like?”
“I better drink some first.”
The waiter appeared with the wine, presenting the label for her inspection before he opened it. She waved aside the ritual of the sniffing of the cork and let him go ahead and pour for both of us. I noticed that the waiter was smiling to himself, probably charmed as most people are by Ash’s breezy manner and her impatience with formality. He was tall and slim, maybe twenty-six years old, and he told us about the specials as if we might want to take notes. “The sea bass is being served today with a green chili beurre blanc, gently poached first with fresh tomatoes, cilantro, lemon, and white wine, garnished with jalapenos and accompanied by a pine-nut rice pilaf. We’re also offering a fillet of coho salmon…” Ash made little mewing sounds, interrupting now and then for clarification of some culinary subtlety.
I let her order for us. She knew all the waiters by name and ended up in a long chat with ours about what we should eat. She settled on steamed clams in a broth with Pernod, a salad of field greens lightly dressed, and said we’d think about dessert if we were good girls and cleaned our plates.
While we ate, I told her about my connection to Wood/Warren and the irregularities that had come to light.
“Oh, Kinsey. I feel awful. I hope Lance isn’t responsible for the trouble you’re in.”
“Believe me, I do, too. What’s the story on him? Is he the type to burn down the family warehouse?”
Ash didn’t leap to his defense as I’d expected her to. “If he did, I don’t think he’d snitch on himself,” she said.
“Good point. Who’d go after him like that?”
“I don’t know. That whole situation got very screwed up once Daddy died. He was crazy about the boys, but Bass was a dilettante and Lance raised hell half the time.”
“I seem to remember that. Your father must have had conniption fits.”
“Oh, he did. You know how straight he was. Daddy had real strong ideas about parenting, but most of them were wrong. He had no idea how to implement them anyway. He wanted to control and mold and dominate but he couldn’t even do that very well. Kids just don’t behave like company employees. Daddy thought he’d have more control at home, but the truth was, he had less. Both Lance and Bass were determined to thwart him. Bass never has straightened out.”
“He’s still in New York?”
“Oh, he comes home now and then ��� he was here for a week at Thanksgiving ��� but for the most part, he’s gone. New .York, Boston, London. He spent a year in Italy and swears he’s going back. Much as I love him, he’s a waste of time. I don’t think he’s ever going to get his act together. Of course, Lance was that way for years. They’re both smart enough, but they always partied hard and Lance had a few scrapes with the law. It drove Daddy up the wall.”
The clams arrived. Each of us was presented with a plate piled high with small, perfect shells, swaddled in cloth to keep the broth piping hot. She speared a tender button of clam flesh and placed it on her ton
gue, her eyes closing in a near-swoon as she swallowed. I watched her butter a crescent of French bread and dip it in the bowl, sopping up clam liquor. As she bit into it, she made a little sound low in her throat like something out of an X-rated video.
“Your lunch okay?” I asked dryly.
“Fine,” she said. “Good.” She realized belatedly that I was teasing her and she smiled, her cheeks tinted becomingly with pink. “Someone asked me once which I’d rather have ��� sex or a warm chocolate-chip cookie. I still can’t decide.”
“Go for the cookies. You can bake ‘em yourself.”
She wiped her mouth and took a sip of wine. “Anyway, about the last six or seven years, Lance took hold, more or less, and started showing an interest in the business. Daddy was thrilled. Wood/Warren was Daddy’s life. He loved us, but he couldn’t manage us the way he did the business. By the time Bass came along, the last in line, Daddy’d pretty much given up any hopes for a successor.”
“What about Ebony?”
“Oh, she’s been passionate about the company since she was a kid, but she didn’t believe Daddy’d ever let her have a hand in it. He was old-fashioned. A man leaves his business to his oldest son. Period. He knew Ebony was smart, but he didn’t think she was tough enough, and he didn’t think she’d stay with it. Women get married and have babies and spend money. That was his attitude. Women join the country club and play tennis and golf. They don’t go head-to-head with chemical engineers and systems analysts. She even went off to Cal Poly and started working on an engineering degree, but Daddy made it clear it wouldn’t help her cause, so she went to Europe and got married instead.”
“Thus fulfilling his prophecy,” I said.
“That’s right. Of course, at that point, Daddy did a turnaround and swore he’d have left her the company if she’d stuck it out. She hated him for that, and I didn’t blame her a bit. He was a real shit sometimes.”