J is for JUDGMENT

by Sue Grafton

  “Hey, Mom?” Dana jumped. Her oldest son, Michael, was coming down the stairs. He caught sight of us and paused. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t know you were busy down here.” He was lanky and slim, with a dark mop of silky hair much in need of a cut. His face was narrow, nearly pretty, with large dark eyes and long lashes. He wore jeans, a sweatshirt emblazoned with a fake college decal, and high-top tennis shoes.

  Dana flashed a bright smile at him to disguise her distress. “We’re just finishing. What is it, baby? Did you guys want something to eat?”

  “I thought I’d make a run. Juliet’s out of cigarettes and the baby needs Pampers. I just wondered if you needed anything.”

  “Actually, you might pick up some milk for breakfast. We’re almost out,” she replied. “Get a half gallon of low-fat and a quart of orange juice, if you would. There’s some money on the kitchen table.”

  “I got some,” he said. “You keep that, honey. I’ll get it.” She moved off toward the kitchen.

  Michael continued to the bottom of the steps and snagged his jacket from the newel post where it was draped. He nodded at me shyly, perhaps mistaking me for one of his mother’s bridal clients. Despite the fact that I’d been married twice, I’ve never had a formal wedding. The closest I’d ever come was a bride of Frankenstein outfit one Halloween when I was in the second grade. I had fangs and fake blood, and my aunt drew clumsy black stitches up and down my face. My bridal veil was affixed to my head with numerous bobby pins, most of which I’d lost by the time the evening came to an end. The dress itself was a cut-down version of a ballerina costume… some kind of Swan Lake number with an ankle-length skirt. My aunt had added sparkles, making squiggles with a tube of Elmer’s glue that she sprinkled with dime-store glitter. I’d never felt so glamorous. I remember looking at myself solemnly in the mirror that night in a halo of netting, thinking it was probably the most beautiful dress I would ever own. Sure enough, I’ve never had anything quite like it since, though, in truth, it’s not the dress so much as the feeling I miss.

  Dana came back into the living room and pressed a twenty into Michael’s hand. They had a brief chat about the errand. While I waited for them to finish their business, I picked up one of the silver-framed photos. It looked like Wendell in high school, which is to say dorky-looking with a bad haircut.

  Michael left for the store, and Dana moved over to the table where I was standing. She took the picture from my hand and set it back on the tabletop. I said, “Is, that Wendell in high school?”

  She nodded, distracted. “Cottonwood Academy, which has gone out of business since. His was the last class to graduate. I gave his class ring to Michael. I’ll give Brian his college ring when the time comes.”

  “When what time comes?”

  “Oh, some special occasion. I tell them it’s something their father and I always talked about.”

  “That’s laying it on a bit thick, isn’t it?”

  Dana shrugged. “Just because I think Wendell’s a schmuck doesn’t mean they have to. I want them to have a man to look up to, even if he isn’t real. They need a role model.”

  “So you give them an idealized version?”

  “It might be a mistake, but what else can I do?” she said, coloring.

  “Yeah, really. Especially when he pulls a deal like this.”

  “I know I’ve given him more credit than he deserves, but I don’t want to bad-mouth the man to his sons.”

  “I understand the impulse. I’d probably do the same in your place,” I said.

  She reached out impulsively and touched my arm. “Please leave us alone. I don’t know what’s going on, but I don’t want them brought into it.”

  “I won’t bother you if I can help it, but you’re still going to have to tell them.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Wendell could beat you to it, and you might not like the effect.”

  Chapter 8

  *

  It was nearly 10:00 P.M. by the time I hoofed it through the strip lot behind the Santa Teresa Yacht Club. After I left Dana Jaffe, I hit the 101 north, tearing back up the coast to my apartment where I hastily tried on several hangers’ worth of hand-me-downs Vera’d passed along to me. In her unbiased opinion I’m a complete fashion nerd, and she’s trying to teach me the rudiments of “shiek.” Vera’s into these Annie Hall ensembles that look like you’re preparing for a life sleeping on sewer grates. Jackets over vests over tunics over pants. The only thing I lack is a grocery cart for the rest of my possessions.

  I sorted through the garments, wondering which items were supposed to go with which. I need a personal trainer when it comes to this shit, someone to explain the underlying strategy. Since Vera is twenty pounds heavier and a good five inches taller, I bypassed the slacks, imagining I’d look like Droopy of the Seven Dwarfs. She’d given me two long skirts with elasticized waists, swearing either would look great with my black leather boots. There was also a forties-looking rayon drop-waist print dress with an ankle-length skirt. I pulled the garment over my head and regarded myself in the mirror. I’d seen Vera wear this, and she’d looked like a vamp. I looked like I was six, playing dress-up in the discards from my aunt’s rag bag.

  I went back to one of the long skirts, a black washable silk. I think she intended for me to hem the length, but I simply rolled it up at the waist, a little doughnut effect. She’d also given me a tunic top in a color she called taupe (a blend of gray and old cigar butts), with a long white vest that went over both. She’d told me I could dress up the outfit with accessories. Big duh. Like I really had some kind of clue how to make that work. I searched my drawers for jewelry to no avail and finally decided to wear the long crocheted runner my aunt had made for the dresser top. I gave it a little flap to get all the woofies out and then looped it around my neck with the ends hanging down the front. Looked good to me, kind of devil-may-care, like Isadora Duncan or Amelia Earhart.

  The yacht club sits on stilts overlooking the beach with the harbormaster’s office nearby and the long concrete arm of the breakwater curving out to the left. The sound of the surf was thunderous that night, like the rumble of car moving over wooden trestles. The ocean was oddly agitated, the far-flung effects from some violent weather pattern that would probably never reach us. A dense haze hung in the air like a scrim through which I caught shadowy glimpses of the moon-tinted horizon, The sand glowed while, and the boulders piled up around the foundations of the building were draped with strands of kelp.

  Even from the sidewalk down below, I could hear the trumpeting laughter of the heavy drinkers. I climbed wide wooden steps to the entrance and in through die glass doors. A second set of stairs ascended to the right, and I made my way up toward the smoke and recorded music in the bar above. The room was L-shaped, diners occupying the long arm, drinkers confined to the short, which was just as well. The noise level was oppressive given the fact that most of the dinner crowd had departed and the bar was only half-filled. The floor was carpeted, the entire upper story wrapped in windows that overlooked the Pacific. By day, club members were treated to panoramic ocean views. At night, the black glass threw back smudged reflections, pointing up the need for the rigorous application of Windex. When I reached the maître d’s pulpit, I paused, watching him approach me from across the room.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said. I guessed he’d been recently promoted from his job as headwaiter because he held his left arm at an angle, a ready rack for some wine towel he no longer had to tote.

  “I’m looking for Carl Eckert. Is he here tonight?”

  I saw his gaze flick downward, taking in my scruffy boots, the long skirt, the vest, shoulder bag, and my ill-cut hair, which the sea wind had tossed into moplike perfection. “Is he expecting you?” His tone suggested he’d expect invading Martians first.

  I held out a discreetly folded five-dollar bill. “Now he is,” I said.

  The fellow slipped the bill in his pocket without checking the denomination, which made me wish I had
given him a single. He indicated a gentleman sitting at a window table by himself. I had plenty of time to study him as I crossed the room. I put him in his early fifties, still of an age where he’d be referred to as “youthful.” He was silver-haired and stocky. His once handsome face had gone soft now along the jawline, though the effect was still nice. While most of the men in the bar were dressed casually, Carl Eckert wore a conservative dark gray herringbone suit, with a light gray shirt and navy wool tie with a grid of light gray. I wound my way among the tables, wondering what the hell I was going to say to him. He saw me headed in his direction and focused on me as I drew within range. “Carl?”

  He smiled at me politely. “That’s right.”

  “Kinsey Millhone. May I join you?”

  I held out my hand. He half rose from his chair and leaned forward courteously, shaking hands with me. His grip was aggressive, the skin on his palm icy cold from his drink. “If you like,” he said. His eyes were blue, and his gaze was unyielding. He gestured toward a chair.

  I placed my handbag on the floor and eased onto the-seat adjacent to his. “I hope I’m not intruding.”

  “That depends on what you want.” His smile was pleasant but fleeting and never really reached as far as his eyes.

  “It looks like Wendell Jaffe is alive.”

  His expression shifted into neutral and his body went still, animation suspended as if from a momentary power loss. For a split second it flashed on me that he might have been in touch with Wendell since his disappearance. He was apparently willing to take my word for it, which saved all the bullshit Dana’d put me through. He assimilated the information, sparing me additional expressions of shock or surprise. There was no hint of denial or disbelief. He seemed to shift into gear again. He reached in his jacket pocket smoothly and took out a pack of cigarettes, his way of stalling until he could figure out what I was up to. He shook several cigarettes into view and held the pack out for my selection.

  I shook my head, refusing.

  He put a cigarette between his lips. “Will it bother you if I smoke?”

  “Not a bit. Go ahead.” Actually I abhor smoking, but I wanted some information and I didn’t think it was the time to voice my prejudice.

  He struck a paper match and cupped his hands around the flame. He gave the match a shake and dropped it in the ashtray, easing the pack of matches back into his pocket again. I smelled sulfur and that first whiff of smoldering tobacco that to me smells like no other. Early mornings on the road, I catch the same scent drifting through the room vents in those hotels where the smokers aren’t properly segregated from the rest of us.

  “Would you like a drink?” he asked. “I’m about to order another round myself.”

  “I’d like that. Thanks.”

  “What’ll it be?”

  “Chardonnay would be fine.”

  He held his hand up for the waiter, who moved over to the table and took the order. Eckert was having Scotch.

  Once the waiter disappeared, his attention came back to me and he focused his gaze. “Who are you? A cop? Narc? IRS, what?”

  “I’m a private detective, working for California Fidelity on the life insurance claim.”

  “Dana just collected on it didn’t she?”

  “Two months ago.”

  A group of guys in the bar burst into sudden harsh laughter, and it forced Eckert to lean forward to make himself heard. “How did all this business come to light?”

  “A retired CF insurance agent spotted him in Mexico last week. I was hired to fly down the next day to verify the report.”

  “And you actually verified that it was Wendell?”

  “More or less,” I said. “I never met Mr. Jaffe, so it’d be hard for me to swear it was him.”

  “But you did see him,” he said.

  “Or someone damn close. He’s had surgery, of course. It’s probably the first thing he did.”

  Carl stared at me blankly and then shook his head. A brief smile appeared. “I assume you’ve told Dana?”

  “I just talked to her. She wasn’t thrilled.”

  “I should think not.” He seemed to search my face. “What’s your name again?”

  I took out a business card and passed it across the table.

  “You knew his kid was in trouble?” I asked.

  Behind us, there was another burst of laughter, this one louder than the last. The guys were apparently having another tedious bawdy joke fest.

  He glanced at my name on the card and tucked it in his shirt pocket. “I read about Brian in the paper,” he said. “This is curious.”

  “What is?”

  “The notion of Wendell. I was just thinking about him. Since his body never surfaced, I guess I always had my doubts about his death. I never said much. I figured people would think I was unwilling to face the facts. ‘In denial,’ they call it. Where’s he been all this time?”

  “I didn’t have a chance to ask.”

  “Is he still down there?”

  “He checked out of the hotel in the dead of night and that’s the last I’ve seen of him. He may be on his way back.”

  “Because of Brian,” he said, instantly making the connection.

  “That’s my guess. At any rate, it’s the only lead we have. Not really a lead, but at least a place to start.”

  “Why tell me?”

  “In case he tries to make contact.”

  The waiter returned with our drinks and Carl looked up. “Thanks, Jimmy. Put this on my tab, if you would.” He took the bill, tacked on a tip, and scrawled his name across the bottom before he handed it back.

  The waiter murmured, “Thank you, Mr. Eckert. Will there be anything else?”

  “We’re fine.”

  “You have a good night.”

  Carl nodded absentmindedly, regarding me with speculation.

  I reached in my handbag and pulled a copy from the sheaf of composites Valbusa had done. “I have a picture if you want to see it.” I laid it on the table in front of him.

  Carl stuck his cigarette in the corner of his mouth, squinting slightly from the smoke as he studied Wendell’s face. He shook his head, his smile bitter. “What a fuck.”

  “I thought you might be glad to hear he was alive,” I said.

  “Hey, I went to jail because of him. Lot of people wanted a piece of my hide. When money goes down the toilet, someone has to take the blame. I didn’t mind paying my debt, but I sure as hell hated paying his.”

  “Must have been hard.”

  “You have no idea. Once I filed bankruptcy, all the loans went into default. It was a mess. I don’t want to get into that.”

  “If Wendell gets in touch, will you let me know?”

  “Probably,” he said. “I don’t want to talk to him, that’s for sure. He was a good friend. At least I thought he was.”

  There was another burst of laughter. He shifted restlessly and pushed his drink aside. “Let’s go down to the boat. It’s too fuckin’ loud in here.”

  Without waiting for an answer, he got up and left the table. Startled, I grabbed my handbag and scurried after him.

  The noise level dropped dramatically the minute we stepped outside. The air was cold and fresh. The wind had picked up, and the waves crashed against the sea-wall in a series of blasting sprays. Boom! A feathery plume, like a stalk of pampas grass, would dance along the breakwater and go down again, throwing off a splat of water that landed on the walk as if it were being thrown by the bucket.

  When we reached the locked gate leading into Marina he took out his card key and let us through. In a curiously gallant gesture, Carl put his hand on my elbow and guided me down the slippery wooden ramp. I could hear creaking sounds as the boats shifted in the harbor waters, bobbing and swaying with an occasional tinkling of metal on metal. Our footsteps formed an irregular rhythm as we clunked along the walkway.

  The four marinas provide slips for about eleven hundred boats, protected from the open waters in an eighty-four-acre area
. The wharf on one side is like the crook of a thumb with the breakwater -curling toward it in a nearly completed circle in which the boats are nestled. In addition to visitors occupying temporary slips, there are usually a small number of permanent “live-aboards,” using their boats as their primary residence. Key-secured restrooms provide toilets and showers, with a holding tank pump-out station located on the south side of the fuel dock. At the “T’ dock we took a left, proceeding another thirty yards to the boat.

  The Captain Stanley Lord was a thirty-five-foot Fuji ketch, derived from a John Alden-designed sailing vessel with the mainmast toward the bow. The exterior was painted an intense dark green with the trim in navy blue. Carl pulled himself up on the narrow deck and then extended a hand, pulling me up after him. In the dark I could make out the mainsheet and the mizzen-mast, but not much else. He unlocked the door and slid the hatch forward. “Watch your head,” he said as he moved down into the galley. “You know anything about boats?”

  “Not much,” I said. I eased carefully down four steep carpeted stairs into the galley behind him.

  “This one has three headsails: a one fifty Genoa, a one ten working jib, and a storm jib, then the mainsail, of course, and the mizzen.”

  “Why is it called the Captain Stanley Lord? Who’s he?”

  “It’s nautical lore. Wendell’s sense of humor, such as it was. Stanley Lord was captain of the Californian, allegedly the only boat close enough to the Titanic to have helped with the rescue. Lord claimed he never picked up the distress signal, but a later investigation suggested he ignored the SOS. He was blamed for the extent of the disaster, and the scandal ruined his career. Wendell used the same name for the company: CSL Investments. I never did get it, but he thought it was amusing.”

  The interior had the cozy, unreal feeling of a doll’s house, the kind of space I love best, compact and efficient, every square inch put to use. There was a diesel stove on my left, and on my right an assortment of sea-going equipment: radio, compass, a fire extinguisher, monitors for wind velocity and the electrical systems, the heater, main switch, and the engine start battery. I was picking up the faint smell of varnish, and I could see that one of the berth cushions still had a sales tag attached. All the upholstery was done in dark green canvas with the seams piped in white.