M is for MALICE

by Sue Grafton

  “Well, yes,” I said. I was about to launch into a diplomatic account of his father’s death when I saw, tears rise in his eyes, blurring the clear green of his gaze. He looked upward, blinking, and took a deep-breath before he brought his attention back to mine. He dashed at his cheeks, laughing with embarrassment.

  He said, “Whoa,” pinching at his eyes with the fingers of one hand. He shook his head, trying to compose himself. “Sorry. You caught me by surprise. I never thought it would matter, but I guess it does. I always wished they’d send someone, but I’d about given up hope. How’d you find me?”

  “It wasn’t that hard. I ran a DMV check and came up with your California identification card. I tried directory assistance, but they didn’t have you listed. I take it you don’t have a phone.”

  “Can’t afford one,” he said. “You want to come in?” His manner was awkward and he seemed unsure of himself. His gaze fell away from mine and then came back again.

  “I’d like that,” I said.

  He stepped back to allow me entrance and I passed into a room that was about what you’d expect. The interior construction was crude and featured ��� wide, unfinished floorboards and windows that didn’t quite shut. Various pieces of old furniture had been moved into the space, probably cadged from the city dump… if there was one in this town. Every surface was piled high with soiled clothes and books and magazines and utensils, pots and pans and canned goods and tools. There were also what looked like farm implements whose functions were unclear. There was a tower of used tires in one corner of the room and a toilet that didn’t seem connected to much of anything. Guy caught my puzzlement. “I’m holding that for a fellow. I have a real bathroom in there,” he said, smiling shyly.

  “Glad to hear that,” I said and smiled back at him.

  “You want a cup of coffee? It’s instant, but it’s not bad.”

  “No, thanks. Were you on your way out?”

  “What? Oh, yeah, but don’t worry about that. I have to be someplace shortly. Have a seat.” He pulled out a handkerchief and paused to blow his nose. I could feel anxiety stir in my chest. There was something touching about his openness. He gestured toward a frayed, lumpy couch with a spring sticking through the cushion. I perched on the edge, hoping not to do serious damage to my private parts. My discomfort was related to the fact that Guy Malek apparently thought his family had hired me to conduct the search out of sentiment. I knew their real attitude, which was actually hostile if the truth be known. I did a quick debate with myself and decided I’d better level with him. Whatever the outcome of our conversation, it would be too humiliating for him if I let him harbor the wrong impression.

  He pulled up a wooden chair and sat facing me directly, occasionally mopping at his eyes. He didn’t apologize for the tears that continued to spill down his cheeks. “You don’t know how hard I prayed for this,” he said, mouth trembling. He looked down at his hands and began to fold the handkerchief in on itself. “The pastor of my church… he swore up and down it would come to pass if it was meant to be. No point in praying, if it isn’t God’s will, he said. And I kept saying, ‘Man, it seems like they’d have found me by now if they cared enough, you know?’ “

  I was struck by the fact that his circumstances were oddly reminiscent of mine, both of us trying to assimilate fractured family connections. At least he welcomed his, though he’d misunderstood the purpose of my visit. I felt like a dog having to set him straight. “Guy, as a matter of fact, it’s more complicated. I have some bad news,” I said.

  “My father died?”

  “Two weeks ago. I’m not sure of the date. I gather he’d had a stroke and he was also struggling with cancer. He’d been through a lot and I guess his body just gave up on him.”

  He was silent for a moment, staring off into space. “Well. I guess I’m not surprised,” he said. “Did he… do you know if he was the one who asked for me?”

  “I have no idea. I wasn’t hired until yesterday. The probate attorney is getting the process underway. By law, you’re required to be notified since you’re one of the beneficiaries.”

  He turned to me, suddenly getting it. “Ah. You’re here on official business and that’s all it is, right?”

  “More or less.”

  I watched as the color rose slowly in his cheeks. “Silly me,” he said. “And here I thought you were sent by someone who actually gave a shit.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Not your fault,” he said. “What else?”

  “What else?”

  “I’m wondering if you have any other news to impart.”

  “Not really.” If he’d picked up on the fact that he was due to inherit money, he gave no indication.

  “I don’t suppose there’s any chance my father asked for me.”

  “I wish I could help, but I wasn’t given any details. It’s possible, I’m sure, but you may never know. You can ask the attorney when you talk to her. She knows a lot more than I do about the circumstances of his death.”

  He smiled fleetingly. “Dad hired a woman? That doesn’t sound like him.”

  “Donovan hired her. She went to school with his wife.”

  “What about Bennet and Jack? Are they married?” He said the names as if the sounds hadn’t been uttered for years.

  “No. Just Donovan. I don’t think he and Christie have any kids as yet. He runs the company, which I understand is now the third-largest construction firm in the state.”

  “Good for him. Donnie was always obsessed with the business,” he said. “Did you talk to the other two?”

  “Briefly.”

  The character of his expression had completely changed as we spoke. What had started out as happiness had shifted to painful enlightenment. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I get the impression they’re not really interested in me. The attorney said they had to do this so they’re doing it. Is that it? I mean, the three of them aren’t burdened by a lot of warm, gooey feelings where I’m concerned.”

  “That’s true, but it probably stems from the situation when you left. I was told you were in a lot of trouble, so their memories of you aren’t that flattering.”

  “I suppose not. Nor mine of them if it comes right down to it.”

  “Besides, nobody really believed I’d find you. It’s been what, eighteen years?”

  “About that. Not long enough, apparently, from their perspective.”

  “Where’d you go when you left? Do you mind if I ask?”

  “Why would I mind? It doesn’t amount to much. I went out to the highway to hitch a ride. I was heading for San Francisco, zonked out of my head on acid. The fellow who picked me up was a preacher, who’d been hired by a church about a mile from here. He took me in. I was tripped out so bad I didn’t even know where I was at.”

  “And you’ve been here all this time?”

  “Not quite,” he said. “It wasn’t like I cleaned up and got straight, just like that. I screwed up more than once. I’d backslide… you know, get drunk and take off… but Pete and his wife always found me and brought me back. Finally, I realized I wasn’t going to shake ‘em off. Didn’t matter what I did. They were sticking to me like glue. That’s when I took a stand and found Jesus in my heart. It really turned my life around.”

  “And you never got in touch with your family?” I said.

  He shook his head, his smile bitter. “They haven’t exactly been clamoring for me, either.”

  “Maybe that will change when I talk to them. What else can I tell them? Do you work?”

  “Sure, I work. I do maintenance at the church and, you know, general handyman jobs around town. Painting and repairs, plumbing, electrical. About anything you need. Mostly minimum wage, but I’m the only one does it, so I stay busy.”

  “Sounds like you’ve done all right for yourself.”

  He looked around him. “Well, I don’t have much, but I don’t need much either. Place isn’t mine,” he said. “The church provides my housing,
but I make enough to take care of the basics. Food and utilities, that sort of thing. I don’t drive, but I have a bike and that gets me most places in a town this size.”

  “You’ve changed quite a lot.”

  “I’d be dead otherwise.” He glanced at his watch. “Listen, I don’t mean to rush you, but I probably ought to get myself on over to the church.”

  “I won’t keep you then. I appreciate your time. Can I give you a lift?”

  “Sure. We can talk on the way.”

  Once in the car, he directed me back to the highway. We turned right onto 166, heading east again. We drove for a while in companionable silence. He slid a look in my direction. “So what’s your assignment? Find me and report back?”

  “That’s about it,” I said. “Now that we have a current address, Tasha Howard, the attorney, will be sending you notice of the probate.”

  “Oh, that’s right. I forgot. I’m a beneficiary, you said.” His tone had turned light and nearly mocking.

  “That doesn’t interest you?”

  “Not particularly. I thought I needed something from those people, but as it turns out, I don’t.” He pointed at an upcoming junction and I took a right-hand turn onto a small side road. The roadbed had been downgraded from blacktop to loose gravel, and I could see the plumes of white dust swirling up in my rear window as we drove. The church was situated at the edge of a pasture about a half mile down. The sign said: JUBILEE EVANGELICAL CHURCH.

  “You can pull up right here,” he said. “You want to come in and see the place? If you’re paid by the hour, you might as well have the full tour. I’m sure Donnie can afford it.”

  I hesitated slightly. “All right.”

  He cocked his head. “You don’t have to worry. I won’t try to convert you.”

  I parked and the two of us got out. He didn’t issue a proclamation, but I could tell from his manner that he was proud of the place. He took out a ring of keys and let us in.

  The church was small, a frame building, little more than one room. There was something about its plain appearance that spoke of goodness. The stained glass windows were not elaborate. Each was divided into six simple panels of pale gold with a scripture written across the bottom. There was an unadorned wood pulpit at the front, positioned to the left of a raised and carpeted platform. On the right, there was an organ and three rows of folding chairs for the choir. Last Sunday’s flowers consisted of a spray of white gladioli. “Place was destroyed by fire about ten years back. Congregation rebuilt everything from the ground right on up.”

  I said, “How’d you get on track? That must have been hard.”

  He sat down in one of the front pews and I could see him look around, perhaps seeing the place as I saw it. “I give credit to the Lord, though Pete always says I did the work myself,” he said. “I grew up without much guidance, without values of any kind. I’m not blaming anybody. That’s just how it was. My parents were good people. They didn’t drink or beat me or anything like that, but they never talked about God or faith or their religious beliefs, assuming they had any, which I don’t guess they did. My brothers and I… even when we were little kids… never went to Sunday school or church.”

  “My parents disliked ‘organized religion.’ I don’t know what that phrase meant to them or what their perception was, but they took pride in making sure none of us were ever exposed to it. Like a disease of some kind. I remember they had a book by this guy named Philip Wylie. Generation o f Vipers. He equated the church teachings with intellectual corruption, the stunting of young minds.”

  “Some people feel that way,” I said.

  “Yeah, I know. I don’t get it, but it’s something I run into out there in the world. It’s like people think just because you go to church you’re not all that bright. I mean, just because I’m born-again doesn’t mean I lost IQ points.”

  “I’m sure you didn’t.”

  “Thing is, I was raised without a moral compass. I couldn’t get a sense of what the rules were so I just kept pushing. I kept crossing the line, waiting for somebody to tell me where the boundaries were.”

  “But you were getting into trouble with the law from what I heard. You must have known the rules because every time you broke one, you ended up in court. Donovan says you spent more time in juvenile Hall than you did at home.”

  His smile was sheepish. “That’s true, but here’s what’s weird. I didn’t mind Juvie all that much. At least I could be with kids as screwed up as I was. Man, I was out of control. I ran wild. I was a maniac, freaked out about everything. It’s hard to think about that now. I have trouble relating to myself and who I was back then. I know what happened. I mean, I know what I did, but I can’t imagine doing it. I wanted to feel good. I’ve thought about this a lot and that’s the best explanation I’ve been able to come up with. I felt bad and I wanted to feel better. Seemed to, me dope was the quickest way to get there. I haven’t touched drugs or hard liquor for more than fifteen years. I might have a beer now and then, but I don’t smoke, don’t play cards, don’t ballroom dance. Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain and don’t cuss… all that much. Stub my toe and I can turn the air blue, but most of the time, I avoid swear words.”

  “Well, that’s good.”

  “For me, it is. Back then, I was always teetering on the brink. I think I was hoping my parents would finally draw the line and mean it. That they’d say, ‘Here, this is it. You’ve finally gone and done it this time.’ But you know what? My dad was too soft. He waffled on everything. Even when he kicked my ass from here to next Tuesday, even when he threw me out of the house, he was saying, ‘Give this some thought, son. You can come back when you’ve figured it out.’ But like what? Figured what out? I didn’t have a clue. I was rudderless. I was like a boat going full throttle but without any real direction, roaring around in big circles. Know what I mean?”

  “Sure I do. In high school, I was a screw-up myself. I ended up as a cop before I did this.”

  He smiled. “No kidding? You drank and smoked dope?”

  “Among other things,” I said, modestly.

  “Come on. Like what?”

  “I don’t know. Kids in my class were all clean-cut, but not me. I was a wild thing. I ditched school. I hung out with some low-life dudes and I liked that. I liked them,” I said. “I was the odd one out and so were they, I guess.”

  “Where’d you go to high school?”

  “Santa Teresa High.”

  He laughed. “You were a low-waller?”

  “Absolutely,” I said. Low-wallers were the kids who quite literally perched on a low wall that ran along the back of the school property. Much smoking of cigarettes, funky clothes, and peroxided hair.

  Guy laughed. “Well, that’s great.”

  “I don’t know how great it was, but it’s what I did.”

  “How’d you get on track?”

  “Who says I am?”

  He got to his feet as if he’d come to a decision.

  “Come on out to the parsonage and meet Peter and Winnie,” he said. “They’ll be in the kitchen at this hour setting up supper for the Thursday night Bible study.”

  I followed him up the center aisle and through a door at the rear. I could feel the first stirrings of resistance. I didn’t want anyone pushing me to convert. Too much virtue is just as worrisome as wickedness in my book.

  Chapter 6

  *

  The parsonage was situated on the property adjacent to the church and consisted of a rambling white frame farmhouse, two stories tall, with green shutters and a shabby green shingled roof broken up with dormers. Across one end was a wide screened-in porch distinctly tilted, as though an earthquake had pulled the concrete foundation loose. Behind the house, I could see a big red barn with a dilapidated one-car garage attached. Both the house and the barn were in need of afresh coat of paint, and I noticed sunlight slanting through the barn roof where it was pierced with holes. Metal lawn chairs were arranged in a semicircle in the yard
under a massive live oak tree. A weathered picnic table flanked with benches was set up close by where I pictured Sunday school classes and church suppers during the summer months.

  I followed Guy across the yard. We went up the back steps and into the kitchen. The air was scented with sauted onions and celery. Peter was a man in his sixties, balding, with a wreath of white hair that grew down into sideburns and wrapped around his jaw in a closely trimmed beard linked to a matching mustache. Pale sunlight coming through the window illuminated a feathery white fuzz across his pate. He wore a red turtleneck with a ribbed green sweater over it. He was just in the process of rolling out biscuit dough. The baking sheets to his right were lined with rows of perfect disks of dough ready for the oven. He looked up with pleasure as the two of us came in. “Oh, Guy. Good, it’s you. I was just wondering if you were here yet. The furnace over at the church has been acting up again. First it clicks on, then it clicks off. On then off.”

  “Probably the electronic ignition. I’ll take a look.” Guy’s posture was self-conscious. He rubbed his nose and then stuck his hands in his overall pockets as if to warm them. “This is Kinsey Millhone. She’s a private detective from Santa Teresa.” He turned and looked at me, tilting his head at the minister and his wife as he made the introductions. “This is Peter Antle and his wife, Winnie.”

  Peter’s complexion was ruddy. His blue eyes smiled out at me from under ragged white brows. “Nice to meet you. I’d offer to shake hands, but I don’t think you’d like it. How are you at homemade biscuits? Can I put you to work?”

  “Better not,” I said. “My domestic skills leave something to be desired.”

  He was on the verge of pursuing the point when his wife said, “Now, Pete…” and gave him a look. Winnie Antle appeared to be in her late forties with short brown hair combed away from her face. She was brown-eyed, slightly heavy, with a wide smile and very white teeth. She wore a man’s shirt over jeans with a long knit vest that covered her wide hips and ample derriere. She was chopping vegetables for soup, a mountain of carrot coins piled up on the counter next to her. I could see two bunches of celery and assorted bell peppers awaiting her flashing knife. She was simultaneously tending a stockpot filled with vegetable cuttings boiling merrily. “Hello, Kinsey. Don’t mind him. He’s always trying to pass the work off onto the unsuspecting,” she said, sending me a quick smile. “What brings you up this way?”