M is for MALICE

by Sue Grafton

  “I’d appreciate that. I expect Jack and Bennet will want to be there as well. That way, if they have questions, you can fill us all in at the same time and save yourself the repetition. Would five-thirty be convenient?”

  “Fine with me,” I said.

  “Good. We’ll look forward to seeing you.”

  After I hung up, I could feel myself shrug. I had nothing against an informal report as long as I didn’t somehow get sucked into the family drama. Aside from Guy, I wasn’t crazy about the Malek brothers. I happened to believe Guy had changed his wicked ways, so maybe I could do him a service and convince the others Not that it was any of my business how the monies were distributed, but if there were any lingering questions about his “worthiness,” I certainly had an opinion Besides, with Dietz now gone, I didn’t have anything better to do.

  I skipped lunch and spent the afternoon cleaning my office. Lonnie Kingman had a maintenance crew that serviced the premises weekly on Friday afternoons, but it felt therapeutic to get in there and scrub. I even spent twenty minutes dusting the artificial fichus plant someone had once mistaken for real. The space I occupied had originally been a conference room with a full “executive” bathroom attached. I found a plastic bucket, sponges, cleansers, a toilet brush, and mop and entertained myself mightily killing imaginary germs. My method of coping with depression is to take on chores so obnoxious and disgusting that reality seems pleasant by comparison. By three o’clock, I smelled of sweat and household bleach and I’d forgotten what I was so unhappy about. Well, actually, I remembered, but I didn’t give a shit.

  Having sanitized the suite, I locked the door, stripped off my clothes, hopped in the executive shower, and scrubbed myself. I dressed again in the same jeans, pulling on a fresh turtleneck from the ready supply I keep handy for sudden travel. What’s life without a toothbrush and clean underpants? I typed up the official version of my encounter with Guy Malek, tucking one copy in my office files, another in my handbag. The third I addressed to Tasha Howard at her San Francisco office. The end. Finito. Done, done, done. This was the last job I’d ever take from her.

  By 5:25, dressed in my best (and only) wool tweed blazer, I drove through the entrance to the Malek estate. It was close to dark by then, the winter shortened days still characterized by early twilights. My headlights swept in a forlorn arc across the stucco wall surrounding the fifteen-acre property. Along the rim of the wall, three strands of rusted barbed wire had been strung years ago, broken now in places and looking singularly ineffective. Who knows what intruders were anticipated back then? A chilly wind had picked up and the darkened treetops swayed and shivered, whispering together about things unseen. There were lights on in the house, two upstairs windows illuminated in pale yellow where much of the first floor was dark.

  The housekeeper had neglected to turn on the outside lights. I parked in the turnaround and picked my way across the cobblestone courtyard to the shadowy portico that sheltered the entranceway in front. I rang the bell and waited, crossing my arms for warmth. The porch light was finally flipped on and Myrna opened the door a crack.

  “Hi, Myrna. Kinsey Millhone. I was here the other day. Donovan invited me for drinks.”

  Myrna didn’t exactly break into song at the news. Apparently, advanced classes in Housekeeper’s Training School cautioned the students not to give expression to sudden bursts of joy. In the two days since I’d seen her last, she’d renewed the dye job on her hair and the whole of it was now a white blond that looked like it would be cold to the touch. Her uniform consisted of a gray top worn over matching gray pants. I would have bet money the waistband was unbuttoned underneath the tunic. “This way,” she said. Her crepe-soled shoes squeaked slightly on the polished parquet floor.

  A woman called down from somewhere above our heads. “Myrna? Was that the front door? We’re expecting someone for drinks.” I glanced up, following the sound of her voice. A brunette in her late thirties was leaning on the stair rail above our heads. She caught sight of me and brightened. “Oh, hi. You must be Kinsey. You want to come on up?”

  Myrna veered off without another word, disappearing into the rear of the house as I climbed the stairs.

  Christie held out her hand when I reached the upper landing. “I’m Christie Malek. Nice to meet you,” she said as we shook hands. “I take it you’ve met Myrna.”

  “More or less,” I said. I took her in at a glance, like an instant Polaroid. She was a fine-featured brunette with shiny dark hair, worn shoulder length. She was very slender, wearing jeans and a bulky black-ribbed sweater that came down almost to her knees. She had the sleeves rolled back and her wrists were thin, her fingers long and cool. Her eyes were small, a dark penetrating blue, beneath a lightly feathered brow. Her teeth were as perfect as a mouthwash ad’s. The absence of eye makeup gave her a recessive, slightly anxious air, though her manner was friendly and her smile was warm enough. “Donovan called to say he’d be a few minutes late. Jack’s on his way home and Bennet’s around some place. I’m just going through Bader’s papers and I’d love some company.”

  Still talking to me, she turned and moved toward the master bedroom, which I could see through an open doorway. “We’re still looking for the missing will, among other things. Ever hopeful,” she added wryly.

  “I thought Bennet was going to do that.”

  “This is how Bennet does things. He loves to delegate.”

  I hoped there was a touch of irony in her tone. I couldn’t be sure so I kept my mouth shut.

  The suite we entered was enormous; two substantial rooms separated by a pair of doors that had been pushed into their respective wall pockets. We passed through the outer room, which had been furnished as a bedroom. The walls were padded fabric, covered in rose-colored silk with a watered sheen to the finish. The carpet was off-white, a dense, cut pile. Pale, heavy drapes had been pulled back to reveal the leaded glass windows that looked out onto the cobblestone entrance at the front of the house. There was a marble fireplace on the wall to the left. Two matching sofas were arranged on either side of it, plump, upholstered pieces covered in a subdued floral chintz. The four-poster bed had been flawlessly made, not a ripple or a wrinkle in the snowy-white silk coverlet. The surface of the bed table seemed unnaturally bare, as if once-personal items had now been hidden from sight. It might have been my imagination, but the room seemed to harbor the lingering scent of sickness. I could see that closets were being emptied, the contents ��� suits and dress shirts packed into large cardboard boxes supplied by the local Thrift Store Industries downtown.

  “This is gorgeous,” I said.

  “Isn’t it?”

  Beyond the sliding doors, a home office had been set up, with a large walnut desk and antique wooden file cabinets. The ceilings in both rooms were twelve feet high, but this was by far the cozier of the two. A fire had been laid in a second marble fireplace and Christie paused to add a log to an already snapping blaze. The walls here were paneled in walnut as dark and glossy as fudge. I could see a copier, a fax machine, computer, and a printer arranged on the built-in shelves on either side of the fireplace. A paper shredder stood on one side of the desk, its green On button lighted. I could see printed acknowledgments stacked up waiting to be addressed to those who’d sent flowers to the funeral.

  Christie returned to the desk where she’d emptied the contents of two drawers into banker’s boxes that she’d labeled with a black marker. There were two big plastic garbage bags bulging with discarded papers. Thick files were stacked on the desktop and a number of empty file folders were strewn across the carpet. This was the kind of task I knew well, classifying the odds and ends left behind by the dead. Below, in the courtyard, we could hear a motorcycle cruise in, the engine being revved once more before it was silenced.

  Christie cocked her head. “I hear the Harley. Sounds like Jack’s home.”

  “How’s it going so far?”

  Her expression was a wry mix of skepticism and despair. “Bad
er was supremely organized for the most part, but he must have lost his enthusiasm for jobs like this. Look at all this stuff. I swear, if I’m ever diagnosed as terminal, I’m going to clean out my files before I get too sick to care. What if you kept pornographic pictures or something like that? I’d hate to think of someone sorting through my private affairs.”

  “Nothing in my life is that interesting,” I said. “You want help?”

  “Not really, but I could use the moral support,” she said. “I’ve been in here for hours. I have to look at every single piece of paper and figure out if it’s worth saving, though most aren’t as far as I can tell. I mean, what do I know? Anything I’m not sure about, I put in one pile. The really junky stuff, I go ahead and shove in a garbage bag. I don’t dare shred a thing and I’m afraid to toss much. I know Bennet. As sure as I pitch something, he tears in here and wants to know where it is. He’s done that to me twice and it was just dumb luck the trash hadn’t been picked up. I’m out there in the dark, like a bag lady, pulling crumpled papers out of the garbage can. This third pile is everything that looks important. For instance, here’s something you might like.” She picked up a file from the stack on top of the desk and handed it to me. “Bader must have put this together back in the early sixties.”

  A quick glance inside revealed a collection of newspaper clippings related to Guy’s past misbehavior. I read one at random, an article dating back to 1956 detailing the arrest of two juveniles, boys aged fourteen and thirteen, who were believed to be responsible for a spree of graffiti vandalism. One of the teens was booked into juvenile Hall, the other released to his parents. There must have been twenty-five such snippets. In some cases, the authorities withheld the names because the boy or boys arrested were still minors. In other articles, Guy Malek was identified by name.

  “I wonder why Bader kept clippings. It seems odd,” I said.

  “Maybe to remind himself why he disinherited the kid. I figure Bennet will want ‘em for ammunition if it comes down to that. It’s exhausting just trying to make these decisions.”

  “Quite a job,” I said and then shifted the subject matter. “You know, it occurred to me that since the two wills were drawn up only three years apart, the two witnesses for the first might have been witnesses for the second will, too. Especially if they were paralegals or law clerks working in the attorney’s office.”

  She looked at me with interest. “Good point. You’ll have to mention that to Donovan. None of us are anxious to see five million bucks flying out the window.”

  There was a tap at the door and we both turned to see that Myrna had reappeared. “Donovan’s home. He asked me to serve the hors d’oeuvres in the living room.”

  “Tell him we’ll be down in a second, as soon as I wash my hands. Oh, and see if you can round up the other two.”

  Myrna took in the request, murmured something inaudible, and withdrew from the room.

  Christie shook her head, lowering her voice a notch. “She may be on the glum side, but she’s the only person in the house who doesn’t argue with everyone.

  Chapter 8

  *

  Lights were on and Donovan was in the living room when Christie and I came downstairs. He’d changed out of his work clothes, pulling on a heavy cream colored knit sweater over casual pants. He’d exchanged his dress shoes for a pair of sheepskin slippers that made his feet look huge. A fire had been laid and he was poking at the logs, turning a bulky wedge of oak so that its uppermost side would catch. Donovan picked up another piece of wood and thunked it on top. A shower of sparks flew up the chimney. He replaced the fire screen and wiped his hands on his handkerchief, glancing over at me. “I see you’ve met Christie. We appreciate your coming over. Keeps it simpler all around. Can I make you a drink? We’ve got just about anything you’d want.”

  “A glass of Chardonnay would be fine.”

  “I’ll get it,” Christie said promptly. She moved over to a sideboard crowded with liquor bottles. A bottle of Chardonnay had been chilling in a cooler beside a clear Lucite ice bucket and an assortment of glasses. She began to peel the foil from the neck of the wine bottle, with a look at Donovan. “You having wine?”

  “Probably with dinner. I think I’ll have a martini first. Gin is Bennet’s winter drink,” he added as an aside to me.

  Ah, the seasonal alcoholic. What a nice idea. Gin in the winter, maybe vodka in spring. Summer would be tequila and he could round out the autumn with a little bourbon or scotch. While she opened the wine, I took a momentary survey.

  Like the bedroom above, this room was immense. The twelve foot ceiling was rimmed with ten-inch crown molding, the walls papered in a narrow blue-and-cream stripe that had faded with the years. The pale Oriental carpet had to be seventeen feet wide and probably twenty-five feet long. The furniture had been arranged in two groupings. At the far end of the room, four wing chairs faced one another near the front windows. Closer to the center of the room, three large sofas formed a U in front of the fireplace. All of the side pieces ��� an armoire, an escritoire, and two carved and inlaid wooden tables ��� were the sort I’d seen in antique stores, heavy, faintly fussy, with price tags that made you squint because you thought you’d read them wrong.

  Christie returned with two glasses of wine and handed one to me. She took a seat on one of the sofas and I sat down across from her with a murmured “thanks.” The blue floral pattern was faded to a soft white, the fabric threadbare along the arms and the cushion fronts. There was a large brass bowl filled with fresh flowers and several copies of Architectural Digest lined up on the square glass coffee table in the crook of the U. There was also an untidy stack of what looked like condolence cards. While I was thinking about it, I took out my typed report and placed it on the table in front of me. I’d leave it for Donovan so he’d have a copy for his files.

  I heard footsteps in the hall and the sound of voices. Jack and Bennet came into the living room together. Whatever they’d been discussing, their expressions were now neutral, conveying nothing but benign interest at the sight of me. Bennet wore a running suit of some silky material that rustled when he walked. Jack looked as if he’d just come in off the golf course, his hair still disheveled from the imprint of his visor. He wore a bright orange sweater vest over a pink short-sleeved golf shirt and his gait tended to a lilt as if he were still wearing cleats. Jack poured himself a scotch and water as dark as iced tea while Bennet made a pitcher of martinis that he stirred with a long glass wand. I made note of his vermouth-to-gin ratio ��� roughly two parts per million. He poured one for himself and one for Donovan, adding olives to both. He brought the martini pitcher over to the coffee table and set it down within range.

  While drinks were being poured, various pleasantries were exchanged, none of them heartfelt. As with tobacco, the rituals of alcohol seemed to be a stalling technique until those assembled could get themselves psychologically situated. I had an odd sensation in my chest, the same itch of anxiety I’d felt before a thirdgrade dance recital in which I played a bunny, not a specialty of mine. My aunt Gin was ill and unable to attend, so I’d been forced to do my hippy-hopping in front of countless alien adults, who didn’t seem to find me winsome. My legs were too skinny and my fake ears wouldn’t stand up. The brothers Malek watched me with about the same enthusiasm. Donovan took a seat next to Christie on the couch across from me while jack sat facing the fireplace with Bennet on his left.

  It was interesting to see the three brothers in the same room together. Despite the similarities in their coloring, their faces were very different, Bennet’s the more so because of his beard and mustache. Donovan and Jack were built along finer lines though neither was as appealing as their errant brother Guy. Jack leaned forward and began to sift idly through the sympathy cards.

  I thought Donovan was on the verge of asking for my report when Myrna came into the room with assorted edibles on a serving tray. The tray itself was the size of a manhole cover, very plain, probably ster
ling silver, and distinctly tarnished along the edges. The hors d’oeuvres, in addition to what looked like Cheez Whiz on saltines, consisted of a bowl of peanuts and a bowl of unpitted green olives in brine. No one said a word until she’d departed, closing the door behind her.

  Jack leaned forward. “What the fuck is this?”

  Bennet laughed at the very moment he was swallowing a mouthful of martini. He made a snorting sound as he choked and I saw gin dribble out his nose. He coughed into his handkerchief while jack shot a smile in his direction. I bet as children they’d paused in the midst of dinner, opening their mouths to one another to exhibit masticated food.

  Christie flashed them a look of disapproval. “It’s Enid’s night off. Would you quit with the criticism? Myrna’s a nurse. She was hired to look after Dad, not to wait on the two of you. We’re lucky she stayed on and you bloody well know it. Nobody else lifts a finger around here except me.”

  “Thanks for setting the record straight, Christie. You’re a fuckin’ peach,” Jack said.

  “Knock it off,” Donovan said. “Could we hold off on this until we hear from her?” He grabbed a handful of peanuts, eating one at a time as his focus returned to me. “You want to fill us in?”

  I took a few minutes to detail the means by which I’d managed to locate Guy Malek. Without mentioning Darcy Pascoe or California Fidelity Insurance, I played out the steps that led to the information on his identification card. I’ll admit I stretched it out, making it sound more problematic than it had actually been. “As nearly as I can tell, your brother’s cleaned up his act. He’s working as the custodian for the jubilee Evangelical Church. I gather he doubles as a handyman for various people in Marcella. He says he’s the only one in town doing home maintenance, so he earns decent money, by his standards. His lifestyle is simple, but he’s doing okay.”