Y Is for Yesterday

by Sue Grafton

  “Impressive that you can recite that,” I said.

  “Humility annoys me. I keep the quote handy in case someone pulls that horseshit around me.”

  “What about Iris? How has she managed to hang on?”

  “Easy. She’s engaged to Joey Seay.”

  “Sloan’s stepbrother?”

  “Oh my, yes. Am I the first to mention it?”

  “She said she was getting married. She didn’t tell me who.”

  Bayard regarded me with a sparkle in his eye and it was clear he was having a high old time at her expense. “I wonder what kind of game she’s playing,” he said. “If you think about it, she’s responsible for everything that went down back then. Because she stole the test, Troy and Poppy cheated. Because they cheated, someone turned them in. Because Austin blamed Sloan for it, she was shunned and ended up using the tape to threaten him. Because Austin retaliated, she died. Cause and effect; like the fruit of the poisonous tree.”

  “Put it like that and Sloan’s mother couldn’t be happy about having Iris in the family.”

  “You’d have to ask her. Maybe she hasn’t put it together in quite the same way. I guess we all see what we want to see.”

  “But how did they connect? Iris and Joey. It seems so convoluted.”

  “Not at all. They met at Santa Teresa High School, which is where Iris was sent when she was kicked out of Climp. After Sloan’s death, the two boys decided to move in with their dad. Joey was in the same graduating class she was. His brother, Justin, was two years behind.”

  Bayard’s eyes shifted to the door, where Ellis stood.

  “Phone for you,” he said.

  Bayard pushed his chair back and got up. “Sorry. You’re welcome to stay if you like.”

  “This is fine. I appreciate your time. I may pick this conversation up again once I’ve had a chance to digest the information.”

  “Anytime.”

  Ellis accompanied me to the front door and I returned to my car.

  I opened the door on the driver’s side and slid under the wheel. I sat for a few minutes jotting down notes on my index cards. When I glanced back at the house, I saw Maisie standing at a window, her blue eyes fixed on mine. I held the look, perplexed, and she finally broke off eye contact. What was that about? I tucked the index cards in my bag, turned the key in the ignition, and put the car in reverse. When I checked the window again, she was gone.

  17

  I spent the bulk of Thursday afternoon canvassing motels in Winterset and Cottonwood. Canvassing, like surveillance, is an unrelenting bore. So often, the results bear no relationship to the energy you expend. I’ve sat for hours in a parked car, hoping to catch sight of my subject to no avail. On other occasions, I pick up the trail almost by accident. Patience is the key. There’s no point in getting surly about the chore, because it comes with the turf. In this case, it was such a relief to get away from Bayard and Maisie, I couldn’t complain. It says something about the state of relationships these days when hunting for a stone-cold killer is more restful than being witness to a romance.

  Winterset is located five miles south of Santa Teresa and covers approximately 1.5 square miles, rising to an elevation of one hundred and twenty feet above sea level. The population, at the last census, showed fewer than twelve hundred souls. The Cape Cod–style bungalows perched along the hillside, which now sell for more than a million bucks apiece, were once summer homes for white middle-class migrants coming up from Los Angeles.

  Cottonwood, seven miles further south along the 101, is known for the tar springs a Spanish expedition spotted on the beach in 1769. Petroleum-derived pitch is black in color, thus giving rise to the phrase “pitch-black.” The native Indian tribes used this foul-smelling substance to caulk their canoes. Petroleum seeps are still visible in the area, which is also home to a number of scenic off-shore drilling platforms. A small cottage industry has sprung up creating products that remove pitch from the bottoms of your feet after a day at the Cottonwood beach.

  “Naturally occurring asphalt or bitumen, a type of pitch, is a viscoelastic polymer.” I know this because I looked it up in the encyclopedia set my Aunt Gin was conned into buying from a door-to-door salesman. In the fourth grade, I wrote a report on the subject, which I knew was accurate because I copied it word for word. “Even though this polymer seems to be solid at room temperature and can be shattered on impact,” I wrote, “it is actually fluid and flows over time, but extremely slowly. The ‘pitch drop’ experiment taking place at the University of Queensland demonstrates the movement of a pitch sample over many years. For the experiment, pitch was put in a glass funnel and allowed to drip out. Since the pitch experiment began in 1930, only eight drops have fallen. It was recently calculated that the pitch in the experiment has a viscosity that’s approximately two hundred and thirty billion times that of water.”

  I got an F on the report and a testy lecture on plagiarism, which was news to me. I went back and added quote marks, but Miss Manning wouldn’t raise my grade. Shit. What did she expect? I was nine years old.

  The combined townships of Winterset and Cottonwood boast one hotel, twelve motels, and three inns, the latter being a fancy designation for an overpriced B&B. These establishments are located just far enough away from each other that I was forced to drive from point to point. I also stopped in at chain restaurants, diners, and service stations, doling out Ned’s mug shot, the brief note about his criminal history, and my business card. Fourteen of the businesses I approached had nothing to report, though the employees expressed suitable alarm at the notion of offering courtesies to a homicidal maniac.

  The clerk in the second-to-last motel was a fellow named Bradley Benoit: white, in his seventies, with gray bushy eyebrows and a bald, freckled pate. When I slid the bulletin across the reception desk to him, he politely slid it back.

  He said, “Let me tell you something, young lady. The law in California requires hotel and motel operators to collect and record data about their guests in either paper or electronic form. The register must contain the guest’s name and address; the number of people in the guest’s party; the make, model, and license plate number of the guest’s vehicle if the vehicle will be parked on hotel property; the guest’s date and time of arrival and scheduled date of departure; the room number assigned to the guest; the rate charged and the amount collected for the room; and the method of payment.”

  I was about to cut into the conversation, but he was just warming up.

  “In addition, we’re required to turn such records over to law enforcement upon request. I don’t see any reason to comply since this compels business owners to collect personal data on our customers and turn it over without proper warrants or consent. As citizens, we have privacy rights which we shouldn’t be expected to waive simply because we’re traveling. You know what this violates?”

  “No clue.”

  “The Fourth Amendment of the United States Constitution.”

  I tapped a finger on the police bulletin. “Do you see this gentleman? He’s wanted in connection with the kidnapping, assault, rape, and murder of a number of teenaged girls, so while I applaud and support your point, I’m really not concerned about his constitutional rights. All I want to know is whether you’ve seen him. A simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’ will suffice.”

  “I have not.”

  I handed him a business card. “Thank you for your time.”

  “You needn’t be impertinent,” he said.

  At the last motel, the Sand Bar, I had better luck.

  A registration clerk named Sebastian Palfrey recognized Ned, but said he’d checked out three days earlier. As was true of the previous clerk, Sebastian was white and in his seventies. Perhaps this was a new employment trend among retirees. He wore wire-rimmed spectacles and his long gray hair was pulled back in a ponytail. The second and third fingers on his right hand had turned
golden from cigarette smoke.

  “Is Ned Lowe the name he used?”

  “I don’t believe so, but I can check.”

  “Thanks.”

  He pulled up a stack of registration cards. “This may take a minute. These are in date order and I’m behind on my filing.” He went through the cards, reading each in turn. “Here we go. Hoover. J. E. Hoover.”

  “J. Edgar Hoover. Very cute,” I said. “Can I see the address?”

  He turned the card so I could read it and then handed me a piece of scratch paper. “Probably bogus,” he remarked.

  “You never know. As long as he’s being cocky, he might have thrown in a truth or two just to amuse himself.” I made a note of the address, which was in Louisville. “Did he show you a photo ID?”

  “A Kentucky driver’s license, which looked all right, but might have been counterfeit. I’ve never seen a real one, so there was no way I could challenge him even if it had occurred to me.”

  “Any idea why he chose this motel?”

  “Rooms are forty-nine dollars a night, which is cheaper than most. He paid cash, stayed for three nights, and checked out on Monday.”

  “What about his mode of transportation?”

  He angled the registration card. “You can see here, we have a box for vehicle make and model. He left it blank.”

  “You didn’t see a car parked outside his room?”

  “I never thought to look. We don’t charge for parking, so it’s all the same to me. He had a backpack, now that I think about it. Lightweight aluminum frame with a red nylon sleeping bag secured across the top.”

  “If he was traveling on foot, it seems like he’d have been conspicuous in an area like this.”

  Palfrey offered an apologetic shrug. “He said he was passing through. Given his boots and camping gear, I assumed he’d been hiking. He might have been headed to a trailhead.”

  “Don’t think so. He showed up in Santa Teresa midday on Monday,” I said. “Did he mention his destination?”

  “Not a word. He’s a quiet fellow. I like to chat with guests because it establishes a friendlier atmosphere for folks away from home. Small talk didn’t interest him. He was polite, I was polite, and we let it go at that.”

  “If you think of anything else, could you let me know?”

  “I’ll be happy to. Wish I had more to offer.”

  “You’ve been a big help.”

  I was uneasy on the drive back to Santa Teresa. The attempted break-in at my office on Monday was consistent with Ned’s checking out of the Sand Bar Motel and traveling north. I’d spotted him in my neighborhood on Tuesday night, which placed him squarely in Santa Teresa. So far, the STPD and Pearl’s homeless pals hadn’t turned up any sign of him. Ned was like a poisonous snake—better to keep in sight than to wonder where he might strike next. There had to be a way to find him.

  It occurred to me that I ought to have a conversation with Ned’s second wife, Phyllis Joplin, who was living in Perdido the last I’d heard. I’d learned about her when the now-deceased detective Pete Wolinsky had picked up an early whiff of Ned’s pathology. Pete had put together a list of the women who’d been closely associated with him and suffered in consequence. I’d known Pete early in my career and I’d thought little of him until I understood how astute he’d been at ferreting out Ned’s history. First on the list was the high school girlfriend Ned had been obsessed with who’d since moved out of state. Next was the name of the girl he married shortly afterward, who’d died under cloudy circumstances. His second wife, Phyllis, had had the strength and the good sense to divorce him. A psychologist named Taryn Sizemore, who dated Ned for two years, also managed to disentangle herself.

  Over the span of some twenty-five years or so, he’d used his hobby, photography, to present himself as a scout from the New York fashion industry, crisscrossing the Southwest in search of fresh talent. The last two names on Pete’s list had turned out to be two of the young girls he’d murdered. As good as his word, he did indeed take their pictures, along with their lives. The police had discovered hundreds of additional photographs in the darkroom he abandoned in the dead of night. Not all of his photographic subjects had been killed and there was no apparent pattern to those who survived. He was by then married to his third wife, Celeste, who’d been rescued by friends shortly after his crimes came to light. From that point on, he had the full fury of law enforcement breathing down his neck. So far, he’d managed to evade capture.

  I’d never met Phyllis face-to-face. I pictured her big and blond, but I was probably way off. After Pete’s death, I’d spoken to her by phone. She told me Ned specialized in wooing vulnerable women, who were easy to dominate. When she met him, she was newly divorced, unemployed, overweight, and had developed a nervous condition that made her hair fall out in clumps. Early in the romance he made a point of turning on the charm, which morphed into neediness, and shortly thereafter turned murderous. He introduced her to asphyxiophilia, the happy practice of choking your bed partner to the point of losing consciousness as a means of increasing sexual arousal. She was embarrassed to admit the hold he had on her because by then, she found him repulsive in every other aspect of their lives together.

  I took out my address book and looked up her number. I dialed and she picked up on the first ring, rattling off the name of her business, which I didn’t catch. I knew she was a certified public accountant, but that was the extent of it. “Phyllis. This is Kinsey Millhone up in Santa Teresa. We spoke six months ago.”

  “You’re the private detective. I remember you,” she said. “I hope you’re calling to say Ned Lowe is dead.”

  “No such luck. He’s been spotted in the area and I thought you should know.”

  “Well, I appreciate the warning. I heard he’s wanted in five states, so I’ve been rooting for someone to shoot him down in cold blood.”

  “We all have our hopes and dreams,” I replied.

  “I’d have said ‘shoot him down like a dog’ but I don’t want to denigrate our four-footed friends.”

  “What about Celeste? I’d like to warn her that he could show up on her doorstep. Any idea how I can get hold of her?”

  “Good question. How’d you find out he was back?”

  I noticed she’d bypassed my question about Celeste, but I let that slide for the moment. “He tried to break into my office. I had an alarm system installed six months ago, so he wasn’t able to accomplish much except to break a window with a rock. That was Monday of this week. Tuesday night while I was out, he stopped by my studio asking friends about me.”

  “This is making me sick. I thought we’d seen the last of him, but clearly not. I trust the police are on it.”

  “They’re doing what they can. They’ve stepped up patrols and they’ve circulated his mug shot to the motels and hotels in the beach area here. They’ve also notified law enforcement in Perdido and Olvidado. A couple of my homeless pals have alerted the local shelters. I just got back from a run to Winterset and Cottonwood, distributing fliers with his photograph and a thumbnail account of what he’s wanted for. The manager of the Sand Bar Motel recognized him. He told me he’d stayed there for three nights and checked out Monday morning.”

  “How’d they get a mug shot? I didn’t know he had a record.”

  “He assaulted a young girl in Burning Oaks. This was maybe six years ago. He was arrested, booked, photographed, and fingerprinted. He posted bail and he was released OR. The girl disappeared shortly after that and they dropped the case. As far as I know, that’s his one and only police contact.”

  “He’s a cunning son of a bitch. Any idea what he’s up to?”

  “That’s what I’ve been asking myself.”

  “I’ll tell you my guess. The man wants his trinkets.”

  “Ah. From the young girls he killed,” I said. “I remember Celeste telling me about his s
o-called souvenirs. She found the key to a locked file drawer and removed them while he was off on a business trip.”

  “I don’t think she understood the significance,” Phyllis said. “All she knew was how furious he became when he found out what she’d done.”

  “I take it she didn’t leave anything with you.”

  “Oh, hell no. Are you kidding me? That’s evidence. If she’d given me that stuff, I’d have handed it over to the police. She must have held on to it herself.”

  “Well, I know she didn’t pass it on to Pete Wolinsky before he died. Ned went to great trouble searching his widow’s house and never found a thing. What puzzles me is how abruptly he’s managed to drop out of sight. It’s like a disappearing act. Now you see him, now you don’t. He has to be around here someplace.”

  “You might try RV and mobile home parks. He likes taking his housing with him. He’s like a hermit crab in that respect.”

  “Good suggestion. Thanks. What about the house he and Celeste owned in Cottonwood? What’s happened to that?”

  “Still sitting there as far as I know. If the bank foreclosed, I’d have seen the notice in the paper.”

  “You think it’s possible he’s taken up residence there?”

  “Possible,” she said without conviction. “Utilities have been cut, so he’d have a roof over his head but not much else.”

  “What about his friends?”

  “Ned doesn’t have friends.”

  “What about acquaintances? He must know someone in the area.”

  “I doubt it. No one who’d put him up, at any rate. There’s nothing warm and fuzzy about our Ned. He’s a robot who’s learned to mimic human behavior with no emotional underpinnings. That’s what makes him so good at manipulation. He has an uncanny radar for your innermost needs and he feeds you malarkey so good you’re convinced you’ve found your soul mate. I fell for it myself and I always thought I was one smart cookie.”