Y Is for Yesterday

by Sue Grafton

  “You know where Celeste is these days?”

  “You already asked me that.”

  “I’m keenly aware of it, Phyllis, which is why I asked you again.”

  “Look, she changed her name and relocated. Even with an alias, her number’s unlisted. She’s not taking any chances.”

  “She must have been in touch or you wouldn’t know that much.”

  “She called once to let me know she was okay. I have the name and address around here someplace. I made a note on a piece of paper I stuck in a box. I moved six weeks ago and I still have unopened U-Haul cartons stacked up in the back bedroom.”

  “When you find it, why don’t you call her and let her know what’s going on? That way you won’t betray a confidence.”

  I heard a phone ringing on her end. “You want to get that?”

  “The machine will pick up,” she said. “I got an idea. Why don’t you come down for a glass of wine and a bite of supper? We can talk about Ned and maybe brainstorm ideas.”

  “I’d love that. When?”

  “I’m tied up tonight. What about tomorrow night?”

  “No good. I’m going to a birthday party in the neighborhood.”

  “How about Saturday?”

  “Sounds good. I can bring the wine if you like.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ve got plenty. I just bought a condominium in a gated community. I’ll leave your name with the security guard and he’ll direct you from there. The units look like row houses. You’ll think they’re all connected, but they’re set up in pairs, so there are actually two of us, A and B, at this street number. Once you get to my building, you’ll enter the vestibule and press the call button under my name. That will ring me upstairs and I’ll send the elevator down for you. Or, if the elevator’s down, you can press the call button just inside the door, identify yourself, and I’ll bring you up. Come around five and we can sit out on the balcony and watch the sun set. I’ll do us up a little something. I’m not much of a cook, so don’t get your hopes up.”

  “I don’t cook at all, so anything you do will be a treat.”

  “Let me give you my new address.”

  I made a note of it and told her I’d be there at five on Saturday.

  We hung up and I continued to sit, contemplating the question of Ned’s whereabouts. I was already having doubts about Phyllis’s suggestion regarding mobile home and RV parks. A quick check of the phone book showed ten mobile home parks in the area: two close to downtown and the remaining eight in Colgate. While it had sounded like a dandy suggestion, I couldn’t picture him buying or renting a mobile home. In truth, mobile homes aren’t mobile at all. A mobile home functions as a fixed base of operations in a park with permanent water and electric hookups, a street address, and monthly rent due on the lot where it’s moored. Ned was the last person in the world who’d settle down in a community where he was wanted for murder.

  As for RV parks, there were two: one fifteen miles north of the city and the other one forty miles north. I ruled those out on the premise that Ned wouldn’t want to place himself at such a geographical remove. To all appearances, he’d been on foot when he checked out of the Sand Bar, and he was certainly on foot when I caught sight of him on Albanil Tuesday night. With a backpack and sleeping bag, he was most likely camping somewhere close by. I couldn’t rule out the possibility that he had a car at his disposal (owned, rented, or stolen) but it would put him at risk for parking tickets, moving violations, and equipment infractions that might expose him to notice by traffic enforcement officers.

  I armed and locked the office and went home. Ed, the cat, was sitting on the sidewalk, just outside the gate.

  “What are you doing out here?”

  Ed wasn’t feeling chatty, so I reached down, picked him up, and carried him around to the backyard. I deposited him inside Henry’s kitchen door and returned to my place. I changed into my sweats and running shoes and used the run as a moving meditation on Ned Lowe. What was his thinking process? He had to have shelter; at the very least, a place where he could hole up out of the public eye. He’d have to eat, which meant fast-food places, coffee shops, bars, or restaurants; more likely a local market where he could stockpile supplies. He needed access to a toilet, which suggested service stations, the public bathrooms at the marina, or the use of the men’s room in a city park, which might also provide cover. Wherever he was, I needed to run him to ground soon, for my safety as well as the safety of others. Though I didn’t know it at the time, this was a thought that would come back to haunt me later.

  18

  IRIS AND JOEY

  Thursday, September 21, 1989

  Iris and Joey parked in the public lot behind the Clockworks and walked through the passageway to State Street where the front door was located. For years, the place had been a teen hangout, the bulk of the business devoted to soft drinks and cheap snacks, creating the illusion of a bar without the alcohol. They did sell two off-brands of beer and generic red and white wines if you could provide tangible proof you were of age. Most of the patrons in those days were the under-eighteen crowd feigning maturity with none of the responsibilities.

  Joey opened the door and held it for Iris. The two paused in the entrance, scanning the crowd for some sign of Fritz. The place was smoky and dark, the walls painted charcoal gray, with lighting that consisted primarily of green and purple neon tubing. Suspended from the high ceiling were oversize black gears, abstract suggestions of the interior of a clock: the anchor, the escapement wheel, with oscillating wheels and springs. Two years before, the owners had upgraded the establishment, which was now a full bar. They’d bought the storefront next door and had broken through the connecting wall. The expansion allowed them to double their space, which now included a second room with a jukebox, six pool tables, and six pinball machines. It was Thursday night and the place was jammed. The crowd was restless and noisy, which created an odd intimacy. Iris spotted Fritz sitting alone in a booth to their left.

  “There.”

  “Got him,” Joey murmured.

  Fritz spotted them and smiled, vigorously waving his hand like they might not otherwise notice him.

  Iris kept her eyes pinned on Fritz, her smile in place. Under her breath she said, “I hate that guy. Look at the stupid smirk on his face. Bet he’s still proud of himself for what he did to me.”

  Joey put a hand in the middle of her back, gently steering her toward Fritz’s table. “Don’t go down that road, Iris. This is all sweetness and light. As far as he’s concerned, we’re best buds. Happy to have him back in our midst.”

  “Don’t you dare leave me alone with him.”

  “Not to worry. Be cool.”

  Fritz half rose from his seat, slightly off balance until he steadied himself. Joey reached out and shook his hand and Iris made a halfhearted gesture toward a kiss on the cheek. Fritz was smoking a cigarette. Nearby there was a half-filled ashtray and a nearly empty highball glass. He’d missed the ashtray with one butt and had put it out on the tabletop. He sat down again, perhaps a bit more abruptly than he intended. “Hey, guys. I didn’t expect to see you.”

  Joey said, “Iris got restless, so here we are. What’s your drink of choice? I’m buying this round.”

  “Seagram’s Seven and 7.”

  Joey turned to Iris. “What about you, babe?”

  “Beer’s fine with me. I’ll go. You can sit here and talk to Fritz.”

  “You sure?”

  “Not a problem. I’ll be right back.”

  Joey handed her a twenty-dollar bill and she moved away from the table and crossed to the bar, pushing her way past singles who were lined up five deep.

  Joey slid into the bench opposite Fritz. “How long have you been here?”

  Fritz smashed his cigarette out, grinding it in the ashtray. “’Bout an hour. I can’t stand being home. My fo
lks are always on my case. Yammer, yammer, yammer.” He raised his hand and made a puppet mouth with his thumb and fingers, saying, “Blah blah blah. Know what I mean?”

  “Iris and I are lucky. We don’t have to put up with that shit.”

  “I’m gone every chance I get. Hanging with Stringer and Berg out at their place, which is way cool. Me and the guys are like this.” Fritz held up his crossed fingers.

  “What’s the latest on that business about the tape?”

  Fritz made a face. “Not good. They won’t pay.”

  Joey leaned forward. “You’re kidding me! They won’t pay? They actually said that?”

  “Oh sure. They claim if they pay now, the guy will just come back for more. Some horseshit like that.”

  “Are you serious? He said if he didn’t get his money, he’d turn the tape over to the DA.”

  “What’s it to them, you know? They’re not going to jail. Me and Troy are the ones who’ll pay. I don’t know how many times I have to say this.”

  Iris appeared with two bottles of beer and Fritz’s Seagram’s Seven and 7Up, which she passed across the table to him.

  Fritz said, “Thanks, Iris.”

  She scooted in beside Joey. “So what did I miss?”

  “Parents still won’t pay,” Fritz said morosely. “Hired a detective.”

  “A detective?” Iris said.

  “Some woman,” Joey replied. “Remember? He was telling us about her up at Bayard’s.”

  Iris made a face. “That’s dumb. What’s this detective supposed to do?”

  “How the hell do I know? I guess run around and ask questions.”

  “Wait a minute. I know the one,” Iris said. “This woman comes into the store telling me she’s a newspaper reporter, claiming the public is still interested in Sloan’s death. She’s asking all this shit, including wasn’t I the one who stole the test. Then she starts talking about the tape. I was floored.”

  “When was this?”

  “Monday, I think. She’s standing there telling me it’s sexual abuse. She referred to it as rape and she’s asking if I reported the incident to the police. I said it wasn’t an ‘incident,’ it was a joke.”

  Fritz frowned. “I said the same thing. You know, like the tape was just us goofing off. Troy said he’d back us up.” Fritz struggled to fire up another cigarette and Joey tactfully took the lighter and gave him an assist.

  “What about Bayard?” Joey asked.

  Fritz tried unsuccessfully to blow a smoke ring. “Sure. I mean, it’s not his butt on the line, but he’ll support what we say. We all tell the same story. It’s a joke. Anyway, point is my parents are willing to pay big bucks to find out who’s shaking us down, but won’t pay a cent to get me off the hook. Troy’s just riding on my coattails. He doesn’t have money, so it’s not his lookout.”

  “Good deal for him,” Joey said.

  “Very good,” Fritz said.

  Iris raised a hand. “I don’t get it. On one hand, you’re saying the tape is harmless because we weren’t really doing anything.”

  Fritz gestured. “Right. I told ’em we were horsing around. In between takes, we’re cracking up and like that. You know, like improvising.”

  “Okay, but then you turn around and tell them to pay so you won’t have to go to jail, so which is it? How can you go to jail if it’s a joke?”

  “Good point, Iris,” Joey said.

  Fritz waved him off. “Because they say, where’s the proof? I’m supposed to produce the outtakes and I’m telling them no way. Austin took ’em when he left, is what I said.”

  “That’s good. I like that,” Iris said.

  Joey rested his arms on the table. “Is that why they hired a detective? To track down the outtakes?”

  “No clue. Anyway, don’t worry about her. My dad has no use for her. Waste of time, he says. Bet he fires her. He likes to fire people. I ever tell you that? Power tripping.”

  “So can you talk them into paying?” Joey asked.

  “I better. Either that or find a way to get my hands on some cash. Ha. My parents are hanging me out to dry. I find twenty-five thousand, you can kiss my ass good-bye.”

  “Jesus, that must be driving you nuts,” Iris said.

  “It is. I’m so jumpy, I can’t sleep. I lie there and just go over it and over it. You know, like I’m obsessing about where I’m getting twenty-five thousand bucks to save my own skin.”

  Joey snorted at the very idea. “How are you going to come up with money like that? It’s not going to happen.”

  “Maybe I’ll rob a bank. Otherwise I’m living with this blackmail guy breathing down my neck. Things don’t go his way, I got the cops at my door.”

  Joey shook his head. “Shit, I don’t know what to tell you, man. The whole deal sucks.”

  Iris said, “They have to pay, don’t you think? You know they have it.”

  “No question,” Fritz said. “They, like, majorly have the money.”

  Joey said, “I’d keep on ’em if I were you.”

  “I’m doing my best. Have to or I’m screwed.”

  Iris said, “Well, anything we can do to help . . .”

  Impulsively, Fritz reached out and covered her hand with his. “Hey, guys. I just want you to know how much this means to me. Having you on my team.” His voice trembled. “You’re the only ones I can talk to about this . . . you know . . . crap going down in my life. It’s the pits. I’m serious. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  Iris eased her hand out from under Fritz’s.

  Joey reached over and patted Fritz’s hand and then held it between his own. “Take it easy, dude. We’re here for you. I mean that. Like, anytime.”

  “Thanks.” Fritz turned his head, dashing at his eyes with his sleeve.

  19

  Friday, September 22, 1989

  Friday morning, I bypassed the office and drove to Horton Ravine. I’d called Margaret Seay the night before and our phone conversation had been brief. To my relief, talking to the mother of the dead girl was easier than I’d thought possible. I’d introduced myself and then asked if we might meet so I could talk to her about something that had come up related to her daughter’s death.

  “Related in what way?”

  “This is about a videotape.”

  She was momentarily silent and then said, “I’m free at eight tomorrow morning if that’s not too early for you.”

  “That will be fine,” I said, after which I confirmed the address and rang off.

  • • •

  Margaret Seay still lived in the house she’d shared with her then-husband, Paul, ten years before. The residence fit my notion of the Midwest: a two-story frame house, painted a cheerful yellow with white shutters and white trim. The roof was metal with a standing seam construction that must have provided a lovely sound during a rain, on the off chance we’re ever treated to inclement weather again. There was a wide porch along the front, with a white wooden swing, white wicker furniture, and red geraniums in wooden planters painted white.

  I parked in the driveway and made my way up the walk. I rang the bell and waited. The door was answered by a woman in her early fifties. She held the door open without a word and I stepped into the foyer, saying, “Thanks for seeing me. I appreciate it.”

  “It’s been a while since anyone asked about Sloan,” she said. “This is my stepson Joey.”

  The young man she introduced looked like he might be in high school, in jeans, running shoes, and a letter jacket. His hair was damp and earnestly combed, with a few strands breaking free at the crown. His ears protruded and his forehead was creased with a look of worry that seemed odd for someone as young as he was. This was Sloan’s stepbrother, now engaged to the infamous Iris Lehmann.

  I held out my hand. “Nice meeting you,” I said. “I’m Kinsey Mil
lhone. I hope I’m not interrupting.”

  Margaret said, “Not at all. This is fine. He stops by most mornings on his way to work.” She put a hand against his cheek. “Why don’t we chat later?”

  “I’ll call. Good meeting you, too,” he said with a small wave to me as he let himself out.

  “What sort of work does he do?”

  “He’s a project manager for his dad, whose company is Merriweather Homes. He’s due on the job site at eight thirty, which gives us time to have coffee before.”

  I followed her into the living room. The floor plan was one I’d seen dozens of times. Living room to the right, dining room to the left, and a stairway that went up from the entrance hall to the second floor above. I pictured a kitchen off the dining room, and beyond that, a combination laundry room and mudroom leading from the kitchen to the back porch, which probably extended along the width of the house. A study or sunroom, corresponding to the size of the dining room, would adjoin the living room. The symmetry was pleasing. The walls were painted a soft white and the furniture was a tasteful mix of traditional and antique, with jewel-toned floral upholstery fabrics on the couch and solid-colored coordinating fabrics—teal and amethyst—on the sofa pillows and occasional chairs. The whole of it was immaculate.

  Margaret Seay was probably my height, five foot six, built along sturdier lines than I. She wore her black hair short in a pixie cut that might have seemed inappropriate for a woman her age if it hadn’t so perfectly suited her. She wore glasses with dark frames and a slight tint to the lenses. She had dark eyes and a clear complexion, with little or no makeup and no jewelry. She wore a blue silk knee-length dress with a darker blue silk jacket. Her low-heeled navy shoes had probably been selected with comfort in mind. She seemed solemn and attentive, someone not given to smiles or animation.

  “Please sit down,” she said. She took a seat in a small chair with a padded seat and an oval upholstered back done in a ruby velvet. She kept her feet flat on the floor and put her hands in her lap, one cupped loosely in the other as though she were posing for a formal portrait.