by Sue Grafton
I decided to make myself scarce just in case the security officer intended to ask for a full accounting of the theft from Barbara Ann Mendelson. I went through the front entrance and intercepted the tow truck before the driver could position himself for the removal of my vehicle. I don’t know how I persuaded him of my innocence, but with frequent reference to Lieutenant Phillips, and by citing the ongoing investigation of Fritz’s death, I somehow extracted my car before it was hauled off to the impound lot.
I slid behind the steering wheel and took a moment to collect myself.
• • •
Traffic was still slow and I made the drive home reconciled to the time it would take. Once in my neighborhood, I found a parking spot, got out of my car, and locked it. I let myself through the gate, rounding the corner of the studio as I moved into the backyard, slowing my pace. I’d been greeted by so many unexpected sights recently that I leaned forward for a quick look before committing myself. Ned’s attack came from behind. I felt his fist in my hair. He yanked hard. I raised my hands and clung to his wrist to prevent his scalping me. He dragged me sideways and my feet flipped out from under me. He maintained an iron control by the simple expedient of his grip on my head. I was scrabbling backward as swiftly as I could in the face of his forward motion, which kept me off balance until he’d towed me out of range of the street. I couldn’t avoid a sharp intake of breath, which was part surprise and part pain. I managed a brief moment of equilibrium, which he offset by hooking a foot behind my leg. I dropped, but only until he hauled me around so we were face-to-face. His complexion was gray and the strand of hair that fell across his face was oily, suggesting weeks without a shower. His breath on my face was hot and moist and stinking. He was jabbering at me, words and phrases that scarcely made sense, not that clarification was necessary. He’d come back to finish the job of killing me, which I sincerely hoped to prevent. I heard a quick noise that I knew was a switchblade triggered into play.
Belatedly, I registered Killer’s presence. He reclined between the open tent flaps, happily licking a 3-by-6-inch Styrofoam tray. He’d torn a piece of plastic wrap to shreds and gnawed off bites of Styrofoam that were now strewn on the dirt around him. His preoccupation was puzzling except for the certainty he wasn’t going to help. My immediate salvation came in the form of Pearl White, who’d rounded the corner of the studio on her crutches.
She was saying, “Bad news about Ned. He got away again—”
At that point she spotted me and stopped in her tracks. Ned had forced my head back around until I faced her, my mouth open, no sound coming out. He had the blade against the base of my throat, where one swipe would do the trick.
“Well, son of a bitch. I guess we know where he’s at,” she said. And then shouted, “Killer!”
The dog rose to his feet, his Happy Meal forgotten, though a chunk of Styrofoam still dangled from his mouth. He had enough latent mastiff and Rottweiler in him that a deep vein of canine ferocity had leaped to the fore. The ridge of hair went up along his back and the low rumble emanated from his chest. Over countless generations, his breeding had rewarded assault as a survival strategy. Unfortunately, domestication held equal sway and he was stricken with what was clearly a moment of doggie consternation. Which was stronger, the drive to protect his mistress, fighting to the death, or his enthusiasm for the amuse-bouche? Pearl and I exchanged a quick look, both of us counting on his baser instincts.
I heard a squeak from his throat and looked over in time to see him surrender to a gargantuan yawn. He lowered his head, which I hoped was the prelude to an unprecedented display of viciousness. Instead, his upper body continued sinking until his legs buckled under him. Killer rolled gently onto his side and slept. Ned had apparently laced a pound of hamburger with a sedative and Killer had obliged the man by wolfing it down. The sight of the dog was absurd and Ned laughed. It was in that moment of inattention that Pearl made her move.
She crossed the distance between us with remarkable speed for someone of her massive proportions with a broken hip contributing to her physical condition. He was unprepared for the aggression he’d unleashed. She swung one crutch and delivered a blow to the side of his head. He wasn’t stunned so much as surprised. She brought the same crutch down on his wrist. His grip on the knife loosened and it flew off to his right. Pearl stepped forward and aimed the tip of the crutch at his Adam’s apple. Ned made a sound like a cat coughing up a hairball. She tossed the crutch aside temporarily and embraced Ned and me in a bear hug of such magnitude that the three of us toppled sideways into the pup tent, which collapsed under our combined weight.
Ned popped up first, fueled by outrage and fury. Pearl had trouble getting to her feet. He snatched a heavy fold of canvas and tightened it over her face. While I worked to free myself from the voluminous tenting, he straddled her and bore down, cutting off her air. She flailed. Without traction or leverage, she had a hard time bucking him off, but she finally succeeded. Her hip must have been giving her excruciating pain because I heard a quick cry of distress as she lumbered to her feet. Ned had turned his attention to me and we grappled without much effect. The quiet was punctuated with quick gasps and inarticulate grunts. Some of the sounds mimicked sobs, but none of us wept. I pulled myself upright, shoved him back, and kicked him on his injured side. He toppled, howling with agony.
Pearl struggled to hold herself upright while racked with pain. For a moment, none of us moved. In this orgy of violence, this was the moment when we might have paused for a postcoital smoke.
The interval was short-lived. Ned scrambled forward and tackled her around the knees. She fell on one side and he sat astride her, his weight sufficient to immobilize her. Desperate for a weapon, I grabbed the chain used to tether Killer to the tent stake. I whipped the chain over his head and around his throat, crossing one hand over the other to tighten the noose. He thrashed and then jerked forward abruptly, which flipped me over his body and onto the ground.
Pearl snatched up one of the fallen crutches and delivered a sharp thrust to his solar plexus, then plowed into him before he could regain his balance. She whacked him twice in the side of the head with the support end of the crutch. He dropped to his knees and groped the dirt around him, searching blindly for the knife. His fingers made contact and he swung his arm in an arc, prepared to plunge the weapon into any portion of her he could reach. She caught his hand midair and they arm-wrestled for control. She sank to her knees, bringing her face to a point level with his. The two strained. Her arm was shaking from the effort. In this, the two were equally matched, his upper-body strength pitted against her bulk. There were a solid twenty seconds of stasis. Then Pearl growled low in her throat and prevailed, forcing his hand down, pinning it to the ground.
I crossed the yard, closing the distance between me and the garage. I jerked Henry’s shovel free from its designated location and swung it like a baseball bat, blade parallel to the ground and traveling at a speed that made the air sing. If I’d caught him in the neck, I might have severed his head. As it was, he raised an arm and deflected the blow. The sharpened edge sliced his shirt and cut deep. Blood welled in a fast-spreading blossom of bright red.
I was charting the progression of pain that threatened to overwhelm me. What our self-defense instructor hadn’t spelled out was how focused such a fight could be and how debilitating. Pearl dragged herself to her feet again. Her face was a hot red, and sweat was pouring down her cheeks. He scuttled to a point a few feet away from her, creating a neutral zone in which he could rally his forces. He stood up again, calling on reserves of strength that surprised me. His right arm was of little use to him now. He was sweating heavily and his renewed blows lacked conviction. When he paused to assess the situation, Pearl gathered herself and drove at him, her fist back. When she connected, there was a sound like a waterlogged bag of cement dropped from a height. He went down like a board, as stiff as a 2-by-10. She landed in the middle of his b
ack. I was on my feet by then and I put my hands on my knees, winded and panting from the effort.
My lungs burned. My energy was depleted. I noticed bodily injuries, but couldn’t remember how or when they occurred. I glanced at Pearl’s face, which was a mask of bruises. One eye was black, one tooth was missing, and a cut at the corner of her mouth oozed blood. She’d positioned herself in the middle of Ned’s back, and gravity was sufficient to hinder the rise and fall of his chest.
She said, “Shit. I think I broke my hip again, but right now I’m numb and it doesn’t feel like nothing.”
She bounced a couple of times and I heard an oof of air escape Ned’s lungs. She bounced again, though she winced as she did so. “What’s this here? What I’m doing. You’re a smart girl. I bet you know.”
“As a matter of fact I do. It’s called ‘compressive asphyxia,’ which is mechanically limiting expansion of the lungs by compressing the torso, hence interfering with breathing.”
“Hence. I like that. I’m setting here bouncing on Ned, hence making it impossible for him to draw breath. That’s what he did to them little girls, isn’t it?”
“That was his method of choice,” I said. “He also pinched their noses and mouths shut, which probably speeded the process, a flourish referred to as ‘burking.’”
“How long does it take?”
“Pearl, sweetie, before we go on, let’s just get one thing straight. You do know you’re killing him.”
“I get that,” she said.
“Well, I’m not sure it’s smart. Suppose one of the neighbors heard the ruckus and dialed 9-1-1? Barring that, Henry will be home shortly and he’ll call them himself. If the police find you like this, your actions won’t look good.”
“You let me worry about that.”
“You don’t think your actions are extreme?”
“Are you seriously going to set there and argue mercy for this guy?”
“No.”
“Then shut your pie hole and let me get on with it.”
She looked down at Ned, her expression almost affectionate. “You know what I love best about my queen-size self, Ned? Turns out I can squash you like a bug.”
She rapped her knuckles on the top of his head. “You still with us? You don’t have to say nothing, but if you could move one finger, then I’ll know you’re still on board.”
She studied his right hand first and then checked his left. “There you go. Good boy. He moved his pinkie,” she remarked in an aside to me. Then to him, she said, “I want to make sure you’re awake for this because I have one final word of advice. You don’t never want to mess with women, son. They will take you down.”
EPILOGUE
So here we are in March of 1990, five months after the events that make up the bulk of this report. Jonah is currently in the process of divorcing Camilla, who clings to him like a barnacle. Anna’s baby is due in two weeks and she still hasn’t quite decided what to do. She’s trying to talk me into taking the little tyke, but I reminded her I had my hands full with Killer and Ed, the cat. Besides which, I’m not exactly a maternal type, though I suppose I could fake it in a pinch.
Phyllis Joplin, Ned’s ex-wife, has recovered from his vicious attack on her. She’s since moved to a community with tight security and she’s begun to sleep through the night without jumping at every sound. The two of us don’t have much in common except for the psychopath we shared for a time. I doubt we’ll ever be close friends, but we have drinks together now and then, during which we make a point of not discussing him.
The medical examiner attributed Ned Lowe’s death to compressive asphyxia—the same method he employed in killing an unknown number of young girls. Pearl should have been held accountable, but when she was questioned by the homicide detective, she looked him straight in the eye and said, “Well, hon, he knocked me out cold and I fell on top of him completely unconscious, inadvertently squeezing the life out of him. You can’t even imagine how terrible I feel.” That was the position she took and she refused to budge. She wept so noisily at that point, the detective had to hand her a tissue and leave the room. Under the circumstances, he decided to accept her explanation as adequate. I’ve searched the California penal code and nowhere is there mention of penalties for sitting on a man to death.
As of this moment, in the interests of rehabilitating her reputation, she’s employed at Rosie’s restaurant part-time and she’s officially apprenticed herself to Henry, working toward certification as a baker, which will take her another two and three-quarter years. Assuming she has the patience.
For my part, having watched Pearl crush the life out of Ned, you might wonder if I feel badly about the manner in which he died, suffering as he did. Nah. Not even a little bit.
In most states, crimes of extortion (including blackmail, bribery, and ransom) are generally considered felonies, punishable by fines, imprisonment, or both. Iris was so rattled by her conversation with Detective Burgess that she called the number on his business card and said she had to talk to him. She knew Joey would disagree with her, so she proceeded without consulting him. Once at the station, she confessed the whole sorry mess. She hated implicating Joey, but she felt this was their only hope of getting out from under the burden of what they’d done. The fact that their scheme was never carried to completion worked in their favor, and while the two were charged, they were given probation and served no jail time. The district attorney figured Iris had suffered enough with the disclosure of the sexual assault video after the copy they’d sent to the McCabes ended up circulating around town. Lauren would never admit she was responsible, but she needed some small measure of satisfaction in the wake of Fritz’s death. Iris and Joey got married and moved to Arizona, where he’s opened a satellite office of Merriweather Homes, his father’s construction company.
It was Iris who told me about Fritz’s claim that he knew the perfect hiding place for a body, a boast he made in the course of Bayard’s pool party. At the time, he made no specific reference to the septic tank, but he’d attended camp at Yellowweed several summers in his youth. He told her that after the campgrounds were closed, he and his pals would go up there, remove the concrete cover, and have pissing contests, cackling as the streams of pee arced into the hole. He reported this to his mother as well, thinking she’d be amused. She was not, but she did confirm my theory about the matter when I asked.
In reconstructing events, my guess is that when Fritz and Bayard reached Yellowweed, his impulse would have been to open the septic tank and show Bayard the space to demonstrate how coffinlike it was. I can’t even imagine what he thought when he looked down and saw Austin’s desiccated body in the pit. He probably didn’t have time to assess the implications before Bayard fired off the shots that killed him, after which his body was shoveled in on top of Austin’s. The two might never have been found if not for the turkey buzzards and my keen sense of smell.
Bayard was arrested at the airport. His boyfriend, Ellis, was in no way implicated in his crimes, and from what I hear, he returned to the house, packed up the rest of his belongings, and left the state. On the advice of his attorney, Bayard refused to be interviewed by the police and never admitted any responsibility in the deaths of Austin Brown and Fritz McCabe. For those of us who knew the story, it was no big leap to conclude that he’d killed Austin to prevent his telling Bayard’s father about his sexual preferences. In this day and age, there’s no shame in admitting to being gay, but Tigg Montgomery had an aversion to homosexuals and would have cut Bayard off without a cent if he’d known.
Though this is unconfirmed, my hunch is that Bayard killed Fritz to avoid exposure in Austin’s murder, finishing a story that began ten years earlier. After a painstaking investigation by the DA’s office, Bayard was charged with both homicides. At the end of a lengthy and contentious trial, the jury brought back a verdict of not guilty, saying the prosecution hadn’t persuaded them of Ba
yard’s guilt beyond a reasonable doubt. I’m not saying justice is for sale, but if you have enough money, you can sometimes enjoy the benefits of a short-term lease.
Respectfully submitted,
Kinsey Millhone
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Sue Grafton first introduced Kinsey Millhone in the Alphabet series in 1982 and since then, both writer and heroine have become icons and international bestsellers. Ms. Grafton is a writer who consistently breaks the bonds of genre while never writing the same book twice. Named a Grand Master by the Mystery Writers of America, she has also received many other honors and awards, including the Lifetime Achievement Award from the Private Eye Writers of America, the Ross Macdonald Literary Award, the Cartier Diamond Dagger Award from Britain’s Crime Writers’ Association, the Lifetime Achievement Award from Malice Domestic, the Anthony Award given by Bouchercon, and three Shamus Awards.
suegrafton.com
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