J Is for Judgment

by Sue Grafton

  Don't get me wrong. She could be very generous, but there were usually string the money for college, go where she said. Sam the down payment and you found a place within six blocks of her. It really broke her heart when Aunt Rita left."

  "I don't understand what happened."

  "Oh, boy. Right. Okay of all, Rita made her debut in 1935. July fifth – "

  "My mother was a debutante? She actually made a debut and you can recite the date? You must have quite a memory."

  "No, no, no. It's all knows that in our family. It's like Goldilocks and the Three Bears or Rumpelstiltskin. What happened was Grand had a set of twelve sterling silver napkin rings engraved with Rita Cynthia's name and the date of her debut. She was going to make it a tradition for each of the girls in turn, but it didn't really work out. She threw this big coming-out party and set it up so Rita could meet all these incredibly eligible bachelors. Real lah-de-dah social register types."

  "In Lompoc?"

  "Oh, golly, no. They came from everywhere. Marin County, Walnut Creek, San Francisco, Atherton, Los Angeles, you name it. Grand had her heart set on Rita's 'marrying well,' as they used to say in those days. Instead, Rita fell in love with your father, who was serving at the party."

  "As a waiter?"

  "Exactly. Some friend of his worked for the caterer and asked him to help out. Aunt Rita started seeing Randy Millhone on the sly. This was right in the middle of the Depression, and his real job was working for the post office here in Santa Teresa. It's not like he was really a waiter," she said.

  "Oh, thank God," I said dryly, but the irony was lost on her. "What'd he do for the post office?"

  "He was a mail carrier. 'An uncivil servant,' Grand used to say with her nose all turned up. As far as she was concerned, he was poor white trash... too old for Rita and way too low class. She found out they were dating and threw a pluperfect fit, but there was nothing she could do. Rita was eighteen and headstrong as they come. The more Grand protested, the more she dug her heels in. By November, she was gone. Just ran off and married him without telling a soul."

  "She told Virginia."

  "She did?"

  "Sure. Aunt Gin was one of the witnesses at the wedding."

  "Oh. I didn't know that, but it does make sense. The point is, when Grand found out, she was so furious she cut her off without a dime. She wouldn't even let her keep the silver napkin rings."

  "A fate worse than death."

  "Well, it must have seemed like it at the time," she said. "I don't know what Grandmother did with the rest of 'em, but there was one we all used to vie for at family gatherings. Grand had this whole collection of assorted napkin rings... different styles and monograms, all British silver," she said. "Before dinner, if she thought you'd been rude or disobedient or something? She'd make you use the Rita Cynthia napkin ring. She meant it to be mean You know, like it was her way of shaming anyone who got out of line – ridiculing all the girls – but we ended up fighting to have possession. We considered it a coup to get to use that one. Rita Cynthia was the only member of the family who ever really got away, and we thought she was great. So secretly we'd all get together and have this pitched battle for which of us would get to be Rita Cynthia. Whoever won would misbehave something fierce, and sure enough, Grand would descend like a witch and make' em use the Rita Cynthia napkin ring. Big disgrace, but we thought it was such a hoot."

  "Didn't anyone object to your making such a big deal of it?"

  "Oh, Grand didn't know. She could hardly see by then, and besides, we were very careful. That was the best part of the game. I'm not even sure our mothers noticed. Or if they did, they probably applauded secretly. Rita was their favorite, and Virginia ran a close second. That was the hardest part about Aunt Rita's defection. We not only lost her, but for the most part, we lost Gin as well."

  "Really," I said, but I could barely hear myself. I felt as though I'd been struck. Liza couldn't have guessed how the story was affecting me. My mother was never even a real person to them. She was a ritual, a symbol, something to be fought over like a bunch of rowdy dogs with a bone. I paused to clear my throat. "Why were they driving up to Lompoc?"

  This time Liza was puzzled. I could see it in her eyes.

  "My parents were killed on the way to Lompoc," said carefully, as if translating for a foreigner. "If they'd broken with the family, why were they going up there?"

  "I hadn't thought about that. I guess it was part of the reunion Aunt Gin was setting up."

  I must have stared at her in some significant way because her cheeks tinted suddenly. "Maybe we should wait until Tasha comes back. She flies down for a visit every couple of weeks. She can fill you in on this stuff much better than I can."

  "But what about the years since then? Why didn't anybody get in touch?"

  "Oh, I'm sure they tried. I mean, I know they wanted to. They talked back and forth with Aunt Gin on the phone, so everybody knew you were here. Anyway, what's done is done. I know Mom and Maura and Uncle Walter will be thrilled to hear we've met, and you really must come up." I could feel something strange happening to my face. "None of you felt any reason to come down when Aunt Gin died?"

  "Oh, God, you're upset. I feel awful. What's wrong?"

  "Nothing. I just remembered I have an appointment," I said. It was only nine twenty-five. Liza's entire revelation had taken less than half an hour. "I guess we'll have to finish this on another occasion."

  She was suddenly busy with her handbag and her map. "I better hit the road, then. I probably should have called first, but I thought it would be such a fun surprise. I hope I haven't blown it. Are you okay?"

  "I'm fine."

  "Please call. Or I'll call you and we'll get together again. Tasha's older. She knows the story better and maybe she can fill you in. Everyone was crazy about Rita Cynthia. Honestly."

  Next thing I was aware of, cousin Liza was gone. I closed the door behind her and went over to the window. A white wall wound along the properties in the back, bougainvillea spilling across the top in a tumbling mass of magenta. In theory, I'd suddenly gained an en- tire family, cause for rejoicing if you happen to believe the ladies' magazines. In reality, I felt as if someone had just stolen everything I held dear, a common theme in all the books you read on burglary and theft.

  Chapter 17

  * * *

  The coffee shop Harris Brown had selected for our brainstorming session was a maze of interconnecting rooms with a huge oak tree growing up the middle. I parked in the side lot and walked into the entrance T. There were benches on either side of a corridor intended as an area where people could sit while they waited for their names to be called. Business had fallen off, and now there was just the length of empty space with potted rubber plants and what looked like a lectern at the end. A row of windows on either side of the entranceway gave an unobstructed view of patrons dining at tables in flanking wings of the restaurant.

  I gave my name to the hostess. She was a black woman in her sixties, with a manner about her that suggested she was wasting her education. Jobs are hard to find in this town, and she was probably grateful to have the work. As I approached her station I could see her reach for a menu.

  "My name's Kinsey Millhone. I'm having lunch with a man named Hams Brown, but I'm hoping to find the restroom first. Could you show him to a table if he arrives before I get back? I'd appreciate it."

  "Certainly," she said. "You know where the ladies' room is?"

  "I can find it," I said, incorrectly as it turned out.

  I should have had a little map or dropped bread crumbs behind me. First, I found myself heading into a closet full of floor mops and then through a door leading to the alleyway out back. I retraced my steps and turned myself around. I could see a sign then in the shape of an arrow pointing to the right: "Telephones. Restrooms." Ah, a clue. I found the proper door, with a ladies' high heel in silhouette. I did my business with dispatch, moving back to the entrance. I arrived as the hostess was returning to her posit
ion. She pointed to the dining area to her left, a wing of the restaurant parallel to the entrance. "Second table on the right."

  Almost without thinking, I glanced through the two adjacent windows, spotting Hams Brown as he stood to remove his sport coat. Instinctively I backed up a step, obscuring myself behind a potted plant. I looked at the hostess and jerked a thumb in his direction. "That's Harris Brown?"

  "He asked for Kinsey Millhone," she said. I peered around the plant at him, but there was no mistake. Especially since he was the only man in there.

  Harris Brown, retired police lieutenant, was the "drunk" I'd seen on the Viento Negro hotel balcony less than a week ago. Now what was that about? I knew he'd worked the fraud investigation, but that was years ago. How had he picked up Wendell Jaffe's trail, and what was he doing down in Mexico? More to the point, wasn't he going to turn around and ask me the very same thing? He was bound to remember my handy-dandy hooker act, and while that in itself wasn't anything to be ashamed of, I wasn't quite sure how to explain what I'd been up to. Until I knew what was going on, it seemed less than cool to have a conversation with the man.

  The hostess was watching me with bemusement. "You think he's too old for you? I could have told you that."

  "You know him?"

  "He used to come in here all the time when he was working for the police department. Brought his wife and kids in every Sunday after church."

  "How long have you worked here?"

  "Honey, I own the place. My husband, Samuel, and I bought it in 1965."

  I could feel myself flush, though she couldn't have guessed the reason.

  Dimples formed in her cheeks, and she flashed a smile at me. "Oh, I get it now. You thought I took this job because I'd fallen on hard times."

  I laughed, embarrassed that I was so transparent. "I figured you were probably happy to have the work."

  "Make no mistake about it, I am. I'd be happier still if the business picked up. At least I got old friends like Mr. Brown in there, though I sure don't see him as often as I used to. What's the deal? Somebody set you up on a blind date with him?"

  I felt a momentary confusion. "You just said he was married."

  "Well, he was till she died. I thought maybe somebody fixed you up and you didn't like his looks."

  "It's a little trickier than that. Uhm, I wonder if you could do me a favor," I said. "I'm going out to the lot to that public telephone booth. When I call and ask for him, could you let him use this phone?"

  She gave me a look. "You're not going to hurt his feelings, are you?"

  "I promise I won't. This has nothing to do with dating, I assure you."

  "As long as it's not a put-down. I won't participate in that."

  "Scout's honor," I said, holding fingers to my temple. She handed me a take-out menu that was printed on heavy paper. "Telephone number's at the top," she said. "Thanks."

  I kept my face turned away studiously as I left the restaurant, crossing to the pay phone in the comer of the lot. I propped the menu against the phone box and then fished out a quarter, which I put in the slot. After two rings the hostess answered.

  "Hello," said I. "I'm looking for Harris Brown –"

  "I'll go get him," she said, putting me on hold. In her absence, I was treated to the weather report on a local radio station. After a pause Brown picked up the line, sounding just as cranky and impatient as he had when I talked to him the first time. His manner would have been perfect for a bill collector. "Yes?"

  "Hi, Lieutenant Brown. This is Kinsey Millhone."

  "It's Harris," he said shortly.

  "Oh, sorry, Harris. I thought maybe I could catch you before you left this morning, but I must have missed you. Something unavoidable has come up, and I'm going to have to give you a rain check on lunch. Can I call you later in the week and maybe set something up then?"

  His disposition improved, which was really worrisome when you consider I was bowing out of lunch with no advance notice whatsoever.

  "No problem," he said. "Just give me a call when it suits." Casual, good-natured.

  A little warning bell went off, but I soldiered on. "Thanks. I really appreciate this, and I'm sorry for the inconvenience."

  "Don't worry about it. Oh. Tell you what, though. I was hoping to have a quick chat with Wendell's ex-partner. I figure he might know something. Have you had any luck reaching him?"

  I nearly blurted out the information, but I caught myself. Ah. Got it. This guy was hoping to jump the gun, bypassing me, so he could get to Wendell himself. I raised my voice. "Hello?" I let two seconds pass. "Helllooo."

  "Hello?" he repeated back to me.

  "Are you there? Hello?"

  "I'm here," he yelled.

  "Could you speak up? I can't hear you. We have a terrible connection. What's wrong with this phone? Can you hear me?"

  "I can hear you fine. Can you hear me?"

  "What?"

  "I said do you happen to know how I can contact Carl Eckert? I can't seem to find out where he's living these days."

  I banged the mouthpiece on the little shelf the telephone company provides in any public booth. "Hellllooo! I can't hear you!" I sang. "Hello?" Then, as if annoyed, I said, "Well, goddamn it!" And slammed the receiver down.

  I picked it up again once the connection was broken. I stayed where I was, my face averted, pretending to converse with animation while I kept an eye on the restaurant entrance. Moments later I saw him come out, cross the parking lot, and get into a battered Ford. I might have followed him, but to what end? At this point, I couldn't believe he was going any place interesting. The man wouldn't be that tough to connect with again, especially since I had a piece of information he was hoping to get.

  As I opened my car door, I could see the hostess watching me through the plate glass window. I debated about going back with some cock-and-bull story, anything to forestall her tipping him off to my deception. On the other hand, I didn't want to make more of the incident than I had to. He probably only went in there every two or three months. Why call attention to a matter I wanted her to forget?

  I went back to my office, circling the block endlessly until I found a parking place. I'm afraid to calculate how much time I waste this way on any given day. Sometimes I pass Alison or Jim Thicket, the paralegal, driving in the other direction, as intent as I am on ferreting out a space. Maybe Lonnie would win a big case and sport us all to a little lot of our own. I finally broke down and pulled into the public parking garage beside the library. I'd have to keep an eye on the clock and fetch my car again before the first free ninety minutes ran out. God forbid I should pay a buck an hour for parking if I didn't have to.

  As long as I was close, I ducked into the minimart and bought myself a bag lunch. The weather report I'd picked up while on hold was full of cagey meteorological phrases, citing lows and highs and percentages. From this I gathered the weatherperson didn't know any better than I did what would happen next. I walked over to the courthouse and found an unoccupied spot under shelter. The sky was overcast, the air faintly chilly, trees still dripping with rain from the night before. For the moment it was clear, and the grass in the sunken garden smelled like a soggy bouquet garni.

  A white-haired female docent led a group of tourists through the big stone-and-stucco archway toward the street beyond. I used to lunch here with Jonah in the days of our "romance.'? Now it was difficult to remember just what the attraction was about. I ate my lunch, then gathered up my crumpled papers and my empty Pepsi can, depositing the paper bag in the nearest waste container. As if on cue, I saw Jonah moving toward me across the saturated courthouse lawn. He looked surprisingly good for a man who probably wasn't very happy: tall and trim, with a wash of silver showing in his dark hair just above his ears. He hadn't seen me yet. He walked with his head down, a brown bag visible in one hand. Though I was tempted to flee, I found myself nearly rooted in place, wondering how long it would take for him to realize I was standing there. He lifted his face and looked at me wi
thout a hint of recognition. I waited, motionless, feeling oddly ill at ease. When he was ten feet away, he stopped in his tracks. I could see the tiny flecks of wet glass plastered to his shoes. "I don't believe it. How are you?"

  I said, "Fine. How are you?"

  His smile seemed pained and slightly sheepish. "I guess we just did this couple days ago on the phone."

  "We're allowed," I said mildly. "What are you doing here?"

  He looked down at the brown paper bag in his hand as if perplexed. "I'm supposed to meet Camilla for lunch."

  "Oh, that's right. She works here. Well, that's convenient for you both with the station half a block away. You can give each other rides to work." Jonah knew me well enough to ignore my sarcasm, which in this case was automatic and didn't mean that much.

  "You never met Camilla, did you? Why don't you hang around for a bit? She'll be here any minute, as soon as court's recessed."

  "Thanks, but I have something to take care of," I said. "Anyway, I can't believe she'd be that interested. Maybe some other time." Jesus, Jonah, get a clue, I thought. No wonder Camilla was always mad at him. What wife wants to meet the woman her husband was boffing during past marital separations?

  "Anyway, it's nice to see you. You're looking good," he said as he moved away.

  "Jonah? I. do have a question. Maybe this is something you can help me with."

  He paused. "Fire away."

  "You know much about Lieutenant Brown?"

  He seemed puzzled by the subject. "Sure, I know him some. What in particular?"