Three Complete Novels: A Is for Alibi / B Is for Burglar / C Is for Corpse

by Sue Grafton

  “Most of my patients have crooked teeth. I’d like to help, but what you’re asking is impossible.”

  “That’s too bad. I’d hoped for more, but I can see your point. What about the other dentists in the area back then? Can you tell me anything about Dr. Towne or Dr. Nettleton? I noticed both were in practice in the late sixties.”

  “Dr. Towne died two years ago, but his widow might be willing to help if his records are still in her possession. Dr. Nettleton’s over ninety. He’s reasonably sharp, but I doubt you’ll get much.” He turned to Mrs. Gary. “You know the family, don’t you? Where’s he living these days?”

  “With his daughter. She goes to my church.”

  “Why don’t you give Miss Millhone the information. Maybe he’ll remember. It’s worth a try, at any rate.”

  “Thanks. I’d appreciate that.”

  Mrs. Gary checked her Rolodex and made a note of the daughter’s name and address. From her expression, I was guessing I’d be lucky if Dr. Nettleton could remember how to tie his own shoes.

  I left the office, pausing on the sidewalk out front. I consulted my map and my list, moving on to the next name. I repeated the same conversation, with variations, in my chats with the three remaining dentists. The response was polite but discouraging. They seemed willing to help, but all of them were busy and no one was interested in searching dead files on the off chance of finding her. Not only was I unable to supply them with a name, but I couldn’t prove she’d ever lived in Quorum or that her dental work was done there. My only hope had been that the meager facts in my possession might have triggered a recollection. I did have Dr. Nettleton’s address, but I was too tired by then to pursue the point.

  It was close to 6:00 by the time I walked the ten blocks back to the motel where Dolan waited. I hated admitting I’d bombed out, but that’s what I did as soon as he answered his door.

  He seemed unusually magnanimous. “Don’t worry about it. You covered a lot of ground.”

  “For what it’s worth.”

  “Let it go for now. Start again tomorrow. You might have better luck. Right now, it’s time for drinks and dinner. Are you up for that?”

  “Sure, but you’ll have to give me half an hour. I want to check in with Henry and then I’m grabbing a shower. If you’re going to the Quorum Inn, I’ll meet you there.”

  “Good.”

  My call caught Henry just as he was going out the door. I gave him a hasty summary of the trip and the lack of progress, and he was properly consoling. “By the way, you received a package from Lompoc. It was on your doorstep this morning. I brought it in.”

  “Who’s it from?”

  “Doesn’t say.”

  “What’s it look like?”

  “About the size of a shirt box, two pounds. Probably not a bomb. I’m holding it to my ear and it doesn’t tick.”

  “Now you’ve got me curious. Open it and peek.”

  “I refuse to open your mail. I’ll keep it ’til you get back.”

  “If you change your mind, I’m giving you permission to see what’s there,” I said. “How’s Mattie?”

  “She’s fine. She ended up staying an extra day so she could hike Diamondback Trail. There’s a hot springs up there she used to visit with her husband. She’s thinking about a painting of the scene if she can find it again.”

  “Sounds like fun. Did you go?”

  “No, no. My knees wouldn’t take it so I sent her on alone. Besides, I’d agreed to do a tea for Moza and I ended up making finger sandwiches and cookies all day.” Henry had been a commercial baker during his working life, and he was still smitten with the process. He catered the occasional luncheon or tea and worked a deal with Rosie, trading homemade breads for occasional free meals.

  “I liked her. She seems nice.”

  “I hate to cut this short, but I’m late as it is. When will you be home?”

  “I’m not sure yet. I’ll let you know.”

  I hung up the phone, stripped off my clothes, and hopped in the shower, thinking Late for what? He’d been in a hurry to get off the phone, but I couldn’t tell if it was me he was avoiding or the subject of Mattie. I’d hoped to find out if he was interested in her and she in him. She and Henry had been cute together and I was feeling proprietary. I’d thought it was a good sign she stayed the extra day, but then the mention of her husband didn’t sit well with me. I’d assumed she was a widow, but she might be divorced. In either case, she’d referred to her husband twice, so maybe she was still emotionally connected to him. Not a good sign.

  15

  At breakfast, drinking my second cup of coffee, I said, “I’ll track down Dr. Nettleton this morning to get some closure on that.” I watched Dolan eat his eggs Benedict. The yellow of the sauce was suspiciously bright, suggesting that the “chef” had used a packet of powdered Hollandaise.

  He mopped up a puddle of poached egg with a fragment of buttered sweetroll. “I thought you covered all the dentists when you were out yesterday.”

  I shook my head. “Didn’t get to him. This guy’s retired. I got his address from Dr. Spears but haven’t been there yet. Are you interested in coming?”

  “Sounds like something you can handle on your own. Why don’t you drop me at the Sheriff’s Department. I asked them to go through their dead files looking for any missing-persons reports that might sound like our girl. After that, I’ll walk back to the motel, see if we’ve heard from Mandel. I talked to him late last night and he said the guy who picked up the Mustang did a quick turnaround and headed right back. He and his wife were leaving on vacation this morning so that worked in our favor. Mandel said the evidence techs’ll get on it first thing this morning. He’ll call as soon as he has anything to report. I don’t hear soon, I can call him again.”

  “Sounds good. I’ll report in after I’ve talked to Dr. Nettleton.”

  Once back from the Sheriff’s Department, Dolan put the car in neutral and pulled on the emergency brake, then slid from the driver’s seat while I emerged from my side, went around the front, and took his place at the wheel. He’d fired up a cigarette before I could get my bearings. He fished his key out of his pocket and let himself into his room. I spent a few seconds adjusting the seat and the rearview mirror, trying to get a feel for the old Chevy, which had the bulk of a tank after my snub-nosed VW. As soon as I was set, the engine conked out on me. I turned the key in the ignition and pressed the gas pedal lightly, coaxing and cajoling until the engine caught hold again. I felt like a little kid. I peered down the length of the hood, wishing I were perched on a New York City telephone book, though my feet barely touched the pedals as it was.

  I pulled my bag onto my lap and checked my notebook for the address I’d been given, then consulted the minimap. The town of Quorum was roughly twenty-five streets wide, transected by five big boulevards that ran east and west. A series of smaller east-west streets further defined a grid that made navigation easy. Dr. Nettleton’s daughter lived on Banner Way in a small subdivision on the northern outskirts. I released the hand brake and backed out of the space with caution, then eased the car through the lot and onto the main drag. Drive time was approximately four minutes.

  The house number I was looking for turned out to be another one-story brick ranch set among full-grown trees. The two-car garage had been incorporated into the main structure, and I was guessing it now served as guest quarters. Large tubs of pink begonias were lined up across the porch with its wide overhang.

  I rang the bell and waited. The door was opened by a woman in her late forties. I’d caught her in the middle of her morning exercise, pink-faced and out of breath. In the background, I could see Jane Fonda doing leg lifts.

  “I’m looking for Dr. Nettleton. Are you his daughter?”

  “That’s right. I take it you’re the private detective. Alana Gary told me you might be stopping by. Come on in.”

  “I’m Kinsey Millhone.”

  “Vonda Landsberg,” she replied. “Dad’s in hi
s room down the hall, the last door on the right. If you don’t mind, I’ll let you find your own way.”

  “Sure. Is he expecting me?”

  “Hard to say. His mind is sharp, but his memory comes and goes. He can still beat the pants off my husband at chess, but he’s easily exhausted, so please don’t stay long.”

  “Fifteen minutes tops.”

  Vonda returned to her exercise mat while I went down the hallway to the back bedroom. The door was ajar. I pushed it open. Dr. Nettleton was sitting in a bentwood rocker, staring out the window, which was open about six inches. On the sill outside, someone had scattered sunflower seeds. A squirrel was perched up on its haunches peering in at him.

  The old man looked ninety; frail and bent, hunched in his chair with a shawl across his knees. His face was long and his earlobes drooped like melting candle wax. Most of his hair was gone, but what he had was pure white and clipped close to his head. Flesh-colored hearing aids filled his ear cavities like flattened wads of bubble gum.

  “Dr. Nettleton?”

  Rheumy-eyed, he turned in my direction and cupped a hand behind one ear. “What say?” His voice was powdery and dry, as though dust had accumulated on his windpipe.

  “May I join you?”

  “Are you the visiting nurse?”

  “I’m a private detective.” I spotted a small wooden desk chair that I pulled close to his. I sat down. He seemed perfectly accepting of my appearance on the scene. Perhaps at his stage in life, he’d given up the notion of personal boundaries and privacy. In a slightly elevated voice, I explained who I was and what I needed from him. As I talked, Dr. Nettleton kept his head tilted, his trembling right hand cupped behind his ear. “Come again?”

  I pulled my chair closer and went through it again, speaking louder this round. I could see the intelligence in his eyes, though I wasn’t at all certain he was following me. When I finished, the ensuing silence went on so long I wondered if he’d caught any of what I’d said. The squirrel picked up a sunflower seed and nibbled rapidly, cracking the shell, tail twitching. Dr. Nettleton smiled with such sweetness I nearly wept.

  “Dr. Nettleton?”

  He turned his head. “Yes?”

  “I was wondering about the girl. Did you ever have a patient like her?”

  He pulled himself upright, staring at a spill of sunlight on the floor. “The last year I had my practice, there was one girl fits that description. I was forced to retire when I was seventy-five. Hands weren’t steady and I couldn’t take standing on my feet all day. I forget her name now, but I remember the fuss I made when I saw her teeth. Told her, ‘Cavities like that can undermine your health.’”

  I blinked at him. Maybe he’d misunderstood. “She had the buckteeth I mentioned?”

  “Oh, yes. Occlusion was pronounced and her upper left cuspid was pointed anteriorly and slightly outward. That’s this one right here,” he said, pointing to his eyetooth. “Left third molar hadn’t yet erupted and I warned her she might have a problem with it if it didn’t come through shortly. She had considerable plaque, of course, and her gums tended to bleed. Teeth spoiled her looks. Pleasant-looking girl otherwise, though if I remember rightly, she had behavioral problems.”

  “Like what?”

  “Not sure. Something off about her. She’d been taken from her natural parents and placed in foster care. Must’ve had their hands full with her. Boisterous. Inappropriate. I believe she had a tendency to take things that weren’t hers. She’d come in for an appointment and the next thing we knew, the stapler’d be missing or the paper clip dispenser. I took care of her fillings and then referred her to Dr. Spears for orthodontic evaluation. Don’t know what happened to her after that. Doubt she had the work done. Didn’t seem the type. Pity, if you ask me.”

  “Can you remember the name of the foster family?”

  His focus shifted to the wall. “Not offhand. They weren’t patients of mine. I forget now who they went to.”

  “What about the girl? Do you remember her name—first, last? Anything that might help?”

  He gave his head a shake like a horse irritated by a fly. “I had to sedate her to get the work done and that affected her badly. Sometimes happens. Made her wild. I did one quadrant at a time, but she fought me every step. Novocaine didn’t seem to take either. I must have stuck her four times for every tooth I filled.”

  I wiped my damp palm casually against my jeans, my dental phobia and my needle phobia having collided midair. “Did she attend the local high school?”

  “Must have. State law. Pretty girl I’d say until she opened her mouth. Bad teeth spoil your looks and I told her so. Uncooperative. Missed two appointments and she came late for the ones she made. My hygienist could have told you the name, but she died. Can’t believe I outlived her. Fit as a fiddle; worked for me thirty-two years and never took a sick day.”

  “What’d she die of?” I said, sidetracked.

  “Heart. Weeding a pansy bed and toppled over sideways. She was out like a light. Yard work’ll do that. Wretched way to spend time. I prefer indoors. Always have.”

  “Anything else about the girl?”

  He squinted at me, shifting in his chair. “What’s that?”

  I said, “Anything else about the girl?”

  He studied his hands, which seemed to move of their own accord, plucking at the shawl. “I remember the foster mother raised a fuss about the bill. Sent to her in error; a simple clerical mistake. You should have heard her carry on. Had my office girl in tears. I never liked the woman after that. She’d bring the girl in, but I wouldn’t go out to greet her like I did everyone else. Figured she could sit there by herself. My hygienist was the one who said the woman drank. Can’t understand how Social Services considered her fit. She wasn’t, in my opinion, but then they never asked me what I thought.” He was silent for a moment. “That’s all.”

  I touched his arm. “Thanks so much. This has been a big help. I’ll leave my phone number with your daughter. You can have her call me if you think of anything else.”

  His wandering gaze met mine. “You play chess?”

  “I don’t, but I hear you’re good at it.”

  “I should be. My pa taught me when I was seven and now I’m ninety-three years old. Son-in-law plays badly. Hasn’t got the head for it, if you know what I mean. Requires you to think. You have to plan in advance, maybe ten to fifteen moves. I’d be happy to teach you if you have a desire to learn.”

  “I’m afraid not, but thanks.”

  “All right.” He was silent briefly and then pointed a dancing index finger at a jar on the chest of drawers. “You might fetch a few more sunflower seeds for that squirrel. Good company for me. More personality than some folks I’ve known and he’s easily amused.”

  I sprinkled a handful of seeds on the ledge. Dr. Nettleton was already sinking, the energy fading from his face. As I opened the door, he said, “Don’t remember your name, but I thank you for the visit. I enjoyed the conversation and hope you did, too.”

  “Believe me, I did.” I wanted to put him in the car and take him with me. I waved from the door, but I don’t think he caught the gesture.

  I headed back to the motel. Surely we were on the right track. While Dr. Nettleton couldn’t supply the name, the details he’d given me were consistent with what we knew. A thought struck me—a quick stop I could make before I reconnected with Dolan. I slowed the car and then pulled over to the curb. I picked up my map and looked for a small black square with a tiny flag on top. I did a U-turn on Chesapeake and drove back in the direction I’d been coming from.

  Quorum High, which was part of the Unified School District, occupied a flat, two-block stretch of land on the northeast side of town. The grass looked patchy and the flagpole was bare. The classrooms were dispersed among a number of low-slung outbuildings that appeared to be prefabricated, with walls you could probably pierce with an X-Acto knife. I counted six trees on campus; not enough to pass for landscaping, but sufficient to o
ffer the occasional shallow puddle of shade. The administration building looked like the first story of something far more grand. Maybe the school was in the process of raising funds, driving everyone insane with endless telethons on the local TV station. People will pay big bucks to get their regular programs back: sitcoms and soaps instead of all those amateur rock bands playing songs they’ve written without training of any kind.

  I parked in the lot in a space marked VISITOR. I locked the car and trotted across the flattened grass to the entrance, pushing through the double glass doors and into the main corridor. It was dead quiet, though there must have been students somewhere on the premises. The portable classrooms outside weren’t large enough to house the auditorium or the gym. I was guessing that a goodly number of classes were held in this building as well. I could smell sweat and hair spray, hormones and hot gym shoes—the scents of teen misery. Bad skin, no power, too few choices, too much sexual pressure, and not enough wisdom to see you through until you reached eighteen. How many lives were out of whack by then? Girls pregnant, guys dead in cars before the beer cans had quit rolling across the floorboards.

  Ahead of me, down the hall, I spotted a sign indicating the principal’s office. I could feel my anxiety mount as it had every day of my life during my high school years. I’d been so out of it, such a dork. I’d survived by rebelling—smoking dope and hanging out with other misfits like me. Here I was again, only all grown up (allegedly), crossing the threshold voluntarily, looking for answers to questions I’d never even dreamed of when I was young.

  The school secretary was in her early thirties with brown eyes and short silky hair the color of pecan shells. A gossamer array of freckles lay across her nose and upper cheeks. She was casually dressed: beige slacks, short-sleeve brown sweater, and flat-heeled shoes. Her laminated name tag read ADRIANNE RICHARDS, and under that, in smaller letters, ADMINISTRATIVE ASSISTANT. She got up when she saw me and came to the counter. “May I help you?”