M Is for Malice

by Sue Grafton

  I tried one and then the other, tossing relentlessly as the hours ticked away. Half the time, I could feel the sofa's metal mechanism cut across my back, but if I switched to the other position with my head on his chest, I suffered from heatstroke, a dead arm, and a canned left ear. Sometimes I could feel the exhalation of his breath on my cheek and the effect drove me mad. I found myself counting as he breathed, in and out, in and out. In moments, the rhythm changed and there'd be a long pause in which I wondered if he were in the process of dropping dead. Dietz slept like a soldier under combat conditions. His snores were gentle snuffles, just loud enough to keep me on sentry duty, but not quite loud enough to draw enemy fire.

  I slept finally – amazingly – and woke at seven energized. Dietz had made coffee and he was reading the paper, dressed, his hair damp, a pair of half-glasses sitting low on his nose. I watched him for a few minutes until his gaze came up to mine.

  "I didn't know you wore glasses."

  "I was too vain before this. The minute you were out the door, I put 'em on," he said with that crooked smile of his.

  I turned on my side, folding my right arm under my cheek. "What time will the boys be expecting you?"

  "Early afternoon. I have motel reservations at a place close by. If they want to spend the night, I'll have room."

  "I'll bet you look forward to seeing them."

  "Yes, but I'm nervous about it, too. I haven't seen them for two years – since I left for Germany. I'm never quite sure what to talk about with them."

  "What do you talk to anyone about? Mostly bullshit."

  "Even bullshit requires a context. It gets awkward for them, too. Sometimes we end up going to the movies just to have something to talk about later. I'm not exactly a fount of paternal advice. Once I quiz them about girlfriends and classes, I'm about out of conversation."

  "You'll do fine."

  "I hope. What about you? What's your day looking like?"

  "I don't know. This is Saturday, so I don't have to work. I'll probably nap. Starting soon."

  "You want company?"

  "Dietz," I said, outraged, "if you get in this bed again, I won't be able to walk."

  "You're an amateur."

  "I am. I'm not used to this stuff."

  "How about some coffee?"

  "Let me brush my teeth first."

  After breakfast, we went down to the beach. The day was cloudy, the marine layer holding in the heat like foam insulation. The temperature was close to seventy and the air soft and fruity, with a tropical scent. Santa Teresa winters are filled with such contradictions. One day will feel icy while the next day feels mild. The ocean had a slick sheen, reflecting the uniform white of the sky. We took off our shoes and carried them, scuffling along the water's edge with the frothy play of waves rolling across our bare feet. Seagulls hovered overhead, screeching, while two dogs leaped in unison, snapping at the birds as if they were low-flying Frisbees.

  Dietz took off at nine, holding me crushed against him before he got in the car. I leaned on the hood and we kissed for a while. Finally, he pulled back and studied my face. "If I come back in a couple of weeks, will you be here?"

  "Where else would I go?"

  "I'll see you then," he said.

  "Don't worry about me. Any old day will do," I remarked, waving, as his car receded down the block. Dietz hated to be specific about dates because it made him feel trapped. Of course, the effect of his vagueness was to keep me feeling hooked. I shook my head to myself as I returned to my place. How did I end up with a man like him?

  I spent the rest of the morning getting my apartment tidied up. It didn't really take much work, but it was satisfying nonetheless. This time I wasn't really feeling depressed. I knew Dietz would be coming back, so my virtuous activity had more to do with reestablishing my boundaries than warding off the blues. Since he'd done the grocery shopping, my cupboard was full and my refrigerator stocked, a state that always contributes to my sense of security. As long as you have sufficient toilet paper, how far wrong can life go?

  At lunchtime I spotted Henry sitting in the backyard at a little round picnic table he'd picked up in a garage sale the previous fall. He'd spread out some graph paper, his reference books, and a crossword key. As a pastime, Henry constructs and sells crossword puzzles for those wee yellow books sold near grocery store checkout lanes. I made a peanut-butter-and-pickle sandwich and joined him in the sunshine.

  "You want one?" I asked, holding out my plate.

  "Thanks, but I just had lunch," he said. "Where'd Dietz disappear to? I thought he intended to stick around."

  I filled him in on the "romance" and we chatted idly while I ate my sandwich. The texture of the peanut butter was a sublime contrast to the crunch of the bread-and-butter pickles. The diagonal cut exposed more filling than a vertical cut would and I savored the ratio of saltiness to tart. This ranked right up there with sex without taking off any clothes. I made a sort of low moan, nearly swooning with pleasure, and Henry glanced up at me. "Give me a bite of that."

  I let him have the plump center portion, keeping my fingers positioned so he couldn't take too much.

  He chewed for a moment, clearly relishing the intense blend of flavors. "Very weird, but not bad." This is what he always says when he samples this culinary marvel.

  I tried another bite myself, pointing to the puzzle he was working on. "How's this one coming? You've never really told me how you go about your business." Henry was a crossword fanatic, subscribing to the New York Times so he could do the daily puzzle, which he completed in ink. Sometimes, to amuse himself, he left every other letter blank, or filled in the outer borders first in a spiral moving toward the center. The puzzles he wrote himself seemed very difficult to me, though he claimed they were easy. I'd watched him construct dozens without understanding the strategy.

  "I've actually upgraded my technique. My approach used to be haphazard. I'm better organized these days. This is a small one, only fifteen by fifteen. This is the pattern I'm using," he said, indicating a template with the grid work of black squares already laid in.

  "You don't devise the format as well?"

  "Usually not. I've used this one several times and it suits my purposes. They're all symmetrical and if you'll notice, no area is closed off. The rules say the black squares can't exceed more than one sixth of the total number. There are a few other rules tossed in. For example, you can't use any words of fewer than three letters, stuff like that. The good ones have a theme around which the answers are organized."

  I picked up one of his reference books and turned it over in my hand. "What's this?"

  "That book lists words in alphabetical order from three through fifteen letters. And that one's a crossword finisher that lists words in a complicated alphabetical order up through seven letters."

  I smiled at the enthusiasm that had crept into his voice. "How'd you get into this?"

  He waved dismissively. "Do enough of 'em and you can't help it. You have to have a go at it yourself, just to see what it's like. They even have crossword championships, which started in 1980. You ought to see those puppies go. The puzzles are projected on an overhead screen. A real whiz can answer sixty-four questions in under eight minutes."

  "Are you ever tempted to enter?"

  He shook his head, penciling in a clue. "I'm too slow and much too easily rattled. Besides, it's a serious business, like bridge tournaments." His head came up. "That's your phone," he said.

  "It is? Your hearing must be better than mine." I hopped up from the table and made a beeline for my place, picking up the receiver just as my answering machine did. I reached for the Off button as my voice completed its request for messages. "Hello, hello. It's me. I'm really home," I sang.

  "Hey," a man's voice said mildly. "This is Guy. Hope you don't mind my calling on a weekend."

  "Not at all. What's up?"

  "Nothing much," he said. "Donovan called me at the church. I guess last night the three of them – him and Ben
net and Jack – had a meeting. He says they want me to come down for a few days so we can talk about the will."

  I felt my whole body go quiet. "Really. That's interesting. You going to do it?"

  "I think so. I might, but I'm not really sure. I had a long talk with Peter and Winnie. Peter thinks it's time to open up a dialogue. He's got a prayer meeting in Santa Teresa tomorrow, so it works out pretty good. They can bring me down after church, but he thought it'd be smart to talk to you about it first."

  I was silent for a moment. "You want the truth?"

  "Well, yeah. That's why I called."

  "I wouldn't do it if I were you. I was over there last night and it all seems very tense. It's nothing you'd want to be exposed to."

  "How so?"

  "Feelings are running high and your showing up at this point is only going to make things worse."

  "That was my first reaction, but then I got to thinking. I mean, Donovan called me. I didn't call him," he said. "Seems to me if the three of them are offering a truce, I should at least be willing to meet 'em halfway. It can't hurt."

  I suppressed an urge to start shrieking at him. Shrieking, I've discovered, is really not a sound method for persuading other people to your point of view. I'd seen his brothers in action and Guy was no match. I wouldn't trust those three under any circumstances. Given Guy's emotional state, I could see why he'd be tempted, but he'd be a fool to go into that house without counsel. "Maybe it's a truce and maybe not. Bader's death has brought up all kinds of issues," I said. "You go in unprepared and you'll end up taking on a whole raft of shit. You'd be walking into a nightmare."

  "I understand."

  "I don't think so," I said. "Not to criticize your brothers, but these are not nice fellows, at least where you're concerned. There's a lot of friction between them and your appearance is only going to add fuel to the fire. I mean, honestly. You can't imagine the dynamic." I noticed the pitch and volume of my voice going up.

  "I have to try," he said.

  "Maybe so, but not that way."

  "Meaning what?"

  "You're going to find yourself in exactly the same position you were in when you left. You'll be the fall guy, the scapegoat for all their hostility."

  I could hear him shrug. He said, "Maybe we need to talk about that then. Get it out in the open and deal with it."

  "It's out in the open. Those three aren't shy about anything. The conflicts are all right out there in front of God and everyone and believe me, you don't want their venom directed at you."

  "Donovan doesn't seem to bear me any ill will and from what he says, Bennet and Jack don't either. The truth is, I've changed and they need to see that. How else can I persuade 'em if it isn't face-to-face?"

  I could feel my eyes cross while I tried controlling my impatience. I knew I'd be smarter to keep my mouth shut, but I've never been good at keeping my opinions to myself. "Look, Guy, I don't want to stand here and try to tell you your business, but this isn't about you. This is about their relationship to each other. It's about your, father and whatever's been going on in the years since you left. You'll end up being the target for all the anger they've stored up. And why put yourself through that?"

  "Because I want to be connected again. I screwed up. I admit that and I want to make it up to them. Peter says there can't be any healing unless we sit down together."

  "That's all well and good, but there's a lot more at stake. What if the subject of the money comes up?"

  "I don't care about the money."

  "Bullshit. That's bull. Do you have any idea how much money we're talking about?"

  "Doesn't make any difference. The money doesn't matter to me. I don't need money. I'm happy as I am."

  "That's what you say now, but how do you know that won't change? Why create problems for yourself later on? Have you talked to Tasha? What's she say about this?"

  "I never talked to her. I called the office in Lompoc, but she'd already left for San Francisco and after that, the secretary said she was taking off for Utah on a ten-day, ski trip."

  "So call her in Utah. They have phones up there."

  "I tried that. They wouldn't give me her number. They said if she called in, they'd give her my name and number and she'd call if she could."

  "Then try someone else. Call another attorney. I don't want, you talking to your brothers without legal advice."

  "It's not about legalities. It's about mending the breach."

  "Which is exactly what's going to make you a sitting duck. Your agenda has nothing to do with theirs. They don't give a shit about forgiveness, if you'll pardon my French."

  "I don't see it that way."

  "I know you don't. That's why we're having this argument," I shrieked. "Suppose they try to pressure you into making a decision?"

  "About what?"

  "About anything! You don't even know what's in your best interest. If your sole aim is to make peace, you're only going to get screwed."

  "How can I get screwed if I don't want anything? They can keep the money if that's the only thing standing between us."

  "Well, if you don't want the money, why not give it to the church?" The minute I said it, I wanted to bite my tongue. His motives were clean. Why introduce the complication?

  He was silent for a moment. "I hadn't thought about that. That's a good point."

  "Forget it. Just skip that. All I'm saying is don't go in there alone. Get help so you don't do something you'll regret."

  "Why don't you go?"

  I groaned and he laughed in response. Going with him was the last thing I wanted to do. He needed protection, but I didn't think it was appropriate for me to step in. What did I have to offer in the way of assistance? "Because it's not my place. I'm not objective. I don't know the law and I don't have any idea what your legal position is. You'd be foolish to come down here and have a conversation with them. Just wait for ten days until Tasha gets back. Don't do anything yet. There's no reason you have to hop-to the minute Donovan whistles. You should be doing this on your terms, not his."

  I could hear his reluctance to accept what I was saying. Like most of us, he'd made up his mind before he asked. "You know something? This, is the truth," he said. "I prayed about this. I asked God for guidance and this was the answer I got."

  "Well, try Him again. Maybe you misunderstood the message."

  He laughed. "I did that in a way. I opened my Bible and put my finger on the page. Know what the passage was?"

  "I can't imagine," I said dryly.

  " 'Be it known unto you therefore, men and brethren, that through this man is preached unto you the forgiveness of sins: And by him all that believe are justified from all things, from which ye could not be justified by the law of Moses.' " Like many of the faithful, he could recite Bible verses like song lyrics.

  This time the silence was mine. "I can't argue that. I don't even know what it means. Look, if you're determined to do this, you'll do it, I'm sure. I'm just urging you to take someone with you."

  "I just did. I asked you."

  "I'm not talking about me! What about Peter and Winnie? I'm sure they'd be willing to help if you asked and they'd do a much better job. I don't know the first thing about counseling or mediation or anything else. Aside from that, all this family-related stuff gives me the willies."

  I could hear Guy smile and his tone was affectionate. "Strange you should say that because somehow it feels like you're part of this. I don't know how, but it sure seems like that to me. Don't you have some kind of issue around family yourself?"

  I held the phone away from me and squinted at the handset. "Who, me? Absolutely not. Why would you say that?"

  Guy laughed. "I don't know. It just came to me in a flash. Maybe I'm wrong, but it feels like you're connected."

  "My only connection is professional. I was hired to do a job. That's the only link I see." I kept my tone casual to demonstrate my nonchalance, but I was forced to put a hand against the small of my back, where an inexplicabl
e drop of sweat was trickling down into my underpants. "Why don't you have a talk with Peter again? I know you're eager to make amends, but I don't want you walking into the lions' den. We all know how the lions and the Christians came out."

  He was silent for a moment and then seemed to change the subject. "Where's your apartment?"

  "What makes you ask?" I was unwilling to be specific until I knew where he was headed.

  "How about this? Maybe we can do this another way. Donovan says everyone's gone tomorrow until five o'clock. Peter'll give me a lift into town, but his schedule's too tight to do much more than that. If he drops me off at your place, could you give me a ride the rest of the way? You don't have to stay. I understand you don't want to be involved and that's fine with me."

  "I don't really see how that addresses the point."

  "It doesn't. I'm just asking for a ride. I can handle everything else if you can get me over there."

  "You're not going to listen to me, are you?" I said.

  "I did listen. The problem is I disagree."

  I hesitated, but really couldn't see any reason to refuse. I was already feeling churlish because I'd put up such resistance. "That sounds all right. Sure. I can do that," I said. "What time would you get here?"

  "Three? Somewhere around then. I don't mean to be a bother. Peter's meeting is downtown, at that church on the corner of State and Michaelson. Is that anywhere close? Because I could walk over to your place and we could go from there."

  "Close enough," I said, feeling crabby and resigned. "Look, why don't you give me a call when you get in. I'll swing by the church and pick you up."

  "That'd be good. That's great. Are you sure this is okay?"

  "No, but don't press your luck. I'm willing to do this much, but don't go asking for reassurance on top of it.

  He laughed. "I'm sorry. You're right. I'll see you then," he said. He disconnected on his end.

  As I hung up the phone, I was already having doubts. Amazing how quickly someone else's problems become yours. Trouble creates a vacuum into which the rest of us get sucked.