U is for Undertow

by Sue Grafton

  Brent made a couple of trips to the car, ferrying Walker’s clothes. Meanwhile, Walker went into the kitchen, where Carolyn was unloading the dishwasher, a job she’d always insisted was half his to share. He stood and watched her, making no effort to pitch in, a gesture she noticed but refrained from remarking on. Looking at her without the filter of affection, he realized she wasn’t pretty anymore and she was picking up weight. She was thick through the middle and her pants were riding up. Maybe his losing the marriage wasn’t such a big deal after all. He had wealthy women clients who’d made it clear they were interested in him. He’d been bemused by their attentions, but he might be more receptive now that he was on his own. Where would Carolyn find a guy willing to take her on, a plump premenopausal woman with two kids underfoot?

  He leaned against the counter. “You said something about the mail?”

  “It’s out on the hall table in a manila envelope. You must have walked right by.”

  “Fine. What about the phone message?”

  “Oh, right. This was last week and I apologize. It completely slipped my mind. A woman called and asked for you. Someone you went to high school with. She said she was a private eye and she was looking for your dad.”

  “Dad?”

  “That’s what I said. She wanted to get in touch with him.”

  “What for?”

  “I don’t know. She told me, but it went in one ear and out the other. It didn’t sound all that urgent.”

  “What did you tell her?”

  “I didn’t tell her anything. I hung up on her.”

  He thought about it, wondering what he’d missed. “What would a private investigator want with Dad?”

  “Why are you asking me? I don’t have a clue.”

  He stared at her, trying to make sense of what she’d said. “Did you get her name?”

  “Millhone. I forget the first. Something odd.”

  “Kinsey?”

  “You remember her? I thought she was feeding me a line of bullshit.”

  “Senior year we had a class together,” he said, distracted. “What did she want again?”

  “Walker, I just told you. I have no idea. Something about a dog. She didn’t say anything more than that.”

  The floor shifted under his feet. For a moment he thought there’d been a temblor. He put out his left hand and grabbed the counter with Carolyn looking on like he was losing it.

  He murmured an excuse and left the house, not even sure later how he got to the car. He felt like he’d been walking, looking in the other direction, and slammed into a door. The shock was making the blood drain out of his head, taking his blood pressure down along with it. His body was shot through with a clamminess that carried nausea in its wake. The outside air helped. He leaned against the car, feeling shaken to the core.

  Brent slammed down the trunk. “Are you all right, Mr. McNally?”

  “I’m fine. Let’s get moving, if you don’t mind.”

  “Sure thing.”

  Walker got in the backseat. Brent fired up the engine and was on the verge of pulling away when Carolyn called from the front door and then trotted down to the car. Walker lowered the rear window.

  “You forgot the mail,” she said. She leaned down to look at him. “Are you all right? The way you bolted out of there, I thought you’d seen a ghost.”

  Walker wanted to make a withering reply, but Brent was sitting in range and he didn’t want to make a scene. He took the mail and dropped it on the seat beside him. “Fuck you,” he said under his breath. He pushed the switch that rolled the window up so Carolyn was forced to yell through the glass.

  “Fine. I’m sorry I asked.”

  Brent drove along Ocean Way toward the stone pillars at the rear of Horton Ravine.

  Walker said, “On my way back to the Pelican, I’d like to see my father. He’s at Valley Oaks. I’ll direct you once we get there.”

  “No problem.”

  Walker glanced out the window and realized they were passing Jon Corso’s house. Jon still lived in the sprawling two-story, gray-shingled monstrosity his father and stepmother had bought when Jon was sixteen. Walker hadn’t met Jon until their senior year at Santa Teresa High, but he’d heard plenty about the Amazing Mona and her three perfect daughters. Jon had confessed to screwing all three before each went off to college. The sisters were married now and living in the East with an assortment of kids. Two years before, when Lionel died of a heart attack, Mona packed up and moved to New York so she’d be closer to her girls and all the grandkids. She’d inherited the house and the bulk of Lionel’s estate. Jon’s inheritance was ten thousand dollars and a life interest in the studio apartment above the garage. Since the business with Mary Claire, Jon insisted that Walker keep his distance, so they’d never discussed the issue. Nonetheless, Walker knew to a certainty that Jon was still chafing at the paltry sum he’d been left. He earned staggering sums from the sales of his books, so it wasn’t about the money. It was the insult of it all, his father’s final slap in the face; game, set, and match to Mona. She was perfectly content to have Jon living at the house. The arrangement bound him to her. Walker was willing to bet she was still sticking it to him any way she could. Eventually she’d put the place on the market, but for the time being, it was a nice vacation spot when she or the girls felt like a jaunt to the West Coast.

  The drive continued in silence. Occasionally Brent flicked a look in the rearview mirror. Walker leaned his head back against the seat. He was aware of Brent’s scrutiny but he made no remark. It wasn’t up to him to explain his complicated family life. How had this happened? Everything was fine. Everything was good, and then, in one swift stroke, he realized he was going under. An unseen force, subtle and relentless, had taken him unawares and now he was being dragged toward open water with no way back.

  He tried to reason with himself as a defense against fear. There was no reason to think Kinsey Millhone had talked to his dad. How would she do that? Carolyn said she hadn’t given her any information, certainly no means by which she could have tracked him down. And even if she did and she asked about the dog, what would his father be expected to remember? The man was old. He’d been retired for years. In the course of his practice, he’d seen hundreds of animals. What kind of threat could she be?

  Walker leaned forward as Brent turned into Valley Oaks. “It’s this lane on the right. Number 17. You can pull into the parking pad and wait. It should be half an hour or so.”

  Brent shut down the engine and Walker got out. He hadn’t seen his father since the accident, and while he dreaded the coming conversation, he had no other way of finding out if Kinsey Millhone had succeeded in reaching him. He could see his father peering at him from the window as he came up the walk. Walter opened the door, standing erect, his manner cautious. He seemed to be avoiding the sight of Walker’s facial bruises, which Walker tended to forget about.

  “I didn’t expect to see you.”

  “Sorry about that, Dad. I should have called, but I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop by. There’s something I’d like to ask about.”

  “Come in, come in,” Walter said, stepping back. “You have time for a cup of coffee?”

  “I could probably manage that,” he said. “Don’t go to any trouble—”

  “No trouble. Let’s go back to the great room, where you can make yourself comfortable. How are Carolyn and the children?”

  “Doing well, thanks. I just came from the house, as a matter of fact. And yourself?”

  “Tolerable. That pain in my hip is largely gone and I’ve been increasing my walks. I’m up to two miles these days.”

  Walker perched on the couch and watched as his father set about putting together a pot of coffee, carefully filling a carafe of water, which he poured into the tank. He added six small scoops of ground coffee, double-checking everything before he pressed the button that set the coffeemaker in brewing mode.

  His father returned to the sitting area. “Coffe
e will take a minute,” he remarked.

  Walker couldn’t think of a response. He was casting about for some way to introduce the subject of the accident and all of its attendant horrors.

  His father cleared his throat. “I don’t suppose I need to tell you how distressed I am about this recent business of yours. Carolyn stopped by and told me. She made a special point of coming over because she didn’t want me to hear about it from a third party.”

  “I appreciate her consideration. I would have told you myself, but I’ve been down for the count.”

  “Yes.”

  The word seemed like a non sequitur. Walker had hoped for some help getting through the awkwardness of the discussion. “I was horrified, as you might imagine.”

  “And rightly so. If your mother were alive, this would break her heart.”

  “Well, I guess we can both be grateful she was spared,” Walker said. Wrong tone, he thought. He tried again. “I understand how upset you must be, but I’ve been knocked to my knees as well. How do you think I feel, knowing that poor girl is dead because of me?”

  “Carolyn said you’d blanked on all of it.”

  “I had a concussion. I was knocked unconscious. The doctor says amnesia is pretty common under the circumstances.”

  “Carolyn believes you suffered an alcoholic blackout, which is a horse of another color.”

  “That’s ridiculous. I didn’t black out.”

  “Perhaps not. I thought she made a good case.”

  “Well, I’m glad the two of you had such a happy chat at my expense.”

  “She’s entitled to her opinion.”

  “She’s hardly the reigning expert—”

  “Son, you’d be wise to cut the sarcasm. She’s a wonderful woman and you’re fortunate you have her standing by you.”

  “I don’t know where you got the impression she was ‘standing by’ me. She’s barely civil.”

  “I’m sure she’ll come around in time. You have the children to think of. It would be a pity if this tragedy ruined their lives as well as hers.”

  The coffee was done and his father left the sitting area to attend to cups and saucers. He set up a tray with the sugar bowl, a cream pitcher, and two spoons.

  While he was occupied, Walker debated how best to approach the matter of Kinsey Millhone. The name had no more than crossed his mind when he glanced down at the coffee table and saw her business card propped up against a potted plant. He picked it up, noting her office address and phone number. There was nothing about the kinds of cases she handled. Walker fingered the card.

  His father returned with a tray, cups rattling against the saucers as he walked. He set the tray on the coffee table and passed a cup to Walker. “I forget what you take with your coffee. I have half-and-half.”

  “Black’s fine,” he said. “What’s this?”

  “What’s what?”

  “This is what I wanted to ask. Carolyn told me a private investigator called the house looking for you. According to my attorney, a conversation with this woman would be out of line.”

  “I’ve already met with her and you needn’t be alarmed. Her reasons for seeing me had nothing to do with you. She stopped by a few days ago and asked about a dog I treated once upon a time.”

  “A dog?”

  “She had questions about the protocol when a pet was put down. I told her what I could, and she left her card in case I had something to add. She was a very pleasant young woman. We chatted for a bit about this and that, and then she left. I doubt she was here thirty minutes, if that.”

  “Did she mention I went to high school with her?”

  “I wasn’t aware of it. She was here on an entirely separate matter.”

  “What did you tell her?”

  His father stopped with the cup halfway to his lips. “I’m quite capable of having a conversation independent of your oversight.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to butt in. I don’t want her to take advantage of our prior acquaintance.”

  “Your name didn’t come up. She sought me out of her own accord, though it’s no concern of yours. I suggest you get your own house in order and let me worry about mine.”

  He let the subject drop, stung by the rebuke. The conversation bumbled on until he felt enough time had passed to make his excuses and return to the car. His father declined to walk him to the door.

  He was barely aware of the drive home. He rolled down the nearest window and let the air whip through the car’s interior, cooling his face and buffeting his hair. He loosened his tie and unbuttoned the collar of his shirt. Brent shot him a look in the rearview mirror. Walker didn’t feel he had to explain. He was hot. What business was that of Brent’s? The same thoughts assailed him persistently. Kinsey knew about the dog. He couldn’t figure out how she’d arrived at his father’s door. By what circuitous logic had she linked his father and the dog’s remains? Walker had seen her at the dig and within a week, she was six steps behind him and gaining.

  By the time Brent dropped him off at the Pelican, the combination of caffeine and anxiety had triggered something close to a panic attack. Walker locked the door behind him and staggered to the bed. His heart was thudding at a rate that made him pant and sweat. It was like an overdose of speed, which he’d experienced twice in his lifelong association with drink and drugs. He sat on the edge of the bed, clutching his chest, afraid to stand up again for fear of passing out. He was dying. He would die. The terror would mount until it crushed him under its weight.

  Seven days sober. He wondered if it was possible to make it even one more hour. There was a cocktail lounge two blocks away. He pictured the quick walk, the glittering rows of bottles behind the bar. The lighting would be muted and he doubted he’d see anyone he knew. One drink would calm him. One drink would tide him over to the next day. Mornings were easier anyway, though the day would stretch before him like eternity. All he had to do was get up, cross the room, walk the two blocks to the bar. His hands began to shake.

  He picked up the phone and called Leonard.

  25

  Monday, April 18, 1988

  Monday afternoon I dialed Information and picked up a phone number for Dancer Custom Woodwork in Belicia. Deborah hadn’t given me the business name, but when I checked the local yellow pages, most custom cabinetmakers seemed to use their own last names by way of a designation. I was prepared to try Dancer Woodworking, Dancer Cabinetry, and variations on that theme. Fortunately I hit it the first time out. I punched in the number and the line rang twice before a man picked up.

  “Dancer Custom Woodwork.”

  “Is this Shawn Dancer?”

  “It is. Who’s this?”

  “My name is Kinsey Millhone. I’m a private investigator in Santa Teresa. Deborah Unruh suggested I talk to you about Greg and Shelly. Would you be willing to meet with me?”

  “I can save you a trip. Anything I know, I can tell you by phone. It doesn’t amount to much.”

  “I’d be happier talking face-to-face if it’s all the same to you. I won’t ask for any more time than you’re willing to spare.”

  “Up to you,” he said.

  He gave me his work address and said he’d be in the shop all of Tuesday and Wednesday. He had an installation on Thursday so he’d be gone Thursday and Friday. I told him Tuesday afternoon would be fine. Stacey had called that morning to tell me Grand’s private investigator was still in business, operating out of the same office he’d occupied at the time. My plan was to stop first in Lompoc and talk to Hale Brandenberg, then drive the additional fifty miles north to Belicia, covering both sources in one day.

  Tuesday morning I gassed up my car and hit the northbound 101. I had the manila envelope of letters on the passenger seat, along with the invoices Brandenberg had submitted. I assumed there’d once been reports attached, but he might have agreed to convey his findings verbally to avoid written accounts. I’ve done the same thing myself when the issues are sensitive and a paper trail seems unwise. As long
as the client is satisfied, I can work either way. I keep a set of notes for my own files, as a hedge against an investigation coming back to bite me in the butt, but the client doesn’t need to know.

  The drive was uneventful. The day was gorgeous, temperatures in the low seventies with a light breeze coming off the ocean. I’d had the Mustang serviced the week before and the car was driving like a dream. We’d had intermittent rain in February and March, and the rolling hills on either side of the road had turned a lush green. Thirty-five miles later, I took the 132 off-ramp and drove west toward Vandenberg Air Force Base.

  The town of Lompoc boasts a population of roughly thirty-six thousand, with single-family homes ranging in price from $225,000 to $250,000. There’s a small airport, a U.S. penitentiary, an attractive public library, pocket parks, good schools, and three percent more single men than single women, if you happen to be husband hunting. The surrounding area produces half the flower seeds grown in the world, which means that in May, thousands of acres of flowers are visible from the road. This was early in the season, but in another couple of months the fields would be sprouting the colors of a Persian carpet.

  The business district was low-key, with wide streets and few structures over two stories high. Hale Brandenberg was on the second floor of a chunky office building. At ground level, to the right, there was a real estate company, its front windows papered with photographs of houses for sale; on the left, a title company. A glass-paneled door between the two opened onto a wide carpeted staircase. The directory posted on the wall showed his suite number as 204.

  I went up the stairs, marveling at the proportions of the place. The windows in the upper hallway were huge and the ceilings were easily twenty feet high. A race of giants could have moved in and had headroom to spare. The corridor was dead quiet. I counted eight offices, each entrance marked by a transom above the door, the old-world equivalent of air-conditioning. I was taking a chance he’d be out, but when I tapped on his door and then opened it to stick my head in, he was sitting on the floor in the middle of his one-room suite, rubbing saddle soap into one of two worn leather-upholstered chairs.