W Is for Wasted km-23

by Sue Grafton

  To her right, there was a miniature Lucite rack where bottles of nail polish were perched in the equivalent of stadium seating. Every known color was represented, from dark funereal hues to fire-engine reds. The pinks ran from a neutral beige to a fuchsia shade I didn’t like at all. “You know what color you want?” she asked.

  “I don’t wear polish.”

  “I’ll buff them. I’m short on time anyway. This is my busy day. You’re lucky Lucy managed to slot you in.”

  She opened the shallow drawer in front of her and took out an emery board. She picked up my left hand as if it were an inanimate object, one of a pair of gloves. She filed and shaped the nails on that hand and then placed it on the table while she got up and crossed to the sink and filled a shallow plastic basin with warm soapy water. She sat down again and placed the fingers of my left hand in the water with my hand resting on the shallow lip of the reservoir. While the left hand soaked, she addressed the nails of my right hand, which she filed and shaped to match my left.

  I wanted to initiate a conversation, but I wasn’t sure where to start. There’s something intimate about having someone tend to your body parts; haircuts, massages, bikini waxes, the latter no more than a rumor as far as I was concerned. When you’re in the hands of an expert, you give yourself up to the process. Since she seemed fully focused on my hands, I was free to study her.

  She was blessed with a sulky prettiness—dark brows, long dark hair that she wore pulled up in a top-knot, caught in the jaws of a big plastic clip. A few loose strands framed her face. Her skin was flawless. She had a row of tiny gold rings in a line along one ear. The holes were pierced so closely together, it looked as if she’d taken a length of spiral binding and threaded it through her ear. She wore jeans and a cotton T-shirt with a deep V in front. Boobs.

  When she finally spoke, she addressed her remarks to my fingertips. “I know who you are, so you don’t have to pussyfoot around.”

  “I take it your brother called.”

  “Are you kidding? The minute you were out the door. He was like totally pissed off, which I shouldn’t have to tell you.”

  She removed my left hand from the soapy water and placed it on the towel in front of her, patting it dry like a lettuce leaf. She moved the basin over and set my right hand to soak while she squirted a milky solution across the cuticles of my left.

  I said, “I’m sorry I upset him. That wasn’t my intent. I wish I’d done a better job of it.”

  “Don’t mind him. He’s a drama queen. How’d you find out where I worked?”

  “His landlord.”

  “Big Rat. High school, he was a class ahead of Ethan’s. I once dated the guy if you can believe that.”

  “Somehow I can’t picture it.”

  “That makes two of us. I was sixteen and thought he was a man about town.” She lapsed into silence, intent on her work.

  “I guess you know about your dad’s will,” I ventured.

  “We all know. Big powwow an hour ago. I thought the phone lines would catch fire.”

  “Does your mother know?”

  “She knows everything. Why do you ask?”

  “I was wondering how she felt about your father’s death.”

  “She said ‘Good riddance,’ if that’s a clue. Mamie’s the one you better watch. Even Mom has a hard time with her. Talk about butting heads. Those two go at it.” She took out a little pair of scissors and nipped at my cuticles, dead skin piling up in the tiny space between blades. “Mamie’s Ethan’s wife, in case you haven’t heard.”

  “I didn’t meet her, but I know her name. She was off at work.”

  “The woman’s a powerhouse.”

  “How so?”

  “She’s a code-enforcement officer for the city. Property maintenance, zoning violations, abandoned vehicles, you name it. File a complaint and she kicks ass until the problem goes away. Too bad she wasn’t around when Dad was doing his ‘thang.’ She’d have whipped him into shape.”

  “I take it your mother wasn’t good at that.”

  “Mamie’s the kind who gets up in your face. Mom wheedles and manipulates. She specializes in guilt trips.” She was silent for a moment and then looked up. It was the first time she met my eyes and I was startled at the bright blue of her gaze. “So now you’ve talked to Ethan, why come to me?”

  “I left the paperwork with him, but I couldn’t be sure he’d pass it along to you and Ellen. Look, I understand this is difficult . . .”

  “No, it’s not. You know how much Daddy cared? He drank himself to death. That’s what he thought about us. We were last in line. He put my mother through hell. Not that she doesn’t deserve half the blame.”

  She took a buffer from the drawer and began to shine my nails, intent on her task.

  “If you want a say in your father’s funeral arrangements, this is your chance. You have any requests?”

  Smiling slightly, she said, “Make sure he’s thoroughly dead before you bury him. We don’t want him coming back unannounced. As much as he drank, he probably pickled himself, which should save on embalming fees.”

  I was at a loss about where to take the conversation next, so I said nothing. I watched her work. The silence didn’t seem to bother her.

  Once she finished buffing, she opened a big jar of cream and rubbed a glob between her hands. She took my hand and began to massage my fingers and my palm, moving up my forearm. “Ethan says you never met Daddy. He says you never even laid eyes on him ’til he was dead.”

  “That’s true. I had no idea we were related.”

  “And you got all the money. Lucky you.”

  “I had no say in that.”

  “I’m sure not. My old man was a shit.”

  “He wasn’t all bad. His friends speak well of him. They were impressed with his smarts. Wasn’t he working on a degree in landscape design?”

  “Eons ago when we were little kids. He was good about taking us on hikes and teaching us nature stuff. That always frosted Mom’s ass.” She looked toward the salon door, checking the client who had just walked in. As though I’d pressed, she went on. “We worshiped the ground he walked on. She’s the family saint and didn’t like the competition.”

  “He put together a folio for each of you that he illustrated himself.”

  “Sorry to interrupt, but I got a client just came in and she doesn’t like to wait. She’s a regular and she tips well. Job you do, I bet you don’t have to worry about things like that.”

  “Am I supposed to pay here or at the desk?”

  “Pay her,” she said, glancing at the receptionist.

  Since she’d just mentioned a tip, I thought I’d better be generous. I took a ten out of my wallet and slipped it under the towel. That seemed to soften her attitude.

  “If you want, Ellen and I can meet you later for a drink,” she said as I got up.

  I made a face meant to convey regret. “I wish I could, but I’m due home and I’ve checked out of my motel.”

  “You can’t find another room?”

  “I could, but I have to get back.”

  She seemed aghast, which I’m sure was an act. “So this is it? You pass on the papers and refuse to explain? Ethan’s saying things like ‘probate.’ I don’t even know what that is.”

  “This is news to me as well. I’m learning as I go. You should have an attorney explain how the system works. That way, if you need legal advice—”

  “So now we have to pay a lawyer? Are you nuts? You waltz in here telling us we’re disinherited and now we’re supposed to hire a legal expert? Where’s the money coming from?”

  “I’m just suggesting you get an opinion from someone who’s not already in the thick of things the way I am. Call Legal Aid and see if they can help. I don’t think you should look to me for guidance when it may not be what’s best for you. Why don’t you talk to Ellen and see what she says?”

  “Why is that my job? You’re the one who knows everything, so you explain.”


  I closed my eyes, working to detach myself from the urge to fall on her forearm and bite all the way down to the bone. “Fine. If you’ll give me a phone number, I’ll be happy to talk to her.”

  “You won’t talk to her to her face? What kind of shit is that?”

  “I don’t know where she is.”

  She stared at me for a moment and then gave a half shrug. “We could meet you at the Brandywine. By eight, her kids will be down for the night and Hank can babysit.”

  I didn’t think this was the time to correct her notion that a father has to “babysit” his children when half the responsibility is his by definition.

  “Where’s the Brandywine?”

  “On Ming, you moron! Check the phone book.”

  We exchanged a few more pertinent details, and by the time I closed the salon door behind me, she had taken out a pack of sanitized instruments for the client who’d taken my place. At the desk, I was told the manicure was fifteen bucks and I kicked myself for not paying first and calculating the tip from that.

  • • •

  I was uneasy about meeting at the bar where Ethan’s band played on weekends, but Anna assured me the scene wouldn’t heat up until well after 10:00. In the meantime, she said the bartenders there knew her and we could talk without being hustled by a bunch of cheesy numbnuts (her words, not mine).

  I left the salon and found a gas station, thinking to take advantage of the lull to top off my tank. While the attendant cleaned my windshield and checked the air in my tires, I loaded up on quarters and closed myself into a phone booth located near the ladies’ room.

  I figured by now, Henry had fetched Rosie from the airport, dropped her off at the tavern, and returned to St. Terry’s. I had no idea how to find him. He’d be in range of the ICU, but I doubted they accepted long-distance calls, and the nursing staff certainly wouldn’t interrupt their work long enough to send out a runner. I dropped a couple of coins in the slot and dialed his home number. Sure enough, his machine picked up and I left a message indicating that my plans had changed. I told him not to look for me at all that night. Even if my meeting with Ellen ended at 9:00, by some miracle, I didn’t want to embark on a two-and-a-half-hour drive. I paid for my gas and then I cruised the downtown area looking for a motel. I passed a McDonald’s and circled back. While 5:30 wasn’t exactly supper time, I paused long enough to scarf down a Quarter Pounder with Cheese, accessorized with fries and a Coke. I was nearly cross-eyed with carbs and fat grams when I wadded up the wrapping from my QP and tucked it in the french fry box. Once back on Truxtun, already my favorite street in Bakersfield, I spotted a Holiday Inn. It looked like a palace compared to the Thrifty Lodge. Since at that point I’d denounced thrift, the rates seemed entirely reasonable.

  As soon as I reached my room, I stripped down and took a shower, emerging from the bathroom fifteen minutes later with clean hair and a pure heart. I stretched out on the bed, thinking to close my eyes for twenty minutes while I worried about Felix. I had no idea what was going on. All I knew was the Boggarts had attacked him in retaliation for the raid on the camp. I woke with a start an hour and forty-five minutes later and had to scramble to throw on my clothes, retrieve the Mustang from the parking lot, and reach the Brandywine by 8:00.

  The club was largely deserted at that hour, as Anna had predicted. I paused inside the door to get my bearings. Two bartenders were setting up, moving bottles and stemware, dumping ice from a plastic bucket into one of the wells. A waitress stood at one end of the bar, leaning on her elbows while she chatted with the two. The music from the jukebox played at a muted level. I picked up a portion of the sound track from Dirty Dancing, which I thought might bode well. The raucous thumping numbers would come later when I was gone . . . I hoped.

  Since there was no sign of Anna, I sat down at a table in view of the front door. The main room was half dark and smelled of beer. The air-conditioning was turned up in anticipation of the crowd. Behind me and to my left, I could see the raised dais where the band would play. I’d make a point of being gone by the time Ethan arrived. I could hear billiard balls crack into one another smartly, and assumed there was a pool table in the back room.

  I finally spotted Anna. She’d changed clothes. For her Friday-night attire, she’d selected a form-fitting red leather miniskirt, a glittering red sequined tank top, and four-inch heels. Her demeanor had undergone a transformation as well. Gone was the industrious shopgirl with her cuticle expertise. She was in hunting mode and dressed for the kill. Her eyes were lined in black and her lipstick was the same hot red shade as her nails. Her hair was still secured by a clip but arranged in a French roll instead of a tuft on top. She’d added long, dangle earrings that bobbed and sparkled as she moved. There was no sign of anyone with her.

  When she slid into the seat across the table, she was accompanied by a subtle cloud of perfume. She made eye contact with one of the bartenders who knew what she was drinking without being told. A moment later, a waitress appeared with a martini on a tray. Three olives were submerged in the depths and the glass was frosted with a thin sheath of ice.

  Anna glanced at me. “What are you drinking?”

  “Chardonnay.”

  The waitress made a note before she turned and walked away.

  Anna picked up her glass. “End of a long week. Excuse me if I don’t wait.”

  “I thought Ellen would be with you.”

  “In a bit. Hank, too. His mom lives six doors down and she said she’d watch the kids. So what’s the plan? Staying over?”

  “I have a room at the Holiday Inn.”

  “Good for you,” she said.

  “Is this where you spend your Friday nights?”

  “Saturday nights, too. I date a guy who plays keyboard in Ethan’s band.”

  “Is that how you met?”

  “Other way around. I talked Ethan into hiring him when another guy dropped out. Where’re you from?” she asked, switching the subject as if the answer had slipped her mind. Ethan had probably unloaded anything and everything I’d said about myself.

  “Santa Teresa.”

  “Nice. How’s the club scene?”

  “There isn’t one.”

  “Bummer.” She took a sip of her martini, holding the glass by the rim. Her nails looked great and I checked mine by way of comparison. With me, she’d used a nail buffer instead of polish, but my nails still had a high shine, as though she’d coated them with clear polish. I remembered her remark about my slender fingers and arranged them on the table in what I hoped was an artful pose.

  She moved a cocktail napkin closer and set the stemmed glass in the center with care. I wondered if she already had a buzz on. “Ethan says you’re a private detective.”

  “This is true.”

  She speared the top of an olive with a long red nail and held it up like a lollipop. “So what’s it take to get a job like that?” She closed her lips around the olive and chewed.

  “Long apprenticeship. You work for a licensed PI until you’ve put in the hours you need.”

  “Which is how many?”

  “Six thousand. If you work a forty-hour week, fifty weeks a year, you’re talking three years.”

  “Bet you need a college degree.”

  “I don’t have one. I attended a couple of semesters of community college, but I didn’t graduate.”

  “I never went at all. I’m the baby in the family. By the time it was my turn, Daddy was in prison and the money was gone.”

  “What money?”

  “From the house. Mom sold it when she married Gilbert and moved into his. They’ve built a new one. Three thousand square feet and a three-car garage. Looks just like Tara, from Gone With the Wind.”

  I said, “What about Ethan? Did he go to college?”

  “Nah. He had the chance, but he was busy with his career. You know what I got? A big fat zero. I mean, I get that Daddy left us nothing, but isn’t there some way you could borrow against the estate? I’d pay you back for
sure.”

  “At this point, the money isn’t mine.”

  “At least Ellen has a husband,” she said, apropos of nothing.

  “Does she have kids?”

  Anna held up three fingers. “Same as my brother,” she said. “Remember that English writer, Virginia Somebody?” She snapped her fingers. “Woolf.”

  “I’ve heard of her, but I’ve never read her work.”

  “I was in this book club for a couple months? We read a novel by her about a day in the life of this lady who gives a party. Mrs. Dalloway’s the title of it. Like who gives a shit. Anyway, she committed suicide—the writer, not the hostess—and you know how she offed herself?”

  “No clue,” I said, wondering where she was going with this.

  “Loaded her coat pockets with big rocks and walked into a river. Sank to the bottom and she drowned. Over and out. I figure kids are like that. Get pregnant, you might as well fill your pockets with stones.”

  The waitress appeared with my white wine, which was mercifully bad, a bonus under the circumstances, since I considered this work and I didn’t want to drink too much.

  Anna caught the waitress’s attention. “We’ll run a tab.”

  “Sure thing.”

  Anna propped her chin on one hand, giving me the big blue eyes. “Is Santa Teresa expensive? I mean, for someone like me who rents?”

  “Actually, it is. A lot of people opt for Colgate just north of us or Winterset to the south.”

  “So how much for a studio, something small like that?”

  “Six hundred a month.”

  “For a studio? You’re shittin’ me.”

  I shrugged. “That’s the going rate.”

  “Are you, like, in the snooty part of town?”

  “I’m down by the beach.”

  “Six hundred bucks a month is a lot of money. How much do you make?”

  “Enough. Are you thinking about a move?”

  “Well, I sure don’t want to hang out in a town like this. Spend the rest of my life in Bakersfield? Get serious. I’m twenty-six years old. I got a dead-end job and I bunk in with the dog in my sister’s spare room. No bathroom back there, so I have to trek all the way down the hall. Two hundred a month and I help around the house. She makes out big time on that deal, I’m telling you.”