W Is for Wasted

by Sue Grafton

  Scott piped up and said, “Daddy, you didn’t give us any lunch yet.” Not whining or lodging a complaint, simply stating a fact.

  Ethan said, “Shit. Hang on a sec.”

  He got up and crossed the room, disappearing through a doorway. I caught a glimpse of a run of upper kitchen cabinets with the doors ajar. One of the drawers under the kitchen counter extended by six inches as well. I’ve noticed there’s a whole class of people who can pass an open cabinet door or drawer without reaching out to close it. I am not one.

  I took advantage of Ethan’s absence to do a survey. The wall-to-wall carpeting was beige. The walls were also beige except for the multicolored crayon marks. There was a corner fireplace constructed out of white-painted brick, and a big picture window looking out to the street. A bicycle was propped against the wall near the front door. The rest of the home furnishings consisted of two toy boxes, a stationary exercise bike, a high chair, a stroller, and a television set. Someone had assembled a series of bins for the children’s belongings, each neatly labeled. So far everything seemed to be strewn on the floor. The house smelled of doggie breath.

  The pile of clothes to my right was a distraction. I’m a neatnik and it was hard to sit there without starting to fold little T-shirts and onesies and child-size blue jeans with elastic in the waist. This is not proper behavior for a hard-boiled private eye, especially on an occasion such as this, telling a perfect stranger he’d been disinherited. I was already anxious about the conversation coming up and I had to put my hands between my knees to keep from matching stray socks.

  I could hear Ethan banging and thumping in the kitchen. Blackie and Smokie were currently on the floor having a pretend doggie wrestling match, mouths open while they worried at each other with their teeth. Scott flung himself into the fray, landing on one of the pair, which put them into an ecstasy of squirms and fake growls.

  “Leave the dogs alone,” Ethan called idly from the other room.

  Scott rolled off and returned to his seat at the little table. Moments later, Ethan appeared with two small plastic plates that each held half a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. He put the plates down and Scott began to eat, holding the sandwich in his left hand so he could color with his right. There was a coffee can of marker pens he was using one by one. Most lay uncapped on the table in front of him.

  “Hey, Binkers, you want lunch?”

  The baby dropped to her hands and knees and made a beeline from the coffee table to the lunch plates, crawling with speed and assurance. She looked like a wind-up toy, hands and knees moving with mechanical efficiency. Scott pushed her plate closer to the edge of the table. She pulled herself up on fat baby legs, grabbed the half sandwich, and banged it on the table. Then she stuck it in her mouth.

  “Sorry about that,” Ethan said as he returned to his seat. “Nice of you to drive all this way. Were you a friend of his?”

  I shook my head. “A relative. Rebecca Dace was my grandmother. She was married to Quillen Millhone. I believe their son, Randy Millhone, was your father’s favorite uncle.”

  His face was blank, unclouded by recognition. “You lost me there. Who’s this?”

  “My father’s name was Randy Millhone. Uncle R.”

  “Oh, sure, sure. Uncle R. I remember hearing about him.”

  “I don’t know if my father was actually your father’s uncle. The title might have been used to simplify the blood tie.”

  “So we’re related? The two of us?”

  “It looks that way. My guess is we’re cousins, but I’m not sure what kind. First, second, once removed.”

  He cracked his knuckles and his right knee jumped a couple of times. This was the first hint I’d had that he was anxious about the subject. I could see the neck of a guitar resting against the back of the couch behind him. He reached over, picked it up, and tucked it in against him as though prepared to play. His action had the same air as a man reaching for a pack of cigarettes.

  “I like your guitar,” I remarked.

  “It’s a 1968 Martin D-35. Guy let me take it out on loan to see if I like it. Three thousand bucks, I better like it,” he said. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. Your dad grew up here, is that it?”

  “That’s right. At some point, he moved to Santa Teresa. He and my mother married in 1935 and I was born fifteen years later.”

  “That must have been a surprise.”

  “A good one, I hope. When I was five, both were killed in a car wreck, so I was raised by a maiden aunt, my mother’s sister. I didn’t know anything about my father’s side of the family until recently.” I wanted to kick myself for babbling on and on. What was it to him?

  I noticed we’d hopped right over the fact of his father’s death and I wasn’t sure if that was good news or bad. At least we were having what passed for a conversation, though the small talk was making me tense. He seemed happy enough to have me sitting there with the subject matter wandering this way and that. Maybe he appreciated the company, being hemmed in all day with the little ones. He focused on his guitar, idly approximating various chords; not actually playing them, but positioning his fingers on the frets, his gaze fixed on his hands. The pads of his fingers made a faint metallic sound as he moved them across the strings. While he wasn’t being rude, it was like trying to have a conversation with someone filling in a crossword puzzle. He caught my look and smiled briefly. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to cut you off. You were talking about your father.”

  “I was explaining why I knew so little about my Bakersfield kin.”

  “How’d you hook up with my dad?”

  “We never met. The first I heard of him he was in the morgue as a John Doe. My name and number were on a slip of paper in his pocket, and the coroner’s office called, thinking I might know who he was.”

  “And you turn out to be related? That’s a hell of a coincidence, isn’t it?”

  “Not really. I’m told he came to Santa Teresa to look for me.”

  “Because of his prior relationship with your father,” he said, as though assembling the facts.

  “Exactly.”

  “Are you the only Millhone in Santa Teresa?”

  “That’s right. I’m actually a private investigator, so he might have found me in the phone book.”

  “No fooling. Well, ain’t that a kick in the pants. I never met a real private detective before.”

  “This is me,” I said, raising my hand.

  He turned his attention to his guitar, trying a chord or two. In a whispery falsetto, he put together two lines of a song he was apparently composing extemporaneously. “When your daddy dies, it should come as no surprise . . .” He stopped and tried the line again. “When your daddy dies, you have to realize . . .” He shook his head, holding the guitar against him like a shield.

  I said, “When did you last see your father?”

  “September. A year ago, I forget the date. I heard a knock at the door and nearly fell over when I saw who it was. You knew he went to prison?”

  “Someone told me about it.”

  “Man was a loser, big time. What’re you going to do?” The latter wasn’t meant as a question. It was verbal filler.

  “I can see why you were shocked when he showed up. Did he tell you why he was released?”

  “Said his new lawyer punched all kinds of holes in the case and insisted they submit blood and semen for DNA testing. No match on any of it, so they had to let him go.”

  “He was a very lucky man finding someone who’d go to bat for him.”

  “Yeah, right. Want my take on it?”

  “Sure.”

  “Just because they let him out doesn’t mean he was innocent.”

  I blinked. The statement was the last thing in the world I expected to hear from him. “That’s an odd point of view.”

  “Why? You think guilty people don’t get away with murder?”

  “On occasion, of course they do, but he was exonerated. There wasn’t any evidence that tied him to the crim
e.”

  “Except Cates, the other guy.”

  “Herman Cates knew he was dying and he admitted he’d implicated your father just because he could. His accomplice was someone else altogether.”

  “So I heard,” he said in that tone that screamed of disbelief. “At any rate, I appreciate your going to so much trouble for someone you never met.”

  “I thought it was the least I could do . . .” I was going to add “under the circumstances” but I stopped where I was. Ethan must have picked up on the missing words.

  “How so?”

  “I understand the two of you quarreled.”

  “Says who?”

  “A friend of his in Santa Teresa.”

  “I wouldn’t call it a quarrel. More like a tiff.”

  “He told his friend there was an ugly scene.”

  “What was I supposed to do? The guy was drunk. So what else is new? Things might have got nasty, but you know how it is. Everybody calms down and life goes on.”

  “You weren’t in touch with him afterward?”

  “Wasn’t possible. The man lives on the street and he doesn’t have a phone. We didn’t even know for sure where he was headed when he left.”

  “Were you aware he’d come into money?”

  “Well, yeah. That’s what he said. We didn’t talk about it, but I got the gist. He said he filed a lawsuit.”

  “He sued the state . . .”

  “Right, right. Because his name was cleared. I remember now.” There was a pause while he plucked the D string and adjusted the tuning. He addressed his next question to the machine heads. “He die with a will or without?”

  “With.”

  “What happened to the money? I hope you’re not going to tell me he blew it.”

  “No, no. It’s still in the bank.”

  He smiled briefly. “That’s a relief. Man’s a bum. Never did anything right in his life. So what’s the process in a situation like this?”

  “Process?”

  “What happens next? Are there forms to fill out?”

  I experienced a momentary jolt and I could feel the heat rise in my face. I’d just caught a flash of how this looked from his perspective. Now that I’d delivered the bad news, he thought I’d be telling him about the money he was coming into. He and his sisters. His asking what was to happen next was procedural. He hadn’t brought up the subject sooner because he didn’t want to sound greedy. Maybe he thought I’d been beating around the bush out of delicacy. Given the news of his father’s death, he didn’t want to leap on the pecuniary matters without first giving the impression of filial respect.

  “He named me executor of his estate.”

  “You?”

  I shrugged.

  Ethan thought about that briefly. “Well, I guess the job’s largely clerical, isn’t it? Filing papers and stuff like that?”

  “Pretty much,” I said. “The will’s been entered into probate.”

  “Whatever that means,” he said, and then focused on me fully for the first time. “You act like there’s a problem?”

  “Well.”

  Annoyed, he said, “Would you quit fumbling around and just get on with it?”

  I stared at the floor and then shook my head. “I don’t know how else to say this, Ethan. He cut you out of the will. All three of you.”

  He stared at me. “You’re kidding me.”

  I shook my head.

  “Son of a bitch. All this, because we had a falling-out? I don’t believe it. Is that why you brought it up? That business about the ‘quarrel’?” He used his fingers to enclose the last word in digital quote marks, implying that it was my claim and not necessarily the truth.

  “I’m sure it must seem harsh.”

  “Harsh? It’s ridiculous. I don’t know what you heard, but it’s bullshit.”

  “I’m telling you what he said; the story as he relayed it to his friends. He said you slammed the door in his face. I don’t know if he was speaking literally or figuratively.”

  “And for that, we were disinherited? A few cross words and he dumps us? That’s not right. That can’t be right.”

  I dropped my gaze and waited. It was natural for him to vent and I needed to give him the space.

  “Hey. I’m talking to you.”

  I met his eyes.

  “You want to hear what went on the last time we spoke? Fine. This is the truth and I got witnesses. I’d come over here to pick up the kids. I was living somewhere else temporarily. My wife was standing right there, so you can ask her if you want. He arrives on my doorstep so drunk he can hardly stand. He’s selling me some hard-luck story about half a million bucks and how he never did nothing wrong . . . he’s been falsely imprisoned . . . big boo-hoo. Like I could give a shit. He’s begging my forgiveness, wanting to give me this lovey-dovey hug and stuff. He actually thinks he’s coming into my house so he can get to know my wife and kids. He smells like a sewer, like he puked on himself. There’s no way I’d let him in. With my kids home? I told him to get the hell out and not to call until he was clean and sober for a month, which he must not have managed since I never heard from him again.”

  “Did he see your sisters that same visit?”

  “Of course. You probably know that already since you bought his version, hook, line, and sinker. He said he wanted to talk to them, and like an idiot I told him where Anna worked. He showed up drunk there as well and made a horse’s ass of himself. Anna was so pissed at me she didn’t talk to me for a month. Now we get cut from the will, like we did something to him instead of the other way around.”

  “Ethan, honestly, I’m not blaming you for anything.”

  “Why would you? You’re not the butt of the joke. Tell you what. As far as I’m concerned? The guy was dead when he went to Soledad. I wrote him off the day he left and so did Ellen and Anna. Screw him. I don’t want his money. He can shove it up his dead ass.”

  I thought it wise to keep any further comments to myself. Anything I said was the equivalent of tossing gasoline on a bonfire.

  Ethan stared at me. “So is that it? Are we done now?”

  Hesitantly, I said, “There are some personal items he wanted you to have. They’re still in his safe deposit box, which I won’t have access to until the hearing in December. I can send them to you when the time comes.”

  “Personal items?”

  “He wrote and illustrated a folio for each of you. California edible plants and wildflowers.” My face was feeling warm again because it all sounded so lame.

  “Like a little coloring book? I can hardly wait. Meanwhile, where’d the money go? I forgot to ask. He give it away? Donate it to a worthy cause so he could look good at our expense?”

  “He left it to me.”

  “Say what?”

  “He left me the money.”

  “All of it?”

  Nodding assent would have been redundant. He could see the admission written on my face.

  Behind me, the front door opened and the oldest of the children came in, with an enormous backpack. She had dark eyes and long dark hair that might have been neatly brushed when she left for school that morning. Now some strands had separated while the others were in a tangle. I was so grateful for the distraction, I wanted to kiss the child, though I’d forgotten her name.

  “Hey, Amanda,” Ethan said with a glance at her.

  “Hey, Daddy.”

  “School go okay?”

  “Fine.”

  “You want a snack, you can get yourself some cookies, but share with Scottie and the Bink, okay?”

  “’Kay.”

  She disappeared into the kitchen and returned a moment later with the box of cookies. She got out a Fig Newton and held it in her teeth while she sat down at the children’s table, opened her backpack, and took out her homework. Binky used the table leg to pull herself up so she could bang on Amanda’s paper with the flat of her hand. She slid it back and forth rapidly.

  “Daddy, Binky’s tearing my paper
.”

  “She’s not doing anything.”

  “She’s messed it up and now I’ll get a bad grade.”

  Ethan didn’t really seem to be listening, but Scott got up and put his arms around Binky’s waist from behind. He lifted her off her feet and carried her across the room in our direction. I was afraid he’d throw his back out, but maybe at his age he was so limber that picking up half his body weight had no effect. He propped her against the coffee table and went back to his work. She held on, momentarily diverted by the uncapped blue marker pen she’d snagged in passing.

  I was struck by Ethan’s management style, which was competent but disengaged. Granted, neither of the dogs had barked, slobbered, or jumped on me, and none of the kids had cried, screamed, or shrieked. I already liked the lot of them better than I liked most.

  Meanwhile, I noticed the marker pen was dyeing Binky’s lips and tongue the color of blueberries. Surely, the manufacturer made a point of using nontoxic inks, since the pens were made for kids.

  I glanced at Ethan. “Is she okay with that?”

  He reached over and took the pen. I expected a howl to go up, but she’d fixed her attention on the doorknob.

  I removed the manila envelope from my shoulder bag. “These are copies of the will and a couple of forms I filled out. There’s a hearing in December if you want to challenge the terms of the will.”

  Ethan had his head in his hands, slowly shaking it back and forth. “This is too much. Man, I don’t believe it.”

  I placed the manila envelope on the table. “There’s something else as long as I’m here.”

  Ethan looked over at me with a pained expression. “What?”

  “I wondered what you wanted done with his remains?”

  “His remains? You mean his corpse? You can’t be serious. I don’t give a shit!”

  “I thought you might want a voice in decisions about his funeral. I delayed making arrangements until I talked to you.”

  “You can do anything you want. Just don’t think I’m paying you one red cent.”

  “Don’t you want to talk to Ellen and Anna first?”

  “And drop the same bomb on them? That sounds like a fun idea.”

  “If you’ll tell me how to get in touch, I can explain it all to them.”