by Sue Grafton
I woke again at 6:00, disoriented. Still in Bakersfield. Just my luck. I’d have given anything to have been at home in my own bed. I lay there in a funk. Since I didn’t intend to jog, I had time to go through my mental checklist again. By and large, I’d taken care of business. The only remaining question had nothing to do with my responsibilities as executor of the estate. I wanted to know what Evelyn Dace was up to. A man’s honor was at stake and that troubled me. I realized I’d been hoping for a way to rehabilitate Dace’s reputation in the eyes of his kids, but two of the three were unreceptive and I hadn’t been able to budge them. While, technically, this was unpaid work, that half a million dollars did suggest a different point of view. In some respects, this was the highest-paid job I’d ever undertaken and I decided I might as well satisfy myself in the bargain.
I ate breakfast in the hotel coffee shop, opting for orange juice, cold cereal, buttered rye toast, and three cups of coffee. Once in my room again, I checked my notes. It was by then 8:35, which seemed early but not indecent for a Saturday-morning call. I picked up the handset and dialed an outside line, then punched in the phone number for the L. Brandle listed on Ralston Street. I was about equally torn between wanting to succeed and wanting to fail. Chances were I was on the wrong track and this L. Brandle was in no way related to the Brandle who’d lived next door to Terrence and Evelyn Dace. If that were the case, my job in Bakersfield was done and I could go home.
The number rang three times and then a woman picked up. “Hello?”
“Oh, hi. May I speak to Mrs. Brandle?”
There was a moment of quiet and I couldn’t help but burble on as though adding information would change the facts. “I’m calling because I’m trying to locate a Lorelei Brandle, who lived on Daisy Lane in the early seventies.”
The woman said, “She can’t come to the phone right now. May I ask who’s calling?”
“Really? This is the Lorelei Brandle who lived next door to Evelyn and Terrence Dace?”
“She doesn’t go by the name Lorelei. She’s been ‘Lolly’ since the age of two.”
“Sorry.”
“She moved here from Daisy Lane six years ago. Evelyn Dace remarried. I believe she’s still in Bakersfield, but I have no idea where.”
“Would there be any way I might speak with Lolly?”
There was a pause. “I’m sorry. I don’t believe I caught your name.”
“Kinsey Millhone. Terrence Dace died this past week. He’s the—”
“I know who Terrence is, dear. Everyone in town knows him. If you don’t mind my asking, what’s this have to do with Lolly?”
“It gets complicated, but basically I’m distantly related to Mr. Dace and I’ve been talking with some of the surviving family members. A question has come up about his whereabouts the night Karen Coffey was kidnaped and I thought Lorelei . . . Lolly . . . might help us out.”
“Just one moment.”
I heard her clunk the handset down on a tabletop. There was a long interval of silence. Eventually she picked up again.
“I just went to check on her. She hasn’t been well.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. I drove up from Santa Teresa yesterday and I should head back before long. I was hoping to speak to her sometime soon. Are you her caregiver?”
“I’m her cousin, Alice.”
“I’ll keep my visit as brief as possible. I only need a few minutes of her time.”
“Ordinarily I wouldn’t do this, Miss . . .”
“Millhone.”
She lowered her voice. “No one in the family’s been to visit Lolly in the past five years. She’s eighty-six years old and she’s depressed. Frankly, I think a visit would lift her spirits regardless of the subject.”
“Was that who you were talking to just now?”
“Yes, it was. She seems to like the idea or I wouldn’t have permitted you to pursue the subject. What time were you thinking?”
“Shortly. Actually, right now.”
Her silence made me think she was going to turn me down, but she said, “I suppose that would do.”
“Thanks. I really appreciate your help. I’m at the Holiday Inn near the Convention Center downtown. I’m looking at a Ralston Street address, but I don’t know where that is.”
“We’re on the east side of the Union Cemetery. Ralston runs two blocks between South Owens Street and MLK Boulevard.”
“Uh, could you give me directions?”
“Of course. We’re only ten blocks away.”
I made a note of her instructions, not even bothering to check the map because it wasn’t that complicated. I returned the handset to its cradle and the phone rang again. “Hello?”
A woman said, “May I speak to Kinsey Millhone?”
“This is she.”
“This is Mamie. Ethan’s wife. I’m glad I caught you. I was afraid you’d be gone by now. How are you doing?”
“I’m fine. How about yourself?”
“I’m well,” she said.
There was half a beat of quiet, which I didn’t want to fill with chat.
Smoothly, she said, “I know you and Ethan had a long talk yesterday and we’re confused about where you come into the picture. You told him Terrence was your favorite uncle, but Evelyn says he didn’t have any nieces or nephews.”
“Ethan misunderstood. My father was Terrence’s favorite uncle. I have photographs of the two of them taken years ago.”
“Your father,” she said blankly.
“Randy Millhone. His mother—my paternal grandmother—was Rebecca Dace.”
“I can’t say that means much.”
“My father was born in Bakersfield. His family and the Daces were close once upon a time. Does the name Millhone ring a bell?”
“I’d have to ask Evelyn. It’s not a name anyone’s mentioned to me. You said something about photographs, but I’m not sure what those would tell us. I suppose Evelyn could take a look and see if she recognizes anyone.”
“Unfortunately, the photos are still in Terrence’s safe deposit box, which I won’t have access to until after the probate hearing. I wish I could be more specific about the family connections.”
“So do I,” she said. “I mean, I’m not saying there’s anything fishy going on, but it would be helpful if you had proof of your identity. Otherwise, it seems odd you show up out of a clear blue sky and announce you’re inheriting. Can you document any of this?”
“I gave Ethan a copy of his father’s will.”
“I’m talking about you. How do we know you’re who you say you are?”
“I can show you my driver’s license and a photostat of my private investigator’s license. Turn the question around and tell me how you’d prove who you are. It’s easier said than done.”
“I suppose.”
“Is there something in particular that bothers you or just the situation in general?”
“A little bit of both. I’ve gone over the papers you left and I’m confused about a number of things. We think we should get together today since this might be our only chance.”
I paused, instantly resistant as I sensed my trip home drifting further away. The last thing in the world I wanted to do was meet Ethan’s code-enforcer wife, but I thought I should at least pretend to cooperate. “I’m willing to meet you, but how will that help? I suggested Ethan get legal counsel. That way his attorney and mine could handle any questions that arise. I don’t want to turn this into a personal argument with him.”
“When I said ‘we,’ I wasn’t talking about him. I was referring to myself.”
“Ah.”
“A conversation might help us sort ourselves out.”
“Look, I’ll be happy to explain how I got roped into this. What I don’t want to discuss are the actual terms of the will.”
“Oh? And why is that?”
“Because those are legal issues. I’m not a lawyer and as far as I know, you’re not either.”
“No, I’m not,” sh
e said. “So what do you suggest? I have this morning open.”
I went through a quick debate. As far as I knew, she had no legal standing in the matter and I was reluctant to subject myself to another interrogation. At the same time, she seemed to wield considerable influence in the family, which meant that winning her over might defuse the situation. I did think it was preferable to meet face-to-face. “I’m due back in Santa Teresa midafternoon,” I said.
“If we’re going to meet, it might be smart to have Evelyn on hand. She knows the family history better than either one of us,” Mamie said.
“I don’t want to complicate matters.”
“It would be a way to avoid going through this again with her if it comes to that. With Evelyn present, she could ask questions that might not occur to me. I’m sure she’d appreciate the opportunity to express her views.”
“You think she can be objective about this?”
“Probably not, but the two of us can’t either, so what’s the difference?”
I’ll admit I was curious about Dace’s ex-wife, whose unseen presence had hovered in the background since I’d first come across her name in the divorce decree and the quitclaim in his safe deposit box. “All right. I suppose that makes sense. I have an appointment coming up, but it shouldn’t take long. Can we make it ten o’clock?”
“That should work.”
“Fine. I’ll meet you in the lobby and we can take it from there.”
“Wonderful,” she said.
On impulse, I said, “I saw Ethan at the Brandywine last night.”
She said, “Really.”
I was certain someone had already told her as much.
“It was Anna’s idea,” I said. “She brought Ellen and Hank along so I’d have a chance to meet them as well. I was actually there long enough to hear Ethan play. He’s very talented.”
“You sound surprised.”
“I guess I am. Hard to believe he hasn’t come to the attention of someone in the music business.”
“I’m sure he’d love nothing more, except now he’s got three little kids and where would they be if his career took off?”
I experienced a quick flash of Binky gnawing on her doorknob. If Ethan left, her baby heart would break. “That would be very tough.”
“Yes, it would. My opinion, if he was so hell-bent on success, he should have pursued it before he made babies.”
“Probably so.”
Mamie and I went through polite fare-thee-wells. I hung up, wishing I hadn’t agreed to meet. It wasn’t a conversation I was looking forward to. My curiosity about the ex–Mrs. Dace was the only draw.
• • •
On my way to Ralston Street, I took a ten-minute detour, stopping at a Walgreens drugstore just long enough to buy a Whitman’s Sampler, which I didn’t think they were even making anymore. These were the Russell Stover deluxe candies . . . coconut, chocolate-covered cherries, nougats . . . all the kinds I hate. The box had a bird and a basket of flowers on the front that looked like it had been stitched in needlepoint. I could have purchased the sugarfree candy, but why bother? For $6.99, I also picked up a bouquet of daisies, Alstroemeria, and some fluffy green stuff, all wrapped in cellophane.
I got back in the car and rolled down the windows. This was mid-October and the day was sunny. The humidity must have been low because while the temperature posted on the bank marquee I’d passed said it was eighty-five degrees, the air had an autumn feel to it, as though scented with the hint of burning leaves. There was little evidence that the trees were changing colors. From the flora and fauna I could see, the evergreens outnumbered deciduous species by three to one. Beyond a variety of palms, I recognized manzanita, junipers, California bay, and the coast live oak.
The house on Ralston was plain; a dark green one-story box with a modest yard, enclosed by a picket fence. The place would have benefited from the services of a handyman. The front gate sagged to the point where I had to lift it off the sidewalk before it would swing open. The wooden porch steps needed a coat of paint. I wasn’t sure what to expect of Cousin Alice. She’d sounded like a young woman, but telephone voices can be deceptive. I rang the bell. A flat metal mailbox was affixed to the wall near the front door. The printed calling card visible in a small slot read ALICE HILDRETH FIX.
The woman who came to the door appeared to be in her seventies. I suspected she was wearing a wig because her blond hair was too thick and glossy to be her own. She wore it in what in my day was referred to as a flip; shoulder length, with the ends turned up perkily. She wore a yellow crewneck sweater and a gray tweed skirt, knee-high hose, and penny loafers. I wouldn’t have guessed about the knee-highs, except that she’d rolled both down around her ankles to ease her circulation.
“Hi, I’m Kinsey,” I said. “And you’re Alice?”
She opened the storm door. “I am. Lolly’s mother and mine were sisters. Are those for her?”
“Oh, sorry,” I said, handing her the bouquet. I held out the candy box. “These are for her as well.”
She took both, saying, “Very nice. Won’t you come in?”
“Thanks. I really appreciate your letting me stop by.”
“Lolly’s in the backyard,” she said. “I’ll introduce you, but I should warn you, ten minutes from now she won’t remember who you are. She suffers dementia and she’s easily confused.”
I felt my heart sink, wishing she’d mentioned this on the phone. My optimism faded as I followed her through the house. I’d be asking Lolly about events that occurred some sixteen years before. It hadn’t seemed like such a stretch when I came up with the plan. Now I wondered if there was any point.
20
PETE WOLINSKY
July 1988, Three Months Earlier
On Saturday, Pete drove over to Santa Teresa Hospital and had a long chat with the medical librarians, doing what he thought of as due diligence. He explained that he was a freelance journalist, working on an article about Glucotace. He said another writer had passed along preliminary notes, but Pete couldn’t make heads nor tails of his handwriting, so he wasn’t sure how the term was used, only that he was expected to cover the subject, which would run as a two-part series.
These two women presided over thousands of medical texts and professional journals. They also had computer resources Pete couldn’t have accessed for love or money. Apparently, no one ever asked for assistance because they were soon falling all over themselves, getting him what he needed. They sat him down at a table and provided him with medical literature from which he made copious notes. He wasn’t entirely clear on some of the language or the medical terms—doctors had to fancy everything up with Latin—but the gist of it began to sink in as he read. Turned out Glucotace was an oral hypoglycemic medication, manufactured by a Swiss company called Paxton-Pfeiffer. The drug had been pulled off the market in 1969, after reports of users suffering serious and sometimes fatal side effects, among them blurred vision, anemia and other blood disorders, headaches, hepatic porphyria, stomach pain, nerve damage caused by excessive levels of porphyrin in the liver, hepatitis, hives, itching, skin rash, and skin eruptions. Pete shook his head. Last thing in the world a diabetic needed was another load of grief.
He moved on. Two recent abstracts suggested that the drug was going into Phase II clinical trials for off-label use in combination with certain first-generation sulphonylureas in the treatment of alcohol and nicotine addiction. One of the librarians returned to his table with additional information, providing him with an abstract of a proposal submitted to the National Institute of Alcohol Abuse and Alcoholism, which was part of the NIH, the National Institutes of Health. The randomized, double-blind study was intended to develop behavioral and drug-relapse prevention for individuals dependent on both nicotine and alcohol using a combination of Acamprosate, Naltrexone, and Glucotace.
According to the abstract: “The aim of this study is to compare the effect of cognitive therapy in adjunct of three different pharmacotherapies.”
The sponsor was Paxton-Pfeiffer in collaboration with the Santa Teresa Research Institute at the University of California Santa Teresa. The start date, September 1987. Estimated study completion date, September 1989. Estimated enrollment, 40. “This study is currently recruiting participants,” it said. Principal investigator: Linton Reed, M.D., Ph.D. Pete made a note of the eleven-digit clinical-trials government identifier number and then sat and thought about what he’d learned. The subject was still perplexing, but no longer opaque.
When he went back to the main desk and inquired about a Dr. Stupak, first name unknown, they rustled up a Viktor Stupak in an AMA publication that listed his graduation from medical school, his subsequent internship and residency, and various appointments, leading up to his current position as chief of Surgical Oncology, Arkansas Christian Cancer Center, which was affiliated with Arkansas Christian College in Conway, Arkansas.
Out of curiosity, he had them track down a photograph and bio of Linton Reed, which allowed him to trace his educational history as well. Reed had done his undergraduate work at Florida State. He remembered now that Willard had mentioned Florida State as the place where Linton and Mary Lee had met. After Florida State, Reed had been accepted at Duke, where he picked up his Ph.D. and M.D. in successive years. He then completed an internship and began his surgical residency at the very Arkansas Christian Cancer Center where Viktor Stupak, M.D., was currently ensconced. Linton Reed had been there a scant six months. After an unexplained gap, his career history picked up again when he was awarded a two-year fellowship by the National Science Foundation. Pete considered putting a call through to Dr. Stupak but didn’t think he’d have much luck. These medical types could be a close-mouthed lot.
