by Sue Grafton
He turned without another word and moved around the back of his car to the driver’s seat. He got in and slammed the door.
It took him two tries to get his car started, but then he peeled out with a chirp.
Anna was right. The guy was a drama queen.
I unlocked the Mustang, tossed my duffel into the backseat and my shoulder bag in the front. I got in, started the car, and pulled out of the slot. Such was the thrilling climax of my twenty-four-hour sojourn in Bakersfield.
By 10:52, I was driving west on California Street toward the southbound on-ramp to State Route 99. There were two more delays coming up but I didn’t know that yet, so I was excited about getting home. Bakersfield had been a bust. In the main, I’d accomplished my goals, but in doing so, I’d stirred up a nest of hornets. Two of Dace’s three kids were hopeless. I couldn’t convince them their father had been dealt a bad hand. As far as Ethan and Anna were concerned, his leaving me the money had only fanned the resentment they’d carried for years. How else could it have turned out? Of course they were angry. Of course they responded with more of the same.
There were other elements in play. It would be disingenuous to claim I was above caring about $595,350. I’d never been close to that much money in my life, and while it wasn’t really mine, it was certainly a subject worthy of consideration. Briefly, I fantasized about what would happen if I disregarded the terms of the will and divided the inheritance equally among the three. How far might that go toward healing the rift? Nowhere. Ethan and Anna would blow their portion and then expect Ellen to fork over hers until that was gone as well. Ellen would agree because she felt guilty about the two of them, an attitude they’d fostered in her over the years.
I toyed with the idea of handing over part of the money—say, $100,000 divided three ways instead of the half a million plus. The flaw there was that if I thought they were entitled to a little bit of money, why not the whole amount? Either it was all right or all wrong. Acting in opposition to Dace’s wishes was clearly wrong, regardless of Ethan’s threats or Evelyn’s maneuvering. Money aside, from their point of view the crux of the problem was Dace’s love affair with hooch and his refusal to give it up. In his children’s eyes, he’d died preferring alcohol to them.
Driving south on the 99, I hadn’t even cleared the city limits when I caught sight of the highway sign for the Panama Lane off-ramp. The name jumped out at me because I’d seen it in my paper search for Choaker Lane where the Millhones had lived in the early forties. When I’d consulted the city map, the address was too far off the beaten path to worry about; at the time, Ethan Dace was uppermost on my mind. Now I was in range of the house where my father had lived and the question was this: did I care enough to delay my trip home?
Nah, not so much. The Millhones were long gone, and getting back to Santa Teresa mattered more to me than exploring sites of historical family significance. I was curious, but going five miles out of my way seemed irksome when all I wanted was to put distance between me and Bakersfield. On the other hand (I was always thinking in terms of this “other hand” horseshit . . .), who knew if I’d ever be here again? Henry would ask what I’d learned and I didn’t fancy telling him I’d jettisoned the search. He wouldn’t chide me, but I’d be chiding myself for not taking advantage of the occasion while I could.
I signaled my intention, took the off-ramp, and pulled over to the side of the road at the first decent opportunity. I was annoyed. Why couldn’t I go back to being an orphan like I’d been all my life? Had I ever once complained about it? No, I had not. I’d taken a certain peevish pride in being without close family. Now my lone-wolf status had been taken away and I resented the loss, even if it had always been entirely delusional on my part. As it turned out, I was embroiled in the same dysfunctional mess as everyone else I knew.
I opened the oversize map, which was thirty-six inches by fifty and printed on slick, heavy-duty paper that was awkward to unfold. Once I wrestled it into submission, I ran my eye down the page and traced Panama Lane both east and west. The delicate lace of intersecting streets defined a succession of neighborhoods. This must have been farmland once upon a time, perhaps much of it still was. The burgeoning city had spread out in all directions as the inhabitants multiplied. Through the windshield I was looking at the same flat landscape that characterized the entire area, which was pockmarked with housing developments that finally gave way to open fields. Choaker Lane was farther east, close to the north-south axis of Cottonwood Road.
As I drove, I kept an eye on the passing street signs. Having committed myself, I could picture my spotting the old homestead. Perhaps I’d park and get out. I might knock on the door to ask the current occupant if I could make a quick tour of the rooms. It was possible the present owner had bought the house from someone who knew when it was built or how many hands it had passed through. I slowed in anticipation of my turn and took a left, checking house numbers as I proceeded from 4800 down to the 4600 block with a mounting sense of dismay. There was no 4602. The entire neighborhood was gone. I pulled over to the curb.
Where the Millhone house had once stood there was a settlement of condominiums; identical six-story stucco structures, arranged in a staunch grid spread over twenty-five or thirty acres. The few trees I saw were young and newly planted. The streets that branched off of Choaker Lane had been named after New England states—Maine, Vermont, New Hampshire, Connecticut, Massachusetts, and Rhode Island. If the colony continued to expand, the Eastern Seaboard might be called into play, starting with New Jersey and running all the way down to Florida.
I pulled away from the curb and proceeded along Choaker until I reached a set of ornamental gates. I turned in and cruised the roads that ran between the monolithic buildings. There wasn’t much to see since they were all identical. My grandparents’ house had been erased, as had the houses on either side—as had the homes extending for six or eight city blocks in every direction. Even the soil had been excavated and carted away, so any relics—arrowheads, sun-bleached bones, the caps from old soda bottles—were gone now as well. I could take a metal detector and scan the surrounding area for two square miles without turning up so much as an old spoon.
This is your reward for denial, I thought. You decide you don’t care and the family home vanishes. The irony wasn’t lost on me. The Universe was having a little tee-hee at my expense. Whereas the Kinsey branch of the family was chockablock with cousins, aunts, and uncles, even an ancient living grandmother, the Millhones had disappeared. As further punishment, I was now saddled with a cluster of second or third cousins related to me tangentially through Rebecca Dace, and I was far better acquainted with that bunch than I wanted to be. I’d also inherited the family corpse, a dead guy whose last rites had fallen to me. The only upside I could see was that the Daces made my mother’s side of the family look like bastions of mental health.
I headed back to the 99 and took up my southbound journey. Forty miles outside of Bakersfield, I checked my watch. It was 11:45 and I was starving. I hadn’t bothered to eat anything before I left the hotel. I’d been more interested in getting the journey under way than in feeding my face. How foolhardy was that? I’d never make it to Santa Teresa without something to eat. I wouldn’t arrive until midafternoon and by then I’d be gnawing my own arm. I pulled my shoulder bag closer and fumbled through the interior, but all I came up with was a sugarfree breath mint of no known nutritional value. At that very moment, I realized I’d forgotten to call Henry to advise him of my estimated arrival time. That did it.
I started scanning for highway signs, looking for the closest rest stop. Of particular interest was the crossed knife and fork, the universal symbol for fatty foodstuffs. Coming up on the Tejon Pass, I took the Frazier Mountain Park Road where the Flying J promised numerous forms of relief: weighing scales, a pump dump, liquid propane, diesel fuel, a travel store, and overnight RV accommodations. The parking area was expansive, probably three hundred spaces, only a small number of which were taken. Most important
of all was the Denny’s restaurant rising up in splendor.
I parked two aisles away from the entrance, locked the Mustang, and went in. I availed myself of the facilities and then found an empty booth. A kindly waitress brought me water, a menu, and silverware. Since I’d eaten breakfast a scant three hours before, I skipped that section of the menu and looked at the garish photographs of burgers. Most were alarmingly large; double-meat patties with cheese and all manner of folderol piled up in a bun. Feeling virtuous, I opted for a salad, knowing that before I left I could hoof it over to the minimart and stock up on candy bars.
When I paid my check, I asked the cashier to make change for a five-dollar bill. I’d seen a pay phone outside the service station and I was headed in that direction when a middle-aged man approached from the parking lot and tagged me by the arm.
“Is that your Mustang?”
I turned to him with surprise. “It is.”
“I thought so. I saw you pull in. My wife and I had a booth by the window and she’s the one who called it to my attention. We were just having a closer look.”
“I take it you’re a fan.”
“Yes’sum, but that’s not why I came looking for you. Are you aware you have a flat tire?”
“You’re kidding. Flat as in dead flat or low on air?”
“Come on and I’ll show you. I worried you might not notice it. You get back on the road and first thing you know, you’d be riding on the rim.”
He turned and headed toward the rows of parked cars and I quick-stepped to catch up.
“Where’re you coming from?” he asked.
“Bakersfield. I’m on my way to Santa Teresa.”
We passed through to the second aisle. His wife was standing by the Mustang and she sent me an apologetic smile, as though she felt responsible for the problem I’d been dealt.
He said, “I’m Ron Swingler, by the way, and this is my wife, Gilda.”
“Kinsey Millhone,” I said as we shook hands all around. “I appreciate your taking the time to let me know about this.”
They shared a similar body type, round through the middle with truncated extremities. Easy to see how their shared lifestyle and eating habits had created the symmetry.
“What about you? Where are you from?” I asked.
“Texas. This is our honeymoon. We’ve been married two days.”
There went that keenly observed conclusion.
Then I caught sight of my left rear tire. “Well, dang. That is flat.”
“Look here.” He pointed to a round metal circle the size of a pencil eraser between the sidewall and the hubcap with its tiny silver horse in the center. “Looks like a roofing nail, which is technically called a clout nail. Short shank with that wide flat head? I put myself through college working as a roofer. This is the type we used to fasten shingles or roofing felt. Nail like that isn’t but about that long,” he said, showing me with his thumb and index finger. “Pull it out, you’ll probably see a ring or screw shank.”
“Weird spot for a nail. How you think it got there?”
“My opinion, you’re looking at an act of vandalism. Somebody had to hammer this little fellow through your sidewall. You must have been parked in a bad neighborhood.”
“I guess I was,” I said. I thought about Ethan appearing between the two cars, his tossing something ever so casually into the front seat of his Toyota.
Ron Swingler said, “You want, I can swap that out for you, as long as your spare’s in good shape.”
“Thanks, but I can talk to someone at the service station. I don’t want to hold you up.”
Gilda spoke up, saying, “He doesn’t mind. Why don’t you let him give you a hand?”
“It won’t take fifteen minutes. Probably less,” he said.
I thought about it briefly. These were good people and I suspected the more I protested, the more they’d insist. Maybe their kindness would offset Ethan’s malevolence to some extent. “Actually, I could use the help if you’re sure you don’t mind.”
“My pleasure,” he said. “Why don’t you and Gilda wait in the RV and I’ll come get you when I’m done.”
Which is what we did. Their motor home was parked one aisle behind the one I was in. Gilda unlocked the door to the RV and stepped in ahead of me, then turned back and held open the door.
“You want coffee?”
“I’m fine. I’m hoping to get home without making another stop. Coffee would go right through me,” I said.
The interior was snug: two bench seats with a table between, a tiny galley-style kitchen, and a bed that seemed to fill the front end. I wasn’t sure what we were going to talk about, but that wasn’t a problem because she had plenty on her mind. As we took our seats, she said, “Let me ask you something. Do you have kids or grandkids?”
I shook my head. “I’m afraid not.”
“Listen to this and tell me what you think. Ron has a granddaughter, Ava, who’s seven years old. She’s all into figure skating, which she practices twenty-two hours a week. Her mom and dad—this is Ron’s son and daughter-in-law—are spending nine thousand dollars a year on lessons and competitions. Does that sound right to you?”
“I guess the discipline might be good for her.”
“I don’t know what to think. Seven years old and that’s all she does. Doesn’t read. Doesn’t play with Barbie dolls. She hardly ever goes outside, for Pete’s sake, and that’s all I cared about when I was her age. There’s something off about that.”
“I hear you,” I said.
“What’s her mother thinking is what I want to know.”
She went on in this vein long after my interest waned. I tuned her out, making polite mouth noises while I checked the wall clock behind her. I could tell she was processing the idea of keeping her mouth shut, which is generally a smart move though I’ve never mastered it myself.
When her husband finally opened the door and told me the spare was in place, I thanked both of them profusely. I didn’t want to bolt when he’d just done me such a service, so we chatted for a bit. I expressed my gratitude again and he waved aside my thanks. I knew better than to offer him money. He was clearly a man who enjoyed being of service to women in distress.
We finally affected our farewells and I continued on to the pay phone, where I piled change on the metal shelf, inserted coins, and dialed Henry’s number.
He picked up on the third ring. “This is Henry.”
“Hey, Henry. It’s Kinsey. Sorry I didn’t have a chance to call you earlier.”
“Where the heck are you? I thought you were on your way home.”
“I am but I had a flat.” I filled him in on my stop for lunch, wondering how far I might have gotten driving on a tire with a nail driven into it. No point in worrying about it now, so I moved on. “How’s Felix doing?”
“Not well. He developed a clot on his brain, so they had to go in and operate. Now it looks like he’s fighting some sort of secondary infection, which is more bad news.”
“Is he going to make it?”
“Hard to know. William swears he’s on his way out.”
“William thinks everybody’s half dead. What do the doctors say?”
“They don’t seem optimistic. It’s not what they say; it’s the look in their eyes,” he said. “I’ll be glad to have you home. What time do you think you’ll get in?”
I checked my watch again. It was now 1:22. “Not for another couple of hours.”
“Why don’t you plan on having supper here? You’ll be tired and you’ll need a glass of Chardonnay.”
“Sounds good.”
We were winding up the conversation and I was close to hanging up when he said, “Oh! I almost forgot. Your friend Dietz is on his way down from Carson City. He says he should be here by six, so I invited him for dinner, too.”
I could feel myself squint. “Dietz? What’s he want?”
“I guess there’s a problem with that job referral.”
“Job referral?�
��
“That’s what he said. I figured you’d know what he was talking about.”
“I have no idea.”
“You can ask him yourself when he gets here,” he said.
And with that, he hung up.
23
Naturally, the rest of the trip was uneventful and the miles flew out behind me at warp speed. Just when I longed for a delay (a minor car wreck, perhaps, or a sudden bout of the runs that would have me getting off the highway at every other exit lest I mess my underpants), there was no such luck in store. Feeling crabby and out of sorts, I brooded about Ethan Dace hammering a nail into my tire and then, as if I wasn’t sufficiently annoyed, I took a little trip down memory lane, summing up my relationship with the aforementioned Robert Dietz.
I’d met him five years before, in May of 1983, when I found myself on the hit list of a small-time Nevada punk named Tyrone Patty, who’d been charged with attempted murder in the shooting of a liquor store clerk. He’d fled to Santa Teresa and I was assigned the task of tracking him down, which I did. He was sent back to Nevada, where he was tried, convicted, and thrown into prison. From that point on, his life had spiraled out of control and he held four of us personally accountable: me; the Carson City DA; the judge who’d sentenced him; and Lee Galishoff, the public defender who’d represented him. Never mind that Tyrone Patty was a persistent felon long before we entered the picture. Like many whose poor choices have led them astray, he accepted no responsibility as long as he had someone else to blame.
Once out of prison, he’d gone right out and murdered three more hapless victims—also our fault, no doubt—but while still in prison, he’d put out feelers for a contract killer to whack the four of us. Galishoff had gotten wind of it and called, urging me to hire a bodyguard, which I thought was absurd. Who can afford a bodyguard twenty-four hours a day? Was he nuts? He’d suggested Robert Dietz, a PI who specialized in personal protection. I’d recognized the name because I’d put a call through to him the year before when I needed a quick job done and it made no sense for me to travel to all the way to Carson City.
