by Sue Grafton
“What do you want to drink?” he called.
I moved over to the kitchen doorway. “Wine if you have it.”
“Great. There’s some in the fridge.”
“You do this often?” I asked, indicating the pups.
He shrugged, filling ice trays again. “Every three or four weeks. It depends,” he said and then smiled over at me. “See? I’m a nicer guy than you thought.”
I twirled an index finger in the air just to show how impressed I was, but I did, actually, think it was nice of him to sit the dogs. I couldn’t imagine Powers finding a kennel to keep them. He’d have to take them to the zoo. Charlie handed me a glass of wine, pouring a bourbon on the rocks for himself. I leaned against the doorframe.
“Did you know that Laurence had an affair at one time with Sharon Napier’s mother?”
He gave me a startled look. “You’re making a joke.”
“No I’m not. Apparently it happened some time before Sharon went to work for him. From what I gather, her ‘employment’ was a combination extortion and revenge. Which might explain the way she treated him.”
“Who told you this stuff?”
“What difference does that make?”
“Because it sounds like crap,” he said. “The name Napier never meant anything to me and I knew him for years.”
I shrugged. “That’s what you said about Libby Glass,” I replied.
I Charlie’s face began to fade. “Jesus, you don’t forgive a thing, do you?” He moved into the living room and I followed. He sat down in a wicker chair, which creaked beneath his weight.
“Is that why you’re here? To work?” he asked.
“Actually, it’s not. Actually, it’s just the opposite.”
“Meaning what?”
“I came out here to get away from it,” I said.
“Then why the questions? Why the third-degree? You know how I feel about Laurence and I don’t like to be used.”
I felt my own smile fade, my face setting with embarrassment.
“Is that what you think?” I asked.
He looked down at his glass, speaking carefully. “I can appreciate the fact you have a job to do. That’s fine with me and I’m not complaining about that. I’ll help you where I can, but I can do without the interrogation at every step. I don’t think you have any idea what it’s like. You ought to see the change that comes over you when you start talking homicide.”
“I’m sorry,” I said stiffly. “I don’t mean to do that to you. I get information and I need to have it verified. I can’t afford to take things at face value.”
“Not even me?”
“Why are you doing this?” I said, and my voice seemed to have dropped to a hush.
“I’m just trying to get a few things clarified.”
“Hey. You were the one who came after me. Remember that?”
“Saturday. Yes. And you were the one who came after me today. And now you’re pumping me and I don’t like that.”
I stared down at the floor, feeling fragile and mortified. I didn’t like being smacked down and it was pissing me off. A lot. I began to shake my head. “I had a hard day,” I said. “I really don’t need this shit.”
“I had a hard day too,” he said. “So what?”
I set my wineglass on the table and grabbed up my purse.
“Fuck off,” I said mildly. “Just go fuck yourself.”
I moved toward the kitchen. The dogs raised their heads and watched me pass. I was hot and they lowered their eyes meekly as though I had communicated that much at any rate. Charlie didn’t move. I banged out the back door and got into my car, starting it up with energy, peeling back up the driveway with a chirp. As I backed out onto the road, I caught a glimpse of Charlie standing near the carport. I put the car into first and pulled away.
Chapter 23
*
I’ve never been good at taking shit, especially from men. It was an hour after I got home before I cooled down. Eight o’clock and I still hadn’t eaten anything. I poured myself a big glass of wine and sat down at my desk. I took out some blank index cards and began to work. At 10:00 I had dinner ��� a sliced hardboiled-egg sandwich, which I ate hot on wheat bread with a lot of mayonnaise and salt, popping open a Pepsi and a package of corn chips. By then I’d consigned all the information I had to the index cards, which I’d tacked up on my bulletin board.
I sketched the story out, allowing myself to speculate. I mean, why now? I didn’t have much else to go on at this point. It seemed likely that someone had broken into the Fifes’ house the weekend the German shepherd was killed, while Nikki and Laurence were off at the Salton Sea with Colin and Greg. It also seemed likely that Sharon Napier had come up with something after Laurence died ��� which was (maybe) why she had gotten herself killed. I started making lists, systematizing the information I had, along with the half-formed ideas that were simmering at the back of my head. I typed up my sheets and arranged them in alphabetical order, starting with Lyle Abernathy and Gwen.
I didn’t dismiss the idea that Diane and Greg were possibly involved, though I couldn’t make any sense of the notion that either could have killed him, let alone Libby Glass. I included Charlotte Mercer on my list. She was spoiled and spiteful and I didn’t think she would spare any energy or expense in seeing that the world was arranged exactly as she wanted it. She could have hired someone if she didn’t want to go to the trouble of murdering him herself. And if she killed him, why not Libby Glass? Why not Sharon Napier, if Sharon had figured it out? I decided it might be smart to check with the airlines to see if her name appeared on any of the passenger lists for Las Vegas at the time Sharon died. That was one angle I hadn’t thought of. I made a note to myself. Charlie Scorsoni was still on my list and the realization had a disturbing effect.
There was a knock at the door and I jerked involuntarily, adrenaline shooting through me. I glanced at my watch: 12:25. My heart was thumping so hard it made my hands shake. I crossed to the door and bent my head.
“Yes?”
“It’s me,” Charlie said. “Can I come in?”
I opened the door. Charlie was leaning against the frame. No jacket. No tie. Tennis shoes with no socks. His square handsome face looked solemn and subdued. He searched my face and then looked away. “I came down on you too hard and I’m sorry,” he said.
I studied his face. “You had a legitimate complaint,” I said. I knew that my tone of voice was unrelenting, regardless of the content, and I knew that my purpose was punitive. He only had time to look at me to guess my real attitude and it frosted him some.
“Jesus Christ, could we just talk?” he said.
I glanced at him briefly and then moved away from the door. He came in, closing it behind him. He leaned on the door, hands in his pockets, watching me prowl the room, circling back to my desk, where I began to take cards down, packing papers away.
“What do you want from me?” he said helplessly.
“What do you want from me?” I snapped back. I caught myself and raised a hand. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to use that tone.”
He stared down at the floor as though trying to figure out where to go next. I sat down in the upholstered chair near the couch, flinging my legs over the padded arm.
“Want a drink?” I asked.
He shook his head. He moved over to the couch and sat down heavily, leaning his head back. His face looked lined, his brow furrowed. His sandy hair looked as though he’s run a hand through it more than once. “I don’t know what to do with you,” he said.
“What’s to do?” I asked. “I know I’m a bitch sometimes, but why not? I’m serious, Charlie. I’m too old to take any guff from anyone. And truly, in this case, I don’t know who did what to whom. Did you generate that fight or did I?”
He smiled slightly. “Okay, so we’re both touchy now and then. Is that fair enough?”
“I don’t know from fair anymore. I don’t know from any of this stuff.”
“Haven’t you ever heard of compromise?”
“Oh sure,” I said. “That’s when you give away half the things you want. That’s when you give the other guy half of what’s rightfully yours. I’ve done that lots of times. It sucks.”
He shook his head, smiling wearily. I stared at him, feeling stubborn and belligerent. He’d already given more than I, and I still couldn’t bend. He regarded me skeptically.
“Where do you go when you look at me that way?” he asked.
I didn’t know what to say so I kept my mouth shut. He reached over and waggled my bare foot as though to get my attention.
“You know you keep me at arm’s length,” he said.
“Really? Saturday night you think I did that?”
“Kinsey, sex was the only time you let me get close. What am I supposed to do with that? Chase around after you with my dick hanging out?”
I smiled inside, hoping it wouldn’t show on my face. He read it anyway in my eyes. “Yeah, why not?” I said.
“I don’t think you’re used to men,” he said, not making eye contact, and then he corrected himself. “Not men,” he said. “I don’t think you’re used to having anyone in your life. I think you’re used to being freewheeling. And that’s okay. Essentially I live the same way, but this is different. I think we should be careful of this.
“This what?”
“This relationship,” he said. “I don’t want you shutting me out. You’re not that hard to read. Sometimes you disappear like a shot and I can’t cope with that. I will try to tread easy. I’ll try not to be a horse’s ass myself, I promise you that. Just don’t run off. Don’t back away. You do this kind of knee-jerk retreat, like a clam.” He broke off then.
I softened, wondering if I’d misjudged him. I was too tough, too quick. I am hard on people and I know that.
“I’m sorry,” I said. I had to clear my throat. “I’m sorry I know I do that. I don’t know who was at fault, but you ticked me off and I blew.
I held my hand out and he took it, squeezing my fingers. He looked at me for a long time. He took my fingertips and kissed them lightly, casually, looking at me the whole time. I felt like a switch was being turned on at the base of my spine. He turned my hand over and pressed his mouth into my palm. I didn’t want him to do that but I noticed I wasn’t pulling my hand away. I watched him, hypnotically, my senses dulled by the heat that was raging way down, way deep. It was like a pile of rags beginning to smolder, some dark part of me hidden away under the stairs, something firemen had warned us about in grade school. Paint cans, jars of gasoline-fumes in compression. All it needed was a spark, sometimes not even that. I could feel my eyes close, mouth coming open against my will. I sensed that Charlie was moving but I couldn’t take that in and, the next thing I was aware of, he was on his knees between mine, pulling the neck of my T-shirt down, his mouth on my bare breast. I clutched at him convulsively, slid down and forward against him and he half lifted me, hands cupped under my ass. I hadn’t known how much I wanted him until then, until that point, but the sound I made was primitive and his response was fierce and immediate and after that, in the half light, with the table pushed aside, we made love on the floor. He did things to me that I’d only read about in books, and at the end of it, legs trembling, heart thudding, I laughed and he buried his face against my belly, laughing too.
He was gone again by 2:00 A.M. He had work to do the next day and so did I. Even so, I missed him as I brushed my teeth, smirking at my own reflection in the bathroom mirror. My chin was pink from whisker bum. My hair seemed to be standing straight up on end. There is nothing quite as smug as the selfcongratulation that abounds when one has been thoroughly and proficiently screwed, but I was a little bit embarrassed with myself nevertheless. This was not good, not cool. As a rule, I scrupulously avoid personal contact with anyone connected with a case. My sexual wrangling with Charlie was foolish, unprofessional, and in theory, possibly dangerous. In some little nagging part of my head, it didn’t feel right to me, but I did love his moves. I couldn’t think when I’d last run into a man quite so inventive. My reaction to him was gut-level chemistry ��� like crystals of sodium flung in a swimming pool, throwing off sparks, dancing across the water like light. I had a friend once who said to me, “Wherever there is sex, we work to create a relationship that’s worthy of it.” I thought about that now, sensing that soon I would do that with him ��� start to bond, start to fantasize, start to throw out emotional tendrils like snow peas curling up a string. I was wary of it too. The sex was very good and very strong but the fact remained that I was still in the middle of an investigation and he still had not been crossed off my list. I didn’t think our physical relationship had clouded my judgment about him, but how could I tell? I couldn’t really afford to take the chance. Unless, of course, I was just rationalizing my own inclination to hold back. Was I that careful with myself these days? Was I really just sidestepping intimacy? Did I long to relegate him to the role of “possible suspect” in order to justify my own reluctance to take a risk? He was a nice man ��� smart, caring, responsible, attractive, perceptive. What in God’s name did I want?
I turned the bathroom light out and made up my bed, which really just amounted to a quilt folded lengthways on the couch. I could have opened out the sofa bed and done it right ��� sheets, pillow case, a proper nightgown. Instead I’d pulled the same T-shirt over my head and tucked myself into the fold of the quilt. My body heat was making a sexual perfume waft up from between my legs. I turned out the lamp on the desk and smiled in the dark, shivering with the recollection of his mouth on me. Maybe this wasn’t the time to get analytical, I thought. Maybe this was just a time to reflect and assimilate. I slept like the dead.
In the morning, I showered, skipping breakfast, reaching the office by 9:00. I let myself in and checked with the service. Con Dolan had called. I dialed the Santa Teresa Police Department and asked for him.
“What,” he barked, already annoyed with the world.
“Kinsey Millhone here,” I said.
“Oh yeah? What do you want?”
“Lieutenant, you called me!” I could hear him blink.
“Oh. Right. I got a report here from the lab on that letter. No prints. Just smudges, so that’s no good.”
“Rats. What about the handwriting? Does that match?”
“Enough to satisfy us,” he said. “I had Jimmy go over it and he says it’s legitimate. What else you got?”
“Nothing right now. I may come in and talk to you, though, in a couple of days if that’s okay.”
“Call first,” he said.
“Trust me,” I replied.
I went out on the balcony and stared down at the street. Something wasn’t right. I’d been half convinced that letter was a fake but now it was confirmed and verified. I didn’t like it. I went back in and sat down in my swivel chair, tipping back and forth slightly, listening to it creak. I shook my head. Couldn’t figure it out. I glanced at the calendar. I’d been working for Nikki for two weeks. It felt like she’d hired me a minute ago and it felt like I’d been on the case all my life. I tilted forward and grabbed a scratch pad, totaling the time I’d put in, adding expenses on top of that. I typed it all up, made copies of my receipts, and stuck the whole batch in an envelope, which I mailed to her out at the beach. I went into the California Fidelity offices and shot the shit with Vera, who processes claims for them.
I skipped lunch and knocked off at 3:00. I stopped on the way home and picked up the eight-by-ten color photographs of Marcia Threadgill and I sat in my car for a moment to survey my handiwork. It isn’t often that I have such a captivating spectacle of avarice and fraud. The best shot (which I might have called “Portrait of a Chiseler”) was of Marcia standing up on her kitchen chair, shoulders strained by the weight of the plant as she lifted it up. Her boobs, in the crocheted halter top, sagged down like flesh melons bursting through the bottom of a string bag. The image was so clear that I
could see where her mascara had left little black dots on her upper lids like tracks of some tiny beast. Such a jerk. I smiled to myself grimly. If that’s the way the world works, then let me not forget. I was resigned by now to the fact that Ms. Threadgill would have her way. Cheaters win all the time. It wasn’t big news but it was worth remembering. I slid all the pictures back into the manila envelope. I started the car and headed toward home. I didn’t feel Re running today. I wanted to sit and brood.
Chapter 24
*
I pinned the photograph of Marcia Threadgill up on my bulletin board and stared at it. I kicked my shoes off and walked around. I’d been thinking all day and it was getting me nowhere, so I took out the crossword puzzle Henry had left on my doorstep. I stretched out on the couch, pencil in hand. I did manage to guess 6 Down ��� “disloyal,” eight letters, which was “twofaced,” and I got 14 Across, which was “double-reed instrument,” four letters ��� ” oboe.” What a whiz. I got stuck on “double helix,” three letters, which turned out later to be “DNA ” a cheat if you ask me. At 7:05, I had an idea that jumped out of the dim recesses of my brain with a little jolt of electricity.
I looked up Charlotte Mercer’s telephone number and dialed the house. The housekeeper answered and I asked for Charlotte.
“The judge and Mrs. Mercer are having dinner,” she said disapprovingly.
“Well, would you mind interrupting please? I just have a quick question. I’m sure she won’t mind.”
“Who shall I say is calling?” she asked. I gave her my name.
“Just one moment.” She put the receiver down.
I corrected her mentally. Whom, sweetheart. Whom shall I say is calling…
Charlotte answered, sounding drunk. “I don’t appreciate this,” she hissed.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “But I need a piece of information.”
