M is for MALICE

by Sue Grafton

  “Why did you agree to work for that attorney then? Isn’t she your cousin?”

  “Well, yes, but I didn’t intend to agree. I intended to turn her down, but then greed and curiosity got the better of me. I have a living to earn and I didn’t want to refuse out of perversity. I know I’ll regret it, but I’m into it now so there’s no sense beating myself up.”

  “Sounds harmless enough on the face of it.”

  “It’s not harmless. It’s annoying. And besides, that isn’t the point. The point is, I’d like for them to respect my boundaries.”

  “What boundaries? She hired you to do a job. As long as you get paid, that’s the end of it.”

  “Let’s hope. Besides, it’s not her so much as the other two. Liza and Pam. If I give an inch, they’ll invade my space.”

  “Oh, bullshit. That’s California psychobabble. You can’t live your life like a radio talk show.”

  “What do you know? I don’t notice you all cozied up to your family.”

  I could see him flinch. His expression shifted abruptly to one of injury and irritation. “Low blow. What I say about my kids, I don’t want you throwing back in my face.”

  “You’re right. I’m sorry. I withdraw the remark.”

  “Withdraw the knife and the wound’s still there,” he snapped. “What’s the matter with you? You’re so bristly these days. You’re doing everything you can to keep me at arm’s length.”

  “I am not,” I said, and then I stared at him, squinting. “Is that true?”

  “Well, look at your behavior. I haven’t even been here two days and we’re already fighting. What’s that about? I didn’t travel all this way to pick a fight with you. I wanted to see you. I was excited we’d have time together. Hell. If I’d wanted to fight, I could have stayed with Naomi.”

  “Why didn’t you? I don’t mean the question in a mean-hearted way, but I’m curious. What happened?”

  “Oh, who knows? I have my version, she has hers. Sometimes I think relationships have a natural lifespan. Ours ran out. That’s all it was. The explanations come afterwards when you try to make sense of it. Let’s get back to you. What’s going on in your head?”

  “I’d rather fight than feel nothing.”

  “Those are your only two options?”

  “That’s what it feels like, but I couldn’t say for sure.”

  He reached out and gave my hair a tug. “What am I going to do with you?”

  “What am I going to do with you?” I replied.

  Chapter 7

  *

  When we returned to the apartment at ten-fifteen, Henry’s kitchen light was on. Dietz said his knee was killing him, so he let himself into the apartment where he intended to take a couple of pain pills, prop his feet up, and put his ice pack to work. I said I’d be along momentarily. Our conversation at Rosie’s hadn’t really gone anywhere. I couldn’t bear to continue and I couldn’t bear behaving as though the subject hadn’t been broached. I didn’t know what I wanted from him and I wasn’t sure how to say it anyway, so I just ended up sounding needy. My general policy is this: If your mind isn’t open, keep your mouth shut, too.

  I knocked on Henry’s backdoor, waving at him through the window when he looked up at me. He was sitting in his rocking chair with the evening paper and his glass of Jack Daniel’s. He smiled and waved back, setting the paper aside so he could let me in. He had the heat turned up and the inside air was not only warm, but deliciously scented with yesterday’s cinnamon rolls.

  “This feels great. It’s really cold out there,” I said. The kitchen table was covered with old black-and-white photographs sorted into piles. I glanced at them briefly as I pulled out a kitchen chair and turned my attention to him. From my point of view, Henry Pitts is perfection-smart, good-natured, and responsible ��� with the cutest legs I’ve ever seen. He’s been my landlord for five years, since the day I spotted the ad for the apartment in a Laundromat. Henry was looking for a long-term tenant who was clean and quiet; no children, loud parties, or small, yapping dogs. As a lifelong mobile home inhabitant, I was addicted to compact spaces, but ready to limit contact with a lot of close, unruly neighbors. Trailer-park life, for all its virtues, entails an intimate acquaintance with other people’s private business. Since I make a living as a snoop, I’d just as soon keep my personal affairs to myself. The converted single-car garage Henry was offering was better than my fantasies and affordable as well. Since then, the place had been bombed and rebuilt, the interior fitted out in teak and as cleverly designed as a ship’s.

  From the outset, Henry and I established just enough of a relationship to suit us both. Over the years, he’s managed to civilize me to some extent and I’m certainly more agreeable now than I was back then. Little by little, we forged the bond between us until now I consider him the exemplary mix of friend and generic family member.

  “You want a cup of tea?” he asked.

  “No, thanks. I just stopped to say hi before I hit the sack. Are these family pictures?” I asked, picking one at random.

  “That’s the claim,” he said. “Nell sent me those. She came across two boxes of old family photographs, but none are labeled. No names, no dates. She hasn’t an idea who these people are and neither do the other sibs. What a mess. Take my word for it. You should mark all your photographs, even if it’s just a quick note on the back. You might know who’s who, but nobody else will.”

  “Do they look familiar to you?”

  “A few.” He took the print I was looking at and squinted as he held it to the light. I peered over his shoulder. The woman in the picture must have been in her twenties, with a broad, bland face and hair drawn back in a bun. She wore a white middy blouse, with a calf-length skirt, dark stockings, and flat, dark shoes with a bow across the instep. Standing beside her was a glum-faced girl of eight with a drop-waist sailor dress and ankle-high lace up shoes. “I believe this is a picture of my mother’s younger sister, Augusta, taken in Topeka, Kansas, back in 1915. The child’s name was Rebecca Rose, if memory serves. She and her mother both died in the big influenza epidemic of 1918.” He picked up another one. “This is my mother with my grandfather Tilmann. I’m surprised Nell didn’t recognize them except her eyesight’s fading. Now that I think of it, I’m not sure why it matters. None of us have children, so once we’re gone, it won’t make any difference who these people are.”

  “Well, that seems sad. Why don’t you put ‘em in an album and pass them on to me? I’ll pretend they’re mine. What was his first name?”

  “Klaus. My mother’s name was Gudrun.” The man staring fixedly at the camera must have been in his late seventies, the daughter beside him in her fifties by the look of her. I said, “What’s the name Tilmann? Is that German? I somehow imagined you were all Swedes or Finns.”

  “Oh no, we’re not Scandinavian. They’re gloomy sorts, in my opinion. The Tilmanns were good German stock. Headstrong, autocratic, vigorous, and exacting. Some would say impossible, but that’s a matter of interpretation. Longevity is genetic and don’t ever let anybody tell you otherwise. I read those articles about folks who live to be a hundred. They all try to take credit, claim it’s because they smoke or don’t smoke, eat yogurt, take vitamins, or a tablespoon of vinegar a day. What nonsense. War and accidents excepted, you live a long time because you come from other people who live a long time. You have to take responsibility. You can’t subject yourself to any kind of gross mistreatment. My mother lived to be a hundred and three and I imagine the remaining five of us will live that long as well.”

  “You certainly seem to be in good shape. Nell’s what, ninety-six? And you have your eighty-sixth birthday. coming up on Valentine’s Day.”

  Henry nodded, making a motion as if to knock on wood. “We’re healthy, in the main, though we’re all shrinking down to some extent. We’ve talked about this and it’s our contention that the shrinkage is nature’s way of assuring you don’t take up so much space in your coffin. You lighten up, too
. Feels like taking air into your bones. Makes it easy on the pallbearers. And, of course, your faculties shut down. You get blind as a bat and your hearing fades. Charlie says it sounds like he’s got a pillow on his head all the time these days. Get old, you might as well not worry about your dignity. Anybody talks about dignity for old folks has never been around one as far as I can tell. You can keep your spunk, but you have to give up your vanity early on. We’re all in diapers. Well, I’m not, but then I’m the baby in the family. The rest of them leak any time they cough or laugh too hard.

  “Nell says one reason she misses William so much now he’s moved out here is because they can’t play bridge like they used to. Have to play three-handed, which isn’t as much fun. Lewis was thinking about asking a cousin to move in, but Nell won’t tolerate another woman in the house. She says she’s had her brothers to herself now for sixty years and she’s not about to change. Nell says once she ‘goes’ they can do anything they want, depending on who’s left.”

  “I can’t believe they’re still willing to endure the winters in Michigan. Why don’t they all move out here? You could play all the bridge you want.”

  “There’s talk of that. We’ll just have to see. Nell has her ladies’ luncheon group and she hates to leave them.” Henry put the photo down and took his seat again. “Now then, how are you? I had a nice chat with your friend Dietz. He says you picked up some work.”

  “Actually, I finished it. One of those quickies you remember fondly when the tough ones come along,” I said. I took a few minutes to fill him in on the search for Guy Malek.

  Henry shook his head. “What’s going to happen? Do you think he’ll get his share of the estate?”

  “Who knows? I don’t always hear the end of it, but Tasha thinks they’ll be able to work something out.”

  “How long will Dietz be here? I thought I’d have the two of you over for supper one night.”

  “Probably not long. He’s on his way up to Santa Cruz to see his sons,” I said.

  “Well, let me know if he’s still going to be here Saturday and I’ll cook something special. We’ll invite William and Rosie and Moza Lowenstein, if she’s free.”

  By the time I let myself into my place, Dietz had fallen asleep in his underwear, slouched down in his chair, snoring lightly. The television set was on, the volume low, the channel tuned to a nature show about underwater shark attacks. Dietz had his leg propped up on the edge of the sofa bed, a blanket pulled up across his chest and shoulders. The partially melted ice pack had toppled to the floor. I put that ice pack in the freezer and took out a second one, laying it carefully across his knee without waking him. His kneecap was swollen, the bare flesh looking pale and vulnerable. I left him as he was, knowing he’d wake long before morning. He sleeps in fits and starts like an animal in the wild, and I knew from past experience he seldom manages to make it through the night without getting up at feast twice.

  I eased off my shoes and made my way up the spiral stairs. From above, I stared down at him. His lined face looked alien in sleep, as if sculptured in clay. I seldom saw him at ease. He was restless by nature, perpetually in motion, his features animated by the sheer force of his nervous energy. Even as I watched, he stirred himself awake, jerking upright with a look of disorientation. I could see him wince, reaching for the ice pack balanced on his distended joint. I stepped away from the loft rail and went into the bathroom, where I washed my face and brushed my teeth. It was no doubt the proximity to all that testosterone, but I could feel the murmur of sexuality at the base of my spine. I grabbed an oversized T-shirt from a hook on the bathroom door. I usually sleep in the nude, but it seemed like a bad idea.

  Once ready for bed, I turned out the light and slipped under the quilt. I reached out and set my alarm, watching the digital clock flip from 11:04 to 11:05. Below, I could hear Dietz get up and move into the kitchen. The refrigerator door opened and closed. He took down a glass and poured himself a drink ��� wine, orange juice, or milk ��� something liquid at any rate. I heard him pull out a kitchen stool, followed by the rustle of newspaper. I wondered what he was thinking, wondered what would happen if I heard him climbing the stairs. Maybe I should have pulled on a robe and gone down to join him, thrown caution to the wind and to hell with the consequences, but it was not in my nature. Being single for so long had made me cautious about men. I stared up at the Plexiglas skylight above my bed, thinking about the risks involved in reaching out to him. Passion never lasts, but then what does? If you could have it all, but only briefly, would the rush of love be worth the price in pain? I could feel myself sinking into sleep as though weighted down with stones. I didn’t rise again until 5:59 A.M.

  I pulled on my sweats, preparing for my run as usual. Dietz was in the shower when I left the house, but I noticed with a pang he was in the process of packing. He’d laid the soft-sided suitcase open on the floor near the sofa bed, which he’d folded away. The blanket had been refolded and placed across one end. He’d piled the sheets he’d used near the washer. Maybe he felt his exodus would address my issues with him, minimizing the chances of my forming an attachment. What I noticed, perversely, was that, having felt nothing on his arrival, I was now afflicted with a stinging sense of loss at his departure. He’d been with me for two days and I was already suffering, so maybe I’d been smart not to take things any further. I’d been celibate for so long, what was another year without sex? I made an involuntary sound that might have been a whimper if I allowed myself such things.

  I closed the door quietly behind me, breathing deeply as though the damp morning air might ease the fire in my chest. Having passed through the front gate, I paused while I stretched, keeping my mind a blank. In the last several years as a private investigator, I’ve developed a neat trick for shutting off my feelings. Like others who work in the “helping” professions ��� doctors and nurses, police officers, social workers, paramedics, emotional disconnection is sometimes the only way to function in the face of death with all its tacky variations. Originally, my detachment took several minutes of concentrated effort, but now I make the shift in the blink of an eye. Mental-health enthusiasts are quick to assure us that our psychological well-being is best served by staying in touch with our feelings, but surely they’re not referring to the icky, unpleasant ones.

  The run itself was unsatisfactory. The dawn was overcast, the sky a brooding gray unrelieved by any visible sunrise. Gradually, daylight overtook the lowering dark, but the whole of it had the bleached look of an old black-and-white photograph. My gait felt choppy and I never really hit my stride. The air was so chilly I couldn’t even generate a decent sweat. I dutifully counted off the miles, feeling gratified to be doing it in spite of myself. Some days the discipline is an end in itself, a way of asserting the will in the face of life’s little setbacks. I walked the half block home, carefully brushing aside any slovenly sentiment.

  Dietz was sitting at the counter when I got in. He’d put on a pot of coffee and set out my cereal bowl. His bowl was already washed, rinsed, and drying in the dish rack. His suitcase, fully zipped, was waiting by the door along with his garment bag. Through the open bathroom door, I could see he’d tidied the basin of all his personal possessions. The scent of soap mingled with his aftershave, a damp male perfume permeating everything.

  “I thought it might be easier if I took off,” he said.

  “Sure, no problem. I hope you’re not doing it on my account.”

  “No, no. You know me. I’m not that good at staying put,” he said. “Anyway, you probably have a lot of work to do.”

  “Oh, tons,” I said. “You’re heading up to Santa Cruz?”

  “Eventually, yes. I’ll drive on up the coast, maybe spend a day in Cambria. With this knee, I have to break up the trip, anyway. You know, get out and stretch every hour or so. Keep it warm and loose. Otherwise, it locks up.”

  “What time are you taking off?”

  “Whenever you leave for work.”


  “Well, great. I’ll just grab a shower then and you can hit the road.”

  “Take your time. I’m in no hurry,” he said.

  “I can see that,” I remarked, as I headed up to the loft. This time he didn’t ask if I was mad. This was good because, in truth, I was furious. Under the fury was the old familiar pain. Why does everyone end up leaving me? What did I ever do to them? I went through my morning routine as efficiently as possible, flung on my clothes, and ate my cereal without pausing to read the paper. To demonstrate my indifference to his abrupt departure, I took out fresh sheets and asked him to help me remake the sofa bed. I hoped the implication was that some other guy was lined up for bed space as soon as he left. Neither of us said much and what we said was transactional. “Where’s the other pillowcase?” About like that.

  Once the sofa was redone, he took his suitcase to the car and came back for the garment bag. I walked him out to the curb and we exchanged one of those insincere kisses with the sound effects attached. Mmch! He fired up his Porsche and I dutifully waved as he roared off down the street. You little shit, I thought.

  I went into the office, ignoring a faint tendency to tear up for no reason. The day yawned in front of me like a sinkhole in the street. This was just what it felt like when he left before. Now how does this happen to someone of my rare spunk and independence? I play a few rounds of solitaire, paid some bills, and balanced my checkbook. Anxiety whispered in my gut like a stomachache. When the phone finally rang just before lunch, I snatched up the receiver, absurdly grateful at the interruption.

  “Kinsey. This is Donovan. How are you?”

  “Gee, I’m just fine. How are you?”

  “Well enough. Uh, listen, we got your message and we’d like to compliment you on a job well done. Tasha had to fly back to San Francisco this morning, but she said she didn’t think you’d mind giving us the information firsthand. Could you stop by the house for a drink late this afternoon?”

  “Well, sure. I could do that. I was going to type up my report and put it in the mail, but I can give you a rundown in person if you’d prefer.”