by Sue Grafton
I went back to the office.
As I stood in the corridor, searching through my handbag for my keys, I heard someone call my name. “Well, Kinsey! Isn’t this a surprise!”
I looked up to see the secretary of the book club coming down the hall. She was really quite an elegant little woman, hair perfectly coiffed, nails freshly done. I wondered if she’d spot the KINSEY MILLHONE INVESTIGATIONS in big brass letters on my door. Automatically I eased myself toward the California Fidelity offices next door, hoping to redirect her attention. I hadn’t exactly lied to the ladies, but I hadn’t really told them the truth, either, and I didn’t want Susie Grissom to find out what I was really up to.
“Hello, Jenny. What are you doing here?”
“I’ve just been to the dentist upstairs,” she said, glancing at the California Fidelity logo. “Is this the company where you work? Well, isn’t that nice. I’m just so pleased I ran into you. We’ve scheduled a special meeting tomorrow night, and we were hoping you could come, but nobody had your home phone. Here, I’ll just make a quick note of the address and the time. It’s at my house, and everybody’s bringing cookies, so don’t you forget.” She jotted the information on a scrap of paper and handed it to me.
“What’s the occasion?”
She lowered her voice. “We’re having a speaker, and the subject is murder. Won’t that be fun?”
Actually I thought it would.
What I pondered for the rest of the day was the notion of that redhead on the roof. Of course, the woman might have been Susie Grissom in a wig, despite everybody’s swearing she was at the meeting of the mystery book club. It might have been somebody else, too, but in that case, how did the redhead know he’d be up there? How did she know the house would be empty and the setup so perfect? And how’d she get in? More important, what was her motive? On the surface, Susie Grissom had everything to gain, and until now, I’d been dead certain she’d done it. Now I wasn’t sure what to think. Had she had an accomplice?
I called Harry Grissom at his office. “Did your brother have a girlfriend, by any chance? A redhead?”
“What?” he said, outraged. “Of course not! Who—?”
“Knock it off, Harry. Nobody said that. I’m on the track of something else.”
“Well, what’s the redhead got to do with it?”
“I’m not sure. I don’t want to go into detail at the moment, but somebody’s linked a redhead with the circumstances of your brother’s death. I just wondered who it could have been. Did he ever mention anyone with red hair? A coworker? An old flame? Some friend of Susie’s?”
Harry considered briefly. “I don’t think so,” he said. “At least, not that I ever heard about.”
“Who else might have benefited?”
“No one. Believe me, I checked out every possible angle before I came to you. Why don’t you tell me what’s going on? Maybe I can help.”
“Let me try one thing first, and then we’ll have a chat.”
After work the next day I stopped at the bakery and bought some cookies, which I arranged on a plate when I got home. I put a dab of jam in the center of each, lightly sifted on some powdered sugar, and covered the plate with plastic wrap. Looked homemade to me. At ten to seven I put on some clean blue jeans, a sweater, and my tennis shoes, grabbed the plate of cookies, my handbag, and Jenny’s address. She lived close to the heart of town, not that far from my office.
There were so many cars in the area, I had to park a block away. Jenny’s driveway was crammed, and I had to guess that most of the women had already assembled. I’d forgotten to ask who the speaker was. It might have been Lieutenant Dolan for all I knew. I rang the bell, standing on the porch while I waited for someone to let me in. The car parked right at the end of the walk was a little white Mercedes with a scratch down the side. I’d been staring at it idly for thirty seconds before the significance hit me. The front door opened right at that moment, and I gave a little jump, nearly dropping my plate. Jenny greeted me cheerfully and ushered me in.
“Nice little Mercedes,” I said. “Whose is it?”
“Mine,” a voice said behind me. I turned and found myself shaking hands with the redhead who was standing there.
“I’m Shannon,” she said. “Ooo, cold hands.”
I remembered then that we didn’t have a dentist in our building, and I wondered what had really brought Jenny there the day before. In the living room I could see fifteen or twenty women all seated on folding chairs. Several turned to look at me, their faces blank and curious and dead. My stomach gave a sudden squeeze, and I knew I was in trouble. We were playing an elaborate game and I was “it.”
“Uh, Jenny. Do you mind if I go to the potty real quick? I got a bladder the size of a walnut,” I said.
“Surely. Right down here,” Jenny murmured as she led the way. “Now you hurry back. I’m just putting out refreshments.”
“I won’t be a sec,” I said. I eased the bathroom door shut behind me and flipped the lock. It was broken, of course—probably jammed. I tried the bathroom window, but it wouldn’t budge. Call it precognition, intuition—anything you like. I knew as surely as I was standing there that the women of the Santa Teresa Mystery Readers had all pitched in. Susie Grissom had a problem, and they’d helped her out, providing her a surrogate killer and an alibi. I wondered how many other little domestic conflicts they’d resolved the same way. Meddlesome mothers-in-law, sassy stepkids. Tragic home accidents that everybody felt so bad about. Or maybe Don Grissom was the first, and they were waiting to see if they’d gotten away with it.
I was ice cold, and under my sweater I could feel sweat trickle down my side. Heart pounding, I flushed the toilet and washed my hands, trying to maintain an outward semblance of calm. They had to know I was a private eye, and they probably guessed I was sniffing at the traces of Don Grissom’s death. Did they realize that I’d already figured out what was going on? My only hope was to play dumb and wait for a chance to escape.
As I came out of the bathroom Jenny was just passing with a large cut-glass bowl of punch. How about right now? I thought.
“Careful,” she sang.
“Oh, I will be,” I sang back.
I shoved her so hard, the punch flew back in her face, the rim of the bowl banging into her mouth, ice flying everywhere. She yelped, going down, taking two other women with her, in a heap. The redhead grabbed me, but I kicked her in the shin, then decked her with a punch that caught her on the jaw. I pulled a side table over, took off toward the kitchen, and yanked open the back door. Behind me, I could hear shrieks and the clatter of heels. I leapt off the porch and tore around the side of the house. In two bounds I scrambled up the neighbor’s fence and dropped into the next yard. I took two more fences in succession, heading through another yard and out to the street beyond.
It was fully dark by then, but the streetlights were on and I could see well enough. I glanced back in time to see two women drop over the fence behind me, toting baseball bats. They meant business! Even at a distance of half a block, I could hear several cars start up, and I knew they’d be bearing down on me soon. Headlights flashed around the corner toward me, and I doubled my speed, feet flying as I raced across the street.
I could hear someone coming up behind me, breathing hard, and I cranked up my pace again. Images clicked through my brain like still photographs. Dark houses. No foot traffic. No help. A car had pulled up ahead of me at the corner, four doors hanging open now as the occupants ran toward me. I didn’t have breath to waste on calling for help, but if somebody didn’t come to my assistance soon, I was one dead chick. They’d pound me unconscious and toss me off a bridge, load me on a boat and dump me in the sea, hack me up and keep me in their freezers until they figured out what to do next. The whole street seemed to thunder with the sound of running feet. I caught a glimpse of Susie Grissom coming up on my right. I straight-armed her like a fullback and knocked her off balance. With an “ooomph!” she went down, but two more women t
ook her place, and I sensed a third angling in from the rear.
My lungs were hot and I was gasping for air, but I was beginning to recognize the area and a plan was taking shape. I turned the corner, cutting left. I poured on the speed, heading for the lights I could see straight ahead. My brain felt disconnected, processing information at a leisurely rate while I ran for dear life. I was on Floresta now, a street I knew well. Just ahead, I could see four matching cars parked at the curb. Black-and-whites. Hot damn, I thought. The building behind them, which blazed now with lights, belonged to my beloved Santa Teresa Police. The members of the Santa Teresa Mystery Readers must have realized it, too, because I sensed that my pursuers were peeling away. By the time I reached the station house, there was no one left, and I flew up the front steps on winged feet, uncertain if I was laughing or crying when I finally burst through the doors.
a poison that leaves no trace
THE WOMAN WAS waiting outside my office when I arrived that morning. She was short and quite plump, wearing jeans in a size I’ve never seen on the rack. Her blouse was tunic-length, ostensibly to disguise her considerable rear end. Someone must have told her never to wear horizontal stripes, so the bold red-and-blue bands ran diagonally across her torso with a dizzying effect. Big red canvas tote, matching canvas wedgies. Her face was round, seamless, and smooth, her hair a uniformly dark shade that suggested a rinse. She might have been any age between forty and sixty. “You’re not Kinsey Millhone,” she said as I approached.
“Actually, I am. Would you like to come in?” I unlocked the door and stepped back so she could pass in front of me. She was giving me the once-over, as if my appearance was as remarkable to her as hers was to me.
She took a seat, keeping her tote squarely on her lap. I went around to my side of the desk, pausing to open the French doors before I sat down. “What can I help you with?”
She stared at me openly. “Well, I don’t know. I thought you’d be a man. What kind of name is Kinsey? I never heard such a thing.”
“My mother’s maiden name. I take it you’re in the market for a private investigator.”
“I guess you could say that. I’m Shirese Dunaway, but everybody calls me Sis. Exactly how long have you been doing this?” Her tone was a perfect mating of skepticism and distrust.
“Six years in May. I was with the police department for two years before that. If my being a woman bothers you, I can recommend another agency. It won’t offend me in the least.”
“Well, I might as well talk to you as long as I’m here. I drove all the way up from Orange County. You don’t charge for a consultation, I hope.”
“Not at all. My regular fee is thirty dollars an hour plus expenses, but only if I believe I can be of help. What sort of problem are you dealing with?”
“Thirty dollars an hour! My stars. I had no idea it would cost so much.”
“Lawyers charge a hundred and twenty,” I said with a shrug.
“I know, but that’s in case of a lawsuit. Contingency, or whatever they call that. Thirty dollars an hour . . .”
I closed my mouth and let her work it out for herself. I didn’t want to get into an argument with the woman in the first five minutes of our relationship. I tuned her out, watching her lips move while she decided what to do.
“The problem is my sister,” she said at long last. “Here, look at this.” She handed me a little clipping from the Santa Teresa newspaper. The death notice read: “Crispin, Margery, beloved mother of Justine, passed away on December 10. Private arrangements. Wynington-Blake Mortuary.”
“Nearly two months ago,” I remarked.
“Nobody even told me she was sick! That’s the point,” Sis Dunaway snapped. “I wouldn’t know to this day if a former neighbor hadn’t spotted this and cut it out.” She tended to speak in an indignant tone regardless of the subject.
“You just received this?”
“Well, no. It came back in January, but of course I couldn’t drop everything and rush right up. This is the first chance I’ve had. You can probably appreciate that, upset as I was.”
“Absolutely,” I said. “When did you last talk to Margery?”
“I don’t remember the exact date. It had to be eight or ten years back. You can imagine my shock! To get something like this out of a clear blue sky.”
I shook my head. “Terrible,” I murmured. “Have you talked to your niece?”
She gestured dismissively. “That Justine’s a mess. Marge had her hands full with that one,” she said. “I stopped over to her place and you should have seen the look I got. I said, ‘Justine, whatever in the world did Margery die of?’ And you know what she said? Said, ‘Aunt Sis, her heart give out.’ Well, I knew that was bull the minute she said it. We have never had heart trouble in our family. . . .”
She went on for a while about what everybody’d died of: Mom, Dad, Uncle Buster, Rita Sue. We’re talking cancer, lung disorder, an aneurysm or two. Sure enough, no heart trouble. I was making sympathetic noises, just to keep the tale afloat until she got to the point. I jotted down a few notes, though I never did quite understand how Rita Sue was related. Finally, I said, “Is it your feeling there was something unusual in your sister’s death?”
She pursed her lips and lowered her gaze. “Let’s put it this way. I can smell a rat. I’d be willing to bet Justine had a hand in it.”
“Why would she do that?”
“Well, Marge had that big insurance policy. The one Harley took out in 1966. If that’s not a motive for murder, I don’t know what is.” She sat back in her chair, content that she’d made her case.
“Harley?”
“Her husband—until he passed on, of course. They took out policies on each other and after he went, she kept up the premiums on hers. Justine was made the beneficiary. Marge never remarried and with Justine on the policy, I guess she’ll get all the money and do I don’t know what. It just doesn’t seem right. She’s been a sneak all her natural life. A regular con artist. She’s been in jail four times! My sister talked till she was blue in the face, but she never could get Justine to straighten up her act.”
“How much money are we talking about?”
“A hundred thousand dollars,” she said. “Furthermore, them two never did get along. Fought like cats and dogs since the day Justine was born. Competitive? My God. Always trying to get the better of each other. Justine as good as told me they had a falling-out not two months before her mother died! The two had not exchanged a word since the day Marge got mad and stomped off.”
“They lived together?”
“Well, yes, until this big fight. Next thing you know, Marge is dead. You tell me there’s not something funny going on.”
“Have you talked to the police?”
“How can I do that? I don’t have any proof.”
“What about the insurance company? Surely, if there were something irregular about Marge’s death, the claims investigator would have picked up on it.”
“Oh, honey, you’d think so, but you know how it is. Once a claim’s been paid, the insurance company doesn’t want to hear. Admit they made a mistake? Un-uhn, no thanks. Too much trouble going back through all the paperwork. Besides, Justine would probably turn around and sue ’em within an inch of their life. They’d rather turn a deaf ear and write the money off.”
“When was the claim paid?”
“A week ago, they said.”
I stared at her for a moment, considering. “I don’t know what to tell you, Ms. Dunaway—”
“Call me Sis. I don’t go for that Ms. bull.”
“All right, Sis. If you’re really convinced Justine’s implicated in her mother’s death, of course I’ll try to help. I just don’t want to waste your time.”
“I can appreciate that,” she said.
I stirred in my seat. “Look, I’ll tell you what let’s do. Why don’t you pay me for two hours of my time. If I don’t come up with anything concrete in that period, we can have another conversation
and you can decide then if you want me to proceed.”
“Sixty dollars,” she said.
“That’s right. Two hours.”
“Well, all right. I guess I can do that.” She opened her tote and peeled six tens off a roll of bills she’d secured with a rubber band. I wrote out an abbreviated version of a standard contract. She said she’d be staying in town overnight and gave me the telephone number at the motel where she’d checked in. She handed me the death notice. I made sure I had her sister’s full name and the exact date of her death and told her I’d be in touch.
My first stop was the Hall of Records at the Santa Teresa County Courthouse, two and a half blocks away. I filled out a copy order, supplying the necessary information, and paid seven bucks in cash. An hour later, I returned to pick up the certified copy of Margery Crispin’s death certificate. Cause of death was listed as a “myocardial infarction.” The certificate was signed by Dr. Yee, one of the contract pathologists out at the county morgue. If Marge Crispin had been the victim of foul play, it was hard to believe Dr. Yee wouldn’t have spotted it.
I swung back by the office, picked up my car, and drove over to Wynington-Blake, the mortuary listed in the newspaper clipping. I asked for Mr. Sharonson, whom I’d met when I was working on another case. He was wearing a somber charcoal-gray suit, his tone of voice carefully modulated to reflect the solemnity of his work. When I mentioned Marge Crispin, a shadow crossed his face.
“You remember the woman?”
“Oh, yes,” he said. He closed his mouth then, but the look he gave me was eloquent.
