Y Is for Yesterday

by Sue Grafton

  “Uh, no. A Los Angeles publication. We picked up the story from the wire services and my editor asked me to pursue the subject.”

  “I don’t have anything to say.”

  “Nothing?”

  “It’s ancient history. Nobody cares about that stuff.”

  “You’d be surprised. Our readers are still very interested in Sloan Stevens’s death. You do know Fritz was released from the CYA the week before last?”

  “You just said that and I don’t give a shit.”

  I made a point of scribbling a note and then looked up at her. “Any other thoughts you’d like to share?”

  “Look, I’m busy here. What happens to Fritz has nothing to do with me.”

  “I wouldn’t be too sure. Someone’s unhappy about his being free and wants to get back at him.”

  That got her attention. “Meaning what?”

  “An anonymous party is threatening to turn a certain videotape over to law enforcement. The footage was shot in 1979. You probably know the tape I’m referring to since you appeared in it.”

  “So what? That tape disappeared ten years ago.”

  “Well, now it’s resurfaced with a note demanding a hefty sum of money or the sender will forward a copy to the DA, who could file criminal charges against the boys who participated.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “It’s not ridiculous to the person demanding the money. Far from it.”

  “But that’s blackmail, isn’t it?”

  “Not directed at you, but you’d be sucked into the mess.”

  “I thought the district attorney couldn’t do anything without my cooperation.”

  “Not so. The tape is evidence of a crime. Pursuing the matter doesn’t depend on your approval. The DA can file anyway.”

  “If Fritz is being blackmailed, how much money are you talking about?”

  “That’s not relevant since the party in question doesn’t intend to pay. What we’re hoping for is to identify the culprit before the situation gets out of hand.”

  “Oh, good plan. There’s a winner. How will you manage that?”

  “By talking to people like you.”

  “I don’t understand why you’re involved. You’re a journalist, not a police detective.”

  “Investigative reporter,” I said, correcting her. “This is what we do.”

  “I can’t help. I haven’t seen any of those guys since the trial.”

  “You haven’t had contact with any of them?” I asked.

  “I just told you. I’ve seen Roland Berg and Steve Ringer, who were both classmates. Everyone calls Steve Ringer ‘Stringer’ in case no one’s mentioned it. I’ve talked to Bayard a couple of times and that’s the extent of it.”

  “How recently?”

  “This is bullshit. Why should I tell you? I’m allowed to talk to anyone I please.”

  “What about the trial? Did you testify?”

  “I had to. They served me with a subpoena.”

  “Did you think the sentencing was fair?”

  “Sloan died. Someone had to pay.”

  “What about the tape?”

  “I never saw it. When I heard it disappeared, I thought that was the end of it.”

  “How much do you remember about the incident?”

  “It wasn’t ‘an incident,’ just a bunch of us messing around.”

  “You never reported it to the police?”

  “Of course not. We were being stupid. It was nothing serious.”

  “If the tape’s put in circulation, you’ll be publicly humiliated whether you were serious or not. You were sexually assaulted.”

  “I was not! Maybe it looks that way, but that wasn’t the deal. According to what I’ve heard, it was a stupid home movie all of four minutes long.”

  “There’s nothing stupid about rape, Iris. I’ve seen the tape.”

  “Well, I haven’t. You want to know what I hate about reporters?” she said. “You eat this shit up. You act, like, all sympathetic and concerned, but you love every minute of it. Other people’s degradation. Other people’s shame. If nothing’s happening, you generate the trouble yourself, just to see how we react. Write it down. Put it in the paper. You’re only doing your job. Right?”

  “That’s not how I operate.”

  “Then what are you doing here?”

  “I was hoping to be of help.”

  “Well, go help someone else. I don’t need anything from you.”

  “The others involved might disagree.”

  “Then talk to them.”

  “Who would you suggest?”

  “You figure it out. This is getting on my nerves.”

  “What about Poppy? Is she still in town?”

  “I have no idea. We’re not friends anymore. She and her boyfriend broke up because of that tape.”

  I had a quick flash of a buck-naked Troy going after Iris as she was lolling about on the pool table. I could well imagine it putting the kibosh on Poppy and Troy’s romance. Not many relationships could survive such a graphic betrayal.

  I flipped to an empty page in my notebook and jotted down my home phone, which is attached to an answering machine but makes no mention of Millhone Investigations. I tore out the leaf and offered it to her. “This number is local. I work freelance, so I’m easy to reach.”

  She held up her hands, refusing to take the note.

  “You might change your mind,” I said.

  She snatched the paper without making eye contact. “Shit. I’m getting married in a month. This is the last thing I need!”

  “Let’s hope the problem is resolved so you can get on with life.”

  • • •

  I spent part of my lunch hour driving to the hardware store, where I picked up window putty and a pane of glass for my broken office window. There wasn’t any trick to removing the remaining shards of glass, scraping out the old putty, and applying fresh putty once the new pane was in place, but it took time and I was annoyed at having to do it.

  At quarter to four that afternoon, I changed into workout clothes, packed my gym bag, and in a refreshing change of pace, attended the fourth in a ten-week program of women’s self-defense classes. I had Ned Lowe to thank for that. Being choked to near unconsciousness had made me wonderfully aware of how fragile life is and how easily I can be subdued. The program was mixed martial arts and all of the lessons were basic and to the point: street-fighting at the level of kicks and punches. We were encouraged to favor strategy over technique. As I’d realized while pinned facedown under Ned’s knee, most of what I’d learned about self-defense was bullshit. In the real world, assault is chaotic and we’re seldom afforded the opportunity to land a killing chop to the throat or a damage-dealing knee to an assailant’s groin.

  The odd but unremarkable truth about women is we’ve had the aggression bred right out of us. Many of us are constitutionally unable to handle any kind of confrontation without bursting into tears. A public encounter with a thug? We’re ill-prepared and ill-equipped. There were eight of us in my group and we were warned that one in six of us would be the victim of violent assault at some point. We couldn’t help eyeing one another, not wishing others ill, but each of us fervently hoping we wouldn’t be the bad guy’s statistical choice.

  What the class brought foremost to mind was my realization of what poor physical condition I was in. I had assumed that weight lifting and regular cardiovascular exercise was sufficient for self-protection. This was clearly not the case. Within five minutes of hand-to-hand combat, fabricated though it was, I was completely winded and bathed in sweat. I was improving, but the going was slow and I had to counsel myself to be patient and trust in the process. The two women in my group who’d been previously assaulted found the exercises particularly traumatic, as the physical mock battles act
ivated their feelings of vulnerability. I was part of the same spectrum, sensitive to what I considered my own failing to protect myself from Ned Lowe. In every grappling with my well-padded professional opponent, I pictured Ned’s sad, puffy face; his pale skin, the bags under his eyes, and his air of weakness, which in truth was completely offset by his ruthlessness. He harbored no empathy for others and was, thus, pitiless in his pursuit of dominance.

  At the end of the hour, as I showered and changed clothes, I could scarcely lift my arms. I was home by 5:35, flattened by physical exhaustion. I set my gym bag on the floor near my desk and collapsed on the couch, too wrung out to move. Did I dare brave Rosie’s for dinner that night? Occasionally she supplemented her offal cooking with comfort foods and I wondered if I could count on her sense of fair play. Those of us who endured her culinary aberrations deserved the intermittent relief of roast chicken and mashed potatoes.

  I was flirting with the idea of a nap when I heard a knock at my door. With various body parts setting up a howl, I staggered to my feet, crossed the room, and checked the porthole. My cousin Anna was standing on my doorstep with the cat in her arms. She caught sight of me and held him up by way of entreaty. I might have waved her away, claiming physical impairment, but who could resist that sweet beast?

  Having earlier alluded to the subject of my history with my cousin, it’s probably only fair that I pause to fill you in. I had discovered that the two of us were related during the same strange turn of events that resulted in a monetary windfall that put half a million dollars in my retirement fund. Being frugal by nature, I considered the funds inviolate and went on living as I had before, by which I mean cheaply.

  When it came to Anna, I’d be hard-pressed to define the family connection, which stretched back a generation to our shared grandmother, Rebecca Dace, who had married my grandfather, Quillen Millhone. My father was Anna’s father’s favorite uncle, making us (perhaps) second cousins once removed, or something of the sort. It’s also possible I was her aunt. Whatever the tie, the relationship had gotten off to a shaky start.

  I’d first met her during a two-day jaunt to Bakersfield, California, tracking the family of a homeless man who’d died on our local beach. The trip was only moderately productive, but when I returned to Santa Teresa, she’d followed, thinking a change in scenery might provide exciting new opportunities for her otherwise dead-end life. Next thing I knew, my landlord Henry had offered to let her stay in one of his guest rooms. Given his big heart and her tendency to freeload, she was there for the better part of three months, which annoyed me no end, especially as Henry never uttered a word of protest.

  She found a job as a manicurist in a salon within walking distance and Henry made arrangements for her to rent a room from Moza Lowenstein, an elderly neighbor who lived four doors away. Since Anna needed a place to stay and Moza needed the company and the money, it worked out well for everyone. My feelings toward Anna might have been less than charitable, but I kept my mouth shut.

  I opened the door and ushered her in, noting that her outfit—a long-sleeved blue T-shirt under denim overalls—rendered her shapeless, which is not easy for someone built as she was. She wore her dark hair pulled up in a bun on the top of her head and not a scrap of makeup. Even so, she looked better than I do on my best day. I know we’re not supposed to measure ourselves against others, especially in circumstances where we come up so far short, but faced with a natural beauty like Anna’s, it is hard not to despair.

  She set Ed on the floor, watching him fondly as he sashayed across the room. “I found him outside and figured he was making a break for it. I thought he was strictly indoors.”

  “Tell him that. He makes a break for it every chance he gets; not from a desire to escape, but to prove to us he can,” I said.

  I closed the front door, returned to the couch, and lowered myself with caution, muscles protesting the imposition.

  “Why are you limping?”

  “I just came out of a self-defense class and I hurt everywhere. I take it Henry isn’t home.”

  “Pearl answered the door. I couldn’t believe my eyes. What’s up with her?”

  “She broke her hip. The rehab facility insisted on her finding a suitable place to recuperate before they’d let her out.”

  “But why Henry? What did he do to deserve that?”

  “She remembered how nice he was when Terrence and Felix died.”

  “Oh, man. There’s a lesson in there someplace. Mind if I have a seat?”

  “By all means,” I said.

  She settled in one of the director’s chairs, the canvas making a rude noise as it stretched to accommodate her. Ed hopped onto her lap and she kissed him between the ears. Honestly, if she wasn’t so crazy about him, I wouldn’t be nearly so hospitable.

  I said, “You want a glass of wine?”

  “No, thanks. I ate dinner last night at Rosie’s and my stomach’s still upset. Are you having dinner there tonight?”

  “I’d thought to. How about you?”

  “I don’t know,” she said uneasily.

  “In other words, yes.”

  “Well, yeah. I don’t cook and you can’t subsist indefinitely on cheese and crackers because it’s bad for your health.”

  “Not to get personal, but I noticed you and Cheney all cozied up,” I said. I was hoping I’d adjusted my tone so as not to sound as grudging as I felt.

  “I hope I’m not treading on your turf. He’s a nice guy.”

  “I have no claims on the man.”

  She set Ed down again. He flopped over where he was and began cleaning himself. “Am I imagining this or did Camilla cut you dead the other night?”

  “She’s never been fond of me,” I said.

  “What do you expect? You boffed her husband, from what I hear.”

  “She was off on a fling, so what was the poor man supposed to do?”

  Anna made a face. “I don’t get that relationship.”

  “You haven’t heard the story? They met in seventh grade. Thirteen years old and an immutable bond was formed. They call it codependency—a term I picked up from a therapist pal. In Jonah’s view, since she’s the mother of his children, he’s morally obliged to endure.”

  “I have to admit their two girls turned out fine,” she said. “It’s that little boy, Banner, who’ll pay.”

  Enough of that, I thought. “How’s Cheney’s house coming along?”

  “Good. Place looks great.”

  “Glad to hear that. When I was dating him, he never finished anything and it drove me nuts. I have trouble when a cabinet door is open a smidge, let alone when all the hardware is missing.”

  “People change,” she said.

  “Not the ones I know.”

  “I tend to agree, though it’s discouraging, isn’t it?”

  “Very,” I replied.

  “So how long will Pearl be on the premises?”

  “Until Henry kicks her out. You know what a soft touch he is.”

  “I can’t believe she’d move in like that. What a mooch!”

  I refrained from pointing out that she’d been guilty of exactly the same behavior the year before. Hers was a classic example of our tendency to project our personal failings onto others and then condemn them for their shortcomings.

  “And what’s with the pup tent in the middle of the yard?” she went on.

  “I’m minding my own business for a change and you’d be well advised to do the same. Put Henry on the defensive and you’ll just prolong the siege. With luck, she’ll move on and we’ll be rid of her.”

  7

  IRIS AND JOEY

  Monday, September 18, 1989

  Iris left the shop at five o’clock on the dot, making sure she’d locked up properly. They’d never had a burglary at Yesterday, most likely because vintage merchandise had little or no appeal a
mong the criminal element. Why risk jail time for items for which there was no secondary market? They suffered their fair share of shoplifters, the sticky-fingered customers just about equally divided between teenaged girls and middle-aged women, both of whom thought nothing of pocketing lingerie, estate jewelry, beaded handbags, and even the occasional article of clothing as long as it could be easily slipped into a shopping bag or an oversize purse. Iris’s boss, Karen, had instructed her to tag the pricier items, which meant the system would beep vigorously if someone left with something concealed on their person or among their packages. More than once, Iris had caught up with a customer just outside the door and had listened to them express surprise and embarrassment that they’d forgotten to pay. So far, they’d all returned sheepishly and made good on the transaction. She gave everyone the benefit of the doubt, though she knew perfectly well who was guilty and who was not.

  Today Joey was working late, so she walked the ten blocks to their apartment, which was in a four-plex on the Lower East Side. The area was heavily Hispanic, which is not to say the homes were inexpensive. In Santa Teresa, the term “affordable housing” was a joke. She and Joey rented a tiny one-bedroom apartment with a kitchen that was ten feet by seven, a living room that was ten by ten, and a bedroom that was twelve feet by twelve. The bathroom was sufficient to accommodate a tub/shower, a toilet, and a double vanity with a linen closet on one end and a full-length mirror on the back side of the bathroom door.

  Iris had done what she could to introduce a touch of class. The living room and bedroom walls were painted a dark blue, with spanking white trim. A white-painted bookshelf and desk unit took up one wall of the living room and provided a small planning center and an entertainment center, with a four-foot extension on one end that served as a dining room table. The wall opposite had been decorated with mirrored tiles, which created the illusion of more space than was actually there. The living room furniture consisted of a six-foot couch and an ottoman with a seat that would lift to reveal additional storage. There were two small upholstered chairs, an end table, and two floor lamps. Iris had also added some lush-looking fake plants, which made the space seem warmer.