Y Is for Yesterday

by Sue Grafton

  I went back to the McCabes’ at eight that night. This time, Lauren was in her robe and slippers, looking like an invalid. Hollis was fixing himself a drink and automatically poured me a glass of high-end Chardonnay. I rendered a verbal account of what I knew. Then I said, “You mentioned earlier you didn’t have relatives in geographical range.”

  “I have a brother in Topeka, but we haven’t heard a peep out of him since Fritz went to jail,” Hollis said. “Look, Fritz has all kinds of friends. They threw a party for him when he first came home. He’s been staying with his pals on weekends. He’s a popular boy. You can’t tell me nobody has a clue. Surely he said something to one of them.”

  “I’ll check with Troy and Iris first thing in the morning,” I said.

  Lauren said, “What about Bayard?”

  “He’s on my list.”

  “The sooner the better,” she said. “Do you think it would help to put a notice in some of the papers? Los Angeles and San Francisco, for instance?”

  “I doubt it. If he left voluntarily, he’s not going to be checking the personal ads to see if you’re sending messages.”

  “What do you mean, ‘if he left voluntarily’? Are you suggesting he’s been kidnapped?” she asked.

  “He hasn’t been kidnapped,” Hollis said irritably. “The kid’s loaded. He’s walking around with a pocketful of dough. Chances are he’s gone to Vegas and blown the whole wad by now.”

  “It’s not productive to speculate,” I said. “The Santa Teresa police will circulate his photograph and the circumstances surrounding his disappearance. When it comes to tracking him down, they’re your best shot.”

  “I can see you have a lot more faith in the police than I do,” Hollis said.

  • • •

  For the umpteenth time, I sat in my car and went over my notes, using my little penlight for illumination. When at an impasse, my general policy is to start over from the beginning and hit all my sources a second time. I fanned out a handful of cards facedown and picked one at random. Bayard’s name had risen to the forefront and I headed for his house in Horton Ravine. It was, by then, nine fifteen and I wasn’t sure how advisable it was to call on folks at that hour. I didn’t think anyone would be in bed, but they might be in their jammies, engrossed in their favorite television show. The day was over. Not many welcome an intrusion of any kind, let alone one from me.

  When I rang the bell, Ellis responded. He was barefoot, in sweatpants and another tight white T-shirt, this one without writing on it. I said, “I apologize for the hour, but something’s come up with regard to Fritz and I was hoping to speak to Bayard.”

  “His masseuse is here, but he should be free in ten or fifteen minutes. I’ll tell him you’re waiting.”

  “No hurry,” I said. “Mind if I use the bathroom?”

  “Third door on the right,” he said, and then proceeded down the hallway into another wing of the house. I confess I took my time, pausing to open other doors along the corridor. Really, I couldn’t help myself. If Ellis didn’t want me peeking, he should have said so. Coat closet, bedroom, bedroom, linen closet.

  I found the bathroom, which featured an Egyptian motif. The padded walls were covered in a fabric printed with mythological creatures and a profusion of stylized blossoms. There were lithographs of human figures rendered flat with their arms stiffly bent and their pointy feet turned sideways. A dressing table extended along one wall, the surface an elaborate inlay of wood veneers. The dressing table stool had a cane back and a brocade seat in tones of blue and gold. Lions’ heads and lotus leaves were carved into the uprights. It was all surprisingly tasteful. I picked up and sniffed at the collection of perfume bottles, but I didn’t dab any of them behind my ears. I was certain Ellis would have picked up evidence of the pilfered scent the minute we were in the same room.

  I availed myself of the facilities just to keep up an honest pretense. Then, with a tiny bit of time on my hands, I had a look around. I noticed a door on my right, which I opened of course. I found myself in a guest room with matching blue everything: carpet, drapes, bedding, wallpaper. There were no knickknacks in sight and the two drawers I peeked into were empty, ready to accommodate weekend visitors. Of interest was the large wheeled split duffel and an expandable four-wheeled packing case closed and standing at the foot of the bed. Open on the bed was one soft-sided carry-on and a hard-sided case of a size that could probably be shoved into the overhead bin. The contents in one bag—shirts, sweaters, and two pairs of trousers—were neatly folded. The clothing in the other gave off a distinct air of carelessness and haste. I’d have been willing to bet that the first belonged to Ellis and the second to Bayard, who probably didn’t have the patience to do much better. I was surprised he hadn’t turned over the entire packing chore to Ellis. All of the luggage was new and still bore tags denoting their special capacities, exclusive features, and whopping prices. The black leather carry-on bore a tag that sported a monogram, BAM. Bayard Something Montgomery. Arthur. Allen. Axel. I admired the royal blue cashmere sweater he’d packed. He’d added his headset and his Sony Walkman, both of which I was sure would come in handy when he reached his destination.

  I tiptoed back into the bathroom, where I washed my hands noisily and then stood for some moments trying to figure out what to dry them on. I don’t know why rich people do this. It’s so inconsiderate. The pristine white linen towels were the size of dinner napkins and if I used one, my paw print would have compelled the housekeeper to send them off to a special laundering service at god knows what cost. I chose my jeans, wiping my hands on the back sides where the damp spots would hardly show. I’d have to make a point of not sitting down.

  When I returned to the living room, Ellis was back.

  “Bayard says you can wait in the library where you’ll be more comfortable. Can I bring you something to drink?”

  “No, thanks.”

  He left me alone in the library, which was like a massive treasure trove of trouble to get into. I limited myself to the stack of unopened mail in Bayard’s inbox, a quick search of his address book, and a study of the note he’d made on the top sheet of the scratch pad, adorned with his monogram. The first line said AA with a circle around it and a question mark. Was he contemplating Alcoholics Anonymous? That would be a big step. Below that, he’d written 8760RAK. The combination of letters and digits suggested a California license plate. I found a clean sheet and duplicated the notes, removed the page, folded it, and slid it into my pocket, leaving the original where it was. I took a seat in a chair on the other side of his desk and was thus able to look entirely innocent when Bayard finally made his appearance in a white terry-cloth robe.

  He must have come straight from his massage. I could smell the oil on his skin, which had also encouraged his hair to stand on end. “How’re you doing? Sorry to make you wait.”

  “Not a problem,” I said. “I owe you an apology for showing up this late without calling first.”

  “I’m a night owl. This is not late.”

  He went around to the far side of his desk and took a seat. “If you’re here to tell me Austin’s back, I know. Fritz says he left a message on his parents’ answering machine.”

  “Word travels fast.”

  “Stringer called and told me the same thing. He’d heard it from Iris, though she didn’t mention where she saw him.”

  “The Clockworks. This was last Tuesday night. She and Joey were playing pool and she was lining up a shot when she caught sight of him. Then she spotted him again Friday driving up State Street. She couldn’t say for sure that Fritz was in the car with him, but that was her impression.”

  “Really. Friday’s the last time I saw Fritz, as a matter of fact.”

  “Morning or afternoon?”

  “He showed up Friday morning. I had a dentist’s appointment at ten thirty and I was annoyed with him for hanging around. He was so gi
ddy and hyper, I thought he was on drugs.”

  “What was he so excited about?”

  “He wouldn’t come right out with it, but typical Fritz. Either he tells you everything before you ask or he stalls and hints and drops snippets until it’s the same as telling the whole story. That’s him keeping a secret.”

  “What was it in this case?”

  “He pulled some fiddle at the bank that put twenty-five grand in his pocket. He’d already told me how he meant to do it, but I didn’t think he’d have the nerve.”

  “You can imagine how thrilled his parents are,” I said. “Did he tell you what he planned to do with it?”

  “I assumed he’d decided to pay the blackmailer, which I thought was a mistake.”

  “How’d he get over here when he doesn’t have a driver’s license?”

  “He’d taken his mother’s car, so he must have been driving without one. Ask me, he should have kept right on going.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because Austin vowed to get even. That came out at the trial. He swore he’d kill anybody who ratted him out. Fritz was the one who snitched on him. Ergo, Austin was out to kill Fritz.”

  “Ten years seems like a long time to wait.”

  “What choice did he have? Fritz was in prison until four weeks ago. How’s anybody going to get to him there? Unless Austin had a pal at CYA who’d do the job for him, he’d have to postpone his satisfaction until Fritz was free.”

  “True. So why did he come to see you?”

  “He wanted me to go with him when he went to meet the guy. I had already turned him down by phone, so he was trying the personal approach. I didn’t think he should go at all and I certainly wasn’t going to make it easier.”

  “How did you leave it? Did he intend to meet Austin alone?”

  “I guess. Unless he managed to con someone else into going with him.”

  • • •

  When I got home, I took copious notes, which did little to relieve my stress. This business was getting to me and I needed a change of pace. First thing the next morning, I went into the office, where I called Diana Alvarez and invited her to lunch. I’d decided to take her to the Edgewater Hotel, which I hoped would intimidate her sufficiently to put a dent in her glossy façade. I had an idea I was hoping to sell her and I wanted to take control. Before I could finish voicing my proposal, she cut in, saying, “I have a better idea. We’ll go Dutch. I have a standing date on Thursdays and you’re welcome to join me. You pay your way and I’ll pay mine.”

  “I know what going Dutch means, Diana,” I said. “If you have a date, I wouldn’t want to interfere.”

  “No danger of that. I’ll meet you in the parking lot at Ludlow Beach, right there at the end by the picnic tables. Make it eleven thirty. Any later and we’ll be out of luck.”

  “Sounds fine,” I said.

  How had she managed to get the upper hand?

  I had an awkward history with Diana Alvarez. Her brother, Michael Sutton, had walked into my office some months before, hoping to hire me. He’d read an article in the paper written on the anniversary of a kidnapping in Santa Teresa many years before. A three-year-old named Mary Claire Fitzhugh had been snatched from her backyard in Horton Ravine and he’d had a sudden memory pertaining to her fate. He was convinced that, when he was six, he’d stumbled across the two kidnappers burying Mary Claire’s body in the woods. The two men were, in fact, the pair who’d demanded fifteen thousand in ransom, which I thought marked them as amateurs. Granted, the twenty-five grand the McCabes’ extortionist was asking was more, but the principle seemed the same.

  I’d managed to track down the location Michael remembered, but then his estranged sister, Dee—a.k.a. Diana Alvarez—had come into my office bearing proof that he was wrong about the date and therefore couldn’t have seen what he claimed to have seen. What he’d actually witnessed was the two men burying marked bills from a “practice” kidnapping that went off as planned, but netted them money they couldn’t spend. When the kidnappers tried again, the crime hadn’t gone well and the second little girl had died.

  Prior to that, Michael Sutton had come under the influence of a therapist who worked on repressed memories of sexual abuse. She’d convinced him that he’d been victimized by his father and his brother. In the end, he’d recanted, but the family had been destroyed by his accusations and thereafter he was radioactive, at least where Diana Alvarez was concerned. That early encounter with her had set the tone for our relationship, which got off to a bad start and was just now beginning to right itself. From my perspective, her one redeeming quality was her fashion sense, which I’m embarrassed to admit I mimicked from the first. Now I wore flats and black tights, miniskirts, and turtlenecks when I wasn’t decked out in the usual jeans and boots. As a badass private investigator, I was never going to admit this to a living soul, but fair is fair.

  When I pulled in and parked in the picnic area at Ludlow Beach, I discovered that Diana’s standing date was with a guy who ran a food truck, selling the nastiest, finest, most succulent, and decadent hot dogs you ever ate. The line of avid customers was already halfway around the parking lot and it was only because she was pushy that we managed to find a spot near the front of the line. I insisted on paying and then the two of us discussed the virtues of Coneys versus corn dogs, beef versus pork, New York–style versus Chicago, half-smokes versus bratwurst, and organic versus nothing, as we were both morally opposed to the notion of organic foods of any kind.

  We sat across from each other at a picnic table, variously moaning and exclaiming as we bolted down our weenies loaded with mustard, ketchup, onions, pickles, and hot peppers. It took us three paper napkins apiece to clean up afterward. My choice would have been to stretch out on the grass and nap, but it seemed unprofessional. By the time I broached the subject of the Sloan Stevens shooting, I was surprisingly nervous. I barely got the first sentence out when she cut in.

  “I told you my editor’s not interested,” she said.

  “Pitch the idea somewhere else,” I said. “I’m not talking about a news story. This is feature-length, maybe two or three parts. Listen to this. The kids involved haven’t turned out well. It’s like Sloan’s death tainted their lives. Go back and tell the story from the beginning, when Iris Lehmann stole the test. That act set everything in motion and the consequences are still reverberating all these years later. You know Margaret Seay will give you all the help you need. She’s got the transcripts from both the grand jury and the trial, and those contain a wealth of detail.”

  She stared at me for a moment.

  I could see she wasn’t buying it. I didn’t realize it mattered to me until I studied her face and realized she wasn’t sparking to the notion of taking up the cause. I said, “You’re the one who said it has all the elements. Youth, sex, money, betrayal.”

  “Well, that’s true,” she said. How could she disagree with something she herself had said?

  “The repercussions of a crime like this go on and on. Look at the lives it’s already touched, and it’s not over yet.”

  Her expression shifted. “Oooh, I think I’m getting this. When you first called about Fritz McCabe, you didn’t mention why you were so interested in the facts of the case.”

  “Yes, I did. I told you I wanted to talk to the players.”

  “Because you’d been hired to investigate something, right?”

  “Maybe.”

  “What was it?”

  I had to hand it to her, she was a bird dog on point when it came to a story. She zeroed in on the heart of the matter and I knew she wouldn’t let it go until she was satisfied with the answers, which was what I was counting on. “I’d rather not go into it,” I said. “The issue’s confidential.”

  “Then why are we having this conversation? Why talk about it at all?”

  “Fritz McCabe is missing.
His father filed a police report yesterday morning. Some of the facts will come out anyway and you asked me to keep you informed about developments.”

  “Well, you’ve got my attention. Developments such as what?”

  “Are you aware that Iris Lehmann is engaged to Sloan’s stepbrother Joey?”

  “I didn’t know that, but it strikes me as strange.”

  “Well, me too, but love relationships often seem strange to me. The point is they came to my office Tuesday because she claims she saw Austin Brown twice last week.”

  “Why would he come back?”

  “Good question.” Clearly, the story wouldn’t make sense until I gave her the relevant information. “Off the record?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “It looks like he’s behind an extortion scheme. This is in regard to the footage on the sex tape someone shot around the same time Sloan was killed. He’s threatening to send a copy to the DA unless the McCabes pay up.” I sketched in the details, including Fritz’s trip to the bank and his walking off with the twenty-five thousand in cash.

  “What’s his motive coming up with a scheme like that?”

  “I suppose because he needed the twenty-five grand. His life’s a mess. He thought he’d be a hot-shot attorney. Instead he’s out there somewhere doing god knows what. Surely, it wasn’t the future he imagined for himself.”

  “Which feeds back into your suggestion that Sloan’s murder has had life-altering effects.”

  “Exactly,” I said. “Same is true of Troy. As far as I can tell he’s a good kid, but prison set him back on his heels and he may never recover his balance.”

  “What about Bayard?”

  “He’s an idle drunk living on his inheritance. He’s currently shacked up with his daddy’s widow, who must have been half Tigg’s age. Then there’s Poppy Earl. She was Sloan’s best friend until Iris Lehmann came along. She’s writing a screenplay about the murder, hoping to make her personal fortune.”