The current paper had a follow-up article, which I also clipped. For the most part, it was a repetition of the first, except that a high school yearbook photo of the murdered girl was included along with his. She’d been a senior. Her dark hair was glossy and straight, cut to the shape of her face, parted in the middle and curving in softly at the nape of her neck. Her eyes were pale, lined with black, her mouth wide and sensual. There was the barest suggestion of a smile, and it gave her an air of knowing something the rest of us might not be aware of yet.
I slipped the clippings in the folder, which I tucked into the outside pocket of my canvas duffel.
I’d stop by the office and pick up my portable typewriter en route.
At nine the next morning, I was on the road, heading up the pass that cuts through the San Rafael Mountains. As the two-lane highway crested, I glanced to my right, struck by the sweep of undulating hills that move northward, intersected by bare bluffs. The rugged terrain is tinted to a hazy blue-gray by the nature of the underlying rock. The land here has lifted, and now the ridges of shale and sandstone project in a visible spine called the Transverse Ranges. Geological experts have concluded that California, west of the San Andreas Fault, has moved north up the Pacific coast by about three hundred miles during the last thirty million years. The Pacific Plate is still grinding away at the continent, buckling the coastal regions in earthquake after earthquake. That we continue to go about our daily business without much thought for this process is either testimony to our fortitude or evidence of lunacy. Actually, the only quakes I’ve experienced have been minor temblors that rattle dishes on the shelf or set the coat hangers in the closet to tinkling merrily. The sensation is no more alarming than being shaken awake gently by someone too polite to call your name. People in San Francisco, Coalinga, and Los Angeles will have a different tale to tell, but in Santa Teresa (aside from the Big One in 1925) we’ve had mild, friendly earthquakes that do little more than slop some of the water out of our swimming pools.
The road eased down into the valley, intersecting Highway 101 some ten miles beyond. At 10:35, I took the Floral Beach exit, heading west toward the ocean through grassy, rolling hills dotted with oaks. I could smell the Pacific long before I laid eyes on it. Screeching sea gulls heralded its appearance, but I was still surprised by the breadth of that flat line of blue. I hung a left onto the main street of Floral Beach, the ocean on my right. The motel was visible three blocks away, the only three-story structure on Ocean Street. I pulled into a fifteen-minute parking space outside the registration office, grabbed my duffel, and went in.
3
The office was small, the registration desk blocking off access to what I surmised were the Fowlers’ personal quarters in the rear. My crossing the threshold had triggered a soft bell.
“Be right out,” someone called. It sounded like Ann.
I moved to the counter and peered to my right. Through an open door, I caught a glimpse of a hospital bed. There was the murmur of voices, but I couldn’t see a soul. I heard the muffled flushing of a toilet, pipes clanking noisily. The air was soon scented with the artificial bouquet of room spray, impossibly sweet. Nothing in nature has ever smelled like that.
Several minutes passed. There was no seating available, so I stood where I was, turning to survey the narrow room. The carpeting was harvest gold, the walls paneled in knotty pine. A painting of autumn birches with fiery orange and yellow leaves hung above a maple coffee table on which a rack of pamphlets promoted points of interest and local businesses. I leafed through the display, picking up a brochure for the Eucalyptus Mineral Hot Springs, which I’d passed on the road coming in. The advertisement was for mud baths, hot tubs, and rooms at “reasonable” rates, whatever that meant.
“Jean Timberlake worked there in the afternoons after school,” Ann said behind me. She was standing in the doorway, wearing navy slacks and a white silk shirt. She seemed more relaxed than she had in her father’s company. She’d had her hair done and it fell in loose waves to her shoulders, steering the eye away from the slightly recessed chin.
I put the pamphlet back. “Doing what?” I asked.
“Maid service, part-time. She worked for us, too, a couple of days a week.”
“Did you know her well?”
“Well enough,” she said. “She and Bailey started dating when he was twenty. She was a freshman in high school.” Ann’s eyes were mild brown, her manner detached.
“A little young for him, wasn’t she?”
Her smile was brief. “Fourteen.” Any other comment was curtailed by a voice from the other room.
“Ann, is someone out there? You said you’d be right back. What’s happening?”
“You’ll want to meet Mother,” Ann murmured in a way that generated doubts. She lifted a hinged section of the counter and I passed through. “How’s your father doing?” “Not good. Yesterday was hard on him. He was up for a while this morning, but he’s easily fatigued and I suggested he go back to bed.” “You’ve really got your hands full.” She flashed me a pained smile. “I’ve had to take a leave of absence.” “What sort of work?”
“I’m a guidance counselor at the high school. Who knows when I’ll get back.”
I let her lead the way into the living room, where Mrs. Fowler was now propped up in the full-sized hospital bed. She was gray-haired and heavy, her dark eyes magnified by thick glasses in heavy plastic frames. She was wearing a white cotton hospital gown that tied down the back. The neck was plain, with SAN LUIS OBISPO COUNTY HOSPITAL inked in block letters along the rim. It struck me as curious that she’d affect such garb when she could have worn a bed jacket or a gown and robe of her own. Illness as theater, perhaps. Her legs lay on top of the bedclothes like haunches of meat not yet trimmed of fat. Her pudgy feet were bare, and her toes were mottled gray.
I crossed to the bed, holding my hand toward hers. “Hi, how are you? I’m Kinsey Millhone,” I said. We shook hands, if that’s what you’d call it. Her fingers were as cold and rubbery as cooked rigatoni. “Your husband mentioned you weren’t feeling well,” I went on.
She put her handkerchief to her mouth and promptly burst into tears. “Oh, Kenny, I’m sorry. I can’t help myself. I’m just all turned around with Bailey showing up. We thought he was dead and here he comes again. I’ve been sick for years, but this has just made it worse.”
“I can understand your distress. It’s Kinsey,” I said.
“It’s what?”
“My first name is Kinsey, my mother’s maiden name. I thought you said ‘Kenny’ and I wasn’t sure you heard it right.”
“Oh Lord. I’m so sorry. My hearing’s nearly gone and I can’t brag about my eyes. Ann, honey, fetch a chair. I can’t think where your manners went.” She reached for a Kleenex and honked into it.
“This is fine,” I said. “I’ve just driven up from Santa Teresa, so it feels good to be on my feet.”
“Kinsey’s the investigator Pop hired yesterday. “
“I know that,” Mrs. Fowler said. She began to fuss with her cotton cover, plucking it this way and that, made restless by topics that didn’t pertain to her. “I hoped to get myself all cleaned up, but Ann said she had errands. I hate to interfere with her any more than I have to, but there’s just things I can’t do with my arthritis so bad. Now, look at me. I’m a mess. I’m Ori, short for Oribelle. You must think I’m a sight.”
“Not at all. You look fine.” I tell lies all the time. One more couldn’t hurt.
“I’m diabetic,” she said, as though I’d asked. “Have been all my life, and what a toll it’s took. I got tingling and numbness in my extremities, kidney problems, bad feet, and now I’ve developed arthritis on top of that.” She held a hand out for my inspection. I expected knuckles as swollen as a prizefighter’s, but they looked fine to me.
“I’m sorry to hear that. It must be rough.” “Well, I’ve made up my mind I will not complain,” she said. “If it’s anything I despise, it’s people who can’t accept their lot.”
Ann said, “Mother, you mentioned tea a little while ago. How about you, Kinsey? Will you have a cup?”
“I’m all right for now. Thanks.” “None for me, hon,” Ori said. “My taste for it passed, but you go ahead and fix some for yourself.”