I stared at him. “Are you sure of that?”
“She’s buried out at Mt. Calvary. Big family plot on the hillside just as you go in the gate. She was only forty years old, a terrible thing.”
“What happened to her?”
“Died of childbed fever. You don’t see much of that anymore, but it sometimes took women in those days. She married late in life. Some fellow named Chapman from over near Tucson. Had three little boys one right after the other, and died shortly after she was delivered of her third. I paid to bring her back. I couldn’t believe she’d want to be buried out in that godforsaken Arizona countryside. It’s too ugly and too dry.”
“Is there any possibility she might have heard from Sheila in those few months?”
He shook his head. “Not that she ever told me. She was living in Tucson at the time Sheila ran off. I suppose Sheila might have gone to her, but I never heard of it. Now, how about you answer me one. What happened with that old woman who wandered off from the nursing home? You never said if she turned up or not.”
“Actually she did, about eleven o’clock last night. The police picked her up right out here in the street. She died in the emergency room shortly afterward.”
“Died? Well, I’m sorry to hear that.”
We went through our good-bye exercises, making appropriate noises.
Walking back to the car, Dietz and I didn’t say a word. He unlocked the door and let me in. Once he eased in on his side, we sat in silence. He looked over at me. “What do you think?”
I stared back at the house. “I don’t believe he was telling the truth.”
He started the car. “Me neither. Why don’t we check out the gravesite he was talking about?”
25
they were all there. It was eerie to see them- Charlotte, Emily, and Anne-their gravestones lined up in date order, first to last. The markers were plain; information limited to the bare bones, as it were. Their parents, the elder Bronfens, were buried side by side: Maude and Herbert, bracketed on the left by two daughters who had apparently died young. Adjoining those plots, there was an empty space I assumed was meant for Patrick when the time came. On the other side were the three I knew of: Charlotte, born 1894, died in 1917; Emily, born 1897, died in 1926; and Anne, who was born in 1900 and died in 1940.
I stared off down the hill. Mt. Calvary was a series of rolling green pastures, bordered by a forest of evergreens and eucalyptus trees. Most of the gravestones were laid flat in the ground, but I could see other sections like this one, where the monuments were upright, most dating back to the late nineteenth century. The heat of the afternoon sun was beginning to wane. It wouldn’t be dark for hours yet, but a chill would settle in as it did every day. A bird sang a flat note to me from somewhere in the trees.
I shook my head, trying to make the information compute.
Dietz had the good sense to keep his mouth shut, but his look said “What?” as clearly as if he’d spoken.
“It just makes no sense. If Sheila Bronfen and Agnes Grey are the same person, then why don’t their ages line up right? Agnes couldn’t have been seventy when she died. She was eighty-plus. I know she was.”
“So the two aren’t the same. So what? You came up with a theory and it didn’t prove out.”
“Maybe,” I said.
“Maybe, my ass. Give it up, Millhone. You can’t manipulate the facts to fit your hypothesis. Start with what you know and give the truth a chance to emerge. Don’t force a conclusion just to satisfy your own ego.”
“I’m not forcing anything.”
“Yes, you are. You hate to be wrong-”
“I do not!”
“Yes, you do. Don’t bullshit me-”
“That has nothing to do with it! If the two aren’t the same, so be it. But then, who was Agnes Grey and how’d she end up with Irene Bronfen?”
“Agnes might have been a cousin or a family friend. She might have been the maid …”
“All right, great. Let’s say it was the maid who ran off with the little girl. How come he didn’t tell us that? Why pretend it was his wife. He’s convinced Sheila took the child, or else he’s lying through his teeth, right?”
“Come on. You’re grasping at straws.”
I sank down on my heels, pulling idly at the grass. My frustration was mounting. I’d felt so close to unraveling the knot. I let out a puff of air. I’d been secretly convinced Agnes Grey and Anne Bronfen were one and the same. I wanted Bronfen to be lying about Anne’s death, but it looked like he was telling the truth-the turd. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Dietz sneak a look at his watch.
“Goddamn it. Don’t do that,” I said. “I hate being pushed.” I bit back my irritation. “What time is it?” I said, relenting.
“Nearly four. I don’t mean to rush you, but we gotta get a move on.”
“The Ocean View isn’t far.”
He clammed up and stared off down the hill, probably stuffing down a little irritation of his own. He was impatient, a man of action, more interested in Mark Messinger than he was in Agnes Grey. He bent down, picked up a dirt clod, and tossed it down the hill. He watched it as if it might skip across the grass like a pebble on water. He shoved his hands in his pockets. “I’ll wait for you in the car,” he said shortly and started off down the hill.
I watched him for a moment.
“Oh hell,” I murmured to myself and followed him. I felt like a teenager, without a car of my own. Dietz insisted on my being with him almost constantly, so I was forced to trail around after him, begging rides, getting stuck where I didn’t want to be, unable to pursue the leads that interested me. I doubled my pace, catching up with him at the road. “Hey, Dietz? Could you drop me off at the house? I could borrow Henry’s car and let you talk to Rochelle on your own.”
He let me in on my side. “No.”
I stared after him with outrage. “No?” I had to wait till he came around. “What do you mean, ‘No’?”
“I’m not going to have you running around by yourself. It’s not safe.”
“Would you quit that? I’ve got things to do.”
He didn’t answer. It was like I hadn’t said a word. He drove out of the cemetery and left on Cabana Boulevard, heading toward the row of motels just across from the wharf. I stared out the window, thinking darkly of escape.
“And don’t do anything dumb,” he said.
I didn’t say what flashed through my head, but it was short and to the point.
The Ocean View is one of those nondescript one-story motels a block off the wide boulevard that parallels the beach. It was not yet tourist season and the rates were still down, red neon vacancy signs alight all up and down the street. The Ocean View didn’t really have a view of anything except the backside of the motel across the alley. The basic cinderblock construction had been wrapped in what resembled aging stucco, but the red tiles on the roof had the uniform shape and coloring that suggested recent manufacture.
Dietz pulled into the temporary space in front of the office, left the engine running, and went in. I sat and stared at the car keys dangling from the ignition. Was this a test of my character, which everyone knows is bad? Was Dietz inviting me to steal the Porsche? I was curious about the exact date Anne Bronfen had died and I was itching to check it out. I had to have a car. This was one. Therefore . . .
I glanced at the office door in time to see Dietz emerge. He got in, slammed the door, and put the car in reverse. “Number sixteen, around the back,” he said. He smiled at me crookedly as he shifted into first. “I’m surprised you didn’t take off. I left you the keys.”
I let that one pass. I always come up with witty rejoinders when it’s too late to score points.
We parked in the slot meant for room 18, the only space available along the rear. Dietz knocked. Idly, I felt for the gun in my handbag, reassured by its weight. The door opened. He was blocking my view of her and I had too much class to hop up and down on tiptoe for an early peek.
“Rochelle? I’m Robert Dietz. This is Kinsey Millhone.”
“Hello. Come on in.”