M is for MALICE
By
Sue Grafton
ONE
Robert Dietz came back into my life on Wednesday, January 8. I remember the date because it was Elvis Presley’s birthday and one of the local radio stations had announced it would spend the next twenty-four hours playing every song he’d ever sung. At Six A.M. my clock radio blared on, playing “Heartbreak Hotel” at top volume. I smacked the Off button with the flat of my hand, and rolled out of bed as usual. I pulled on my sweats in preparation for my morning run. I brushed my teeth, splashed water on my face, and trotted down the spiral stairs. I locked my front door behind me, moved out to the street where I did an obligatory stretch, leaning against the gatepost in front of my apartment. The day was destined to be a strange one, involving as it did a dreaded lunch date with Tasha Howard, one of my recently discovered first cousins. Running was the only way I could think of to quell my uneasiness. I headed for the bike path that parallels the beach.
Ah, January. The holidays had left me feeling restless and the advent of the new year generated one of those lengthy internal discussions about the meaning of life. I usually don’t pay much attention to the passing of time, but this year, for some reason, I was taking a good hard look at myself. Who was I, really, in the scheme of things, and what did it all add up to? For the record, I’m Kinsey Millhone, female, single, thirty-five years old, sole proprietor of Kinsey Millhone Investigations in the southern California town of Santa Teresa. I was trained as a police officer and served a two-year stint with the Santa Teresa Police Department before life intervened, which is another tale altogether and one I don’t intend to tell (yet). For the last ten years, I’ve made a living as a private investigator. Some days I see myself (nobly, I’ll admit) battling against evil in the struggle for law and order. Other days, I concede that the dark forces are gaining ground.
Not all of this was conscious. Much of the rumination was simmering at a level I could scarcely discern. It’s not as if I spent every day in a state of unremitting angst, wringing my hands and rending my clothes. I suppose what I was experiencing was a mild form of depression, triggered (perhaps) by nothing more complicated than the fact it was winter and the California sunlight was in short supply.
I started my career investigating arson and wrongful death claims for California Fidelity Insurance. A year ago, my relationship with CFI came to an abrupt and ignominious halt and I’m currently sharing space with the law firm of Kingman and Ives, taking on just about anything to make ends meet. I’m licensed, bonded, and fully insured. I have twenty-five thousand dollars in a savings account, which affords me the luxury of turning down any client who doesn’t suit. I haven’t refused a case yet, but I was strongly considering it.
Tasha Howard, the aforementioned first cousin, had called to offer me work, though the details of the job hadn’t yet been specified. Tasha is an attorney who handles wills and estates, working for a law firm with offices in both San Francisco and Lompoc, which is an hour north of Santa Teresa. I gathered she divided her time just about equally between the two. I’m normally interested in employment, but Tasha and I aren’t exactly close and I suspected she was using the lure of business to insinuate herself into my life.
As it happened, her first call came on the day after New Year’s, which allowed me to sidestep by claiming I was still on vacation. When she called again on January 7, she caught me off guard. I was at the office in the middle of a serious round of solitaire when the telephone rang.
“Hi, Kinsey. This is Tasha. I thought I’d try you again. Did I catch you at a bad time?”
“This is fine,” I said. I crossed my eyes and pretended I was gagging myself with a finger pointed down my throat. Of course, she couldn’t see that. I put a red eight on a black nine and turned up the last three cards. No play that I could see. “How are you?” I asked, perhaps a millisecond late.
“Doing well, thanks. How about you?”
“I’m good,” I said. “Gee, your timing’s uncanny. I was just picking up the phone. I’ve been making calls all morning and you were next on my list.” I often use the word gee when I’m lying through my teeth.
“I’m glad to hear that,” she said. “I thought you were avoiding me.”
I laughed. Ha.Ha.Ha. “Not at all,” said I. I was about to elaborate on the denial, but she plowed right on. Having run out of moves, I pushed the cards aside and began to tag my blotter with a little desktop graffiti. I block-printed the word BARF and gave each of the letters a three-dimensional cast.
She said, “What’s your schedule like tomorrow? Can we get together for an hour? I have to be in Santa Teresa anyway and we could meet for lunch.”
“I can probably do that,” I said with caution. In this world, lies can only take you so far before the truth catches up. “What sort of work are we talking about?”
“I’d rather discuss it in person. Is twelve o’clock good for you?”
“That sounds fine,” I said.
“Perfect. I’ll make reservations. Emile’s-at-the-Beach. I’ll see you there,” she said, and with a click she was gone.
I put the phone down, set the ballpoint pen aside, and laid my little head down on my desk. What an idiot I was. Tasha must have known I didn’t want to see her, but I hadn’t had the nerve to say so. She’d come to my rescue a couple of months before and though I’d repaid the money, I still felt I owed her. Maybe I’d listen to her politely before I turned her down. I did have another quick job in the works. I’d been hired to serve two deposition subpoenas in a civil case for an attorney on the second floor of our building.
I went out in the afternoon and spent thirty-five bucks (plus tip) on a legitimate salon haircut. I tend to take a pair of nail scissors to my own unruly mop about every six weeks, my technique being to snip off any tuft of hair that sticks out. I guess I must have been feeling insecure because it wouldn’t ordinarily occur to me to pay real bucks for something I can do so handily myself. Of course, I’ve been told my hairstyle looks exactly like a puppy dog’s backside, but what’s wrong with that?
The morning of January 8 inevitably arrived and I pounded along the bike path as if pursued by wild dogs. Typically, I use my jog as a way to check in with myself, noting the day and the ongoing nature of life at the water’s edge. That morning, I had been all business, nearly punitive in the energy I threw into the exercise. Having finished my run and my morning routine, I skipped the office altogether and hung around my place. I paid some bills, tidied up my desk, did a load of laundry, and chatted briefly with my landlord, Henry Pitts, while I ate three of his freshly baked sticky buns. Not that I was nervous.
As usual, when you’re waiting for something unpleasant, the clock seems to leap forward in ten minute increments. Next thing I knew I was standing at my bathroom mirror applying cut-rate cosmetics, for God’s sake, while I emoted along with Elvis, who was singing “It’s Now Or Never.” The sing-along was taking me back to my high school days, not a terrific association, but amusing nonetheless. I hadn’t known any more about makeup in those days than I do now.
I debated about a new outfit, but that’s where I drew the line, pulling on my usual blue jeans, turtleneck, tweed blazer, and boots. I own one dress and I didn’t want to waste it on an occasion like this. I glanced at the clock. It was 11:55. Emile’s wasn’t far, all of five minutes on foot. With luck, I’d be hit by a truck as I was crossing the street.
Almost all of the tables at Emile’s were occupied by the time I arrived. In Santa Teresa, the beach restaurants do the bulk of their business during the summer tourist season when the motels and bed-and-breakfast establishments near the ocean are fully booked. After Labor Day, the crowds diminish until the town belongs to the residents again. But Emile’s-at-the-Beach is a local favorite and doesn’t seem to suffer the waxing and waning of the out-of-town trade.