W Is for Wasted

19

I turned toward the archway that separated the billiard room from the lounge. Big Rat was making his way through the crowd, beer held aloft as he pardoned and excused himself, moving in our direction. I glanced back and realized that Anna had taken off. I caught a glimpse of her red sequined top as she headed toward the exit and wondered how she’d managed to move so fast. Meanwhile, Big Rat was all smiles. Like Anna, he was in hunting mode, having changed into a black sport coat with a black shirt under it. The silver tie added a jaunty note, like a gangster on the prowl.

He followed my gaze, saying, “Where’s she off to?”

“Who knows?”

“Sorry to break up your little tête-à-tête, though I gotta say she didn’t look all that happy with you.”

“How did you know where I was?”

“I didn’t. I swung by the Thrifty Lodge earlier. I thought with you new to Bakersfield, I might show you around, introduce you to the Brandywine if nothing else. Your car wasn’t in the motel parking lot, so I was leaving you a note when the desk clerk told me you’d checked out. I remembered you said something about a family emergency, so I figured you’d left town. I’m thinking, what the heck, I might as well give this place a try since I was coming here anyway. I walk in and there you are. How cool is that? Can I buy you a drink?”

“Don’t think so, but thanks. It’s just about my bedtime.”

“One drink. Come on. Are you having Chardonnay or Sauvignon Blanc?” He caught my look and laughed. “You didn’t think I knew about white wine, am I right?”

“Ask if they have anything better than the stuff they’ve been pouring. Failing that, I’ll have ice water.”

“Be right back.”

I watched him edge his way through the crowd, and for a moment I flirted with the idea of pulling a disappearing act. Seemed rude when he’d actually been a help to me, telling me where Anna worked. While I waited for his return, I went over Anna’s comments. She hadn’t actually admitted her mother had perjured herself at Dace’s trial, but that was the conclusion I’d reached and it was one she hadn’t refuted. No wonder two of the three kids were so belligerent. In effect, Evelyn had hung her husband out to dry. No alibi in their minds was equivalent to guilty. Perjury is a criminal offense and I couldn’t see why she’d admit to it unless it was true. She’d be opening herself to prosecution unless the statute of limitations had run out, which I didn’t have a clue about despite my reassurances to Anna. In point of fact, even if she’d lied, it wouldn’t have a bearing on the legalities of the situation. All three principals were dead—Herman Cates; his accomplice; and Terrence Dace, the man he’d falsely accused. Dace’s conviction had been overturned, but Evelyn’s sly admission carried more weight in the eyes of his children than the court’s reversal. The claim bothered me. The timing bothered me as well. Why would she suddenly ’fess up? That’s what I couldn’t understand. She hadn’t flat-out accused him of anything. She’d simply opened a door, fanning a small ember of suspicion in the minds of his kids. At this late date, I doubted there was any way to determine the truth.

Above the background noise, which was gradually subsiding, I heard a smattering of applause and then a male vocalist. I thought it was the jukebox, but Big Rat reappeared at that moment and handed me a fresh glass of white wine. “There’s Ethan.”

“You’re kidding me.”

I moved to the doorway and checked the raised dais where the band must have been setting up while the pool match was going on. Ethan sat on a wooden stool in a pool of light, head bent over his guitar. A hush settled and then he began to sing. He wore the same outfit I’d seen him in at home—jeans, desert boots, a long-sleeve white T-shirt with a placket down the front that he’d unbuttoned partway. He looked utterly unlike the man I’d talked to earlier. His vocalizing transformed him from an ordinary mortal to someone from another realm. I blinked, trying to reconcile this image with the man I’d seen only hours before. His voice was mellow; his manner, relaxed. What struck me was the soul shining through his song. Maybe it was technique or maybe he had a natural sense of showmanship. He seemed oblivious, so absorbed in the music he might as well have been alone in the room.

I checked the crowd and saw the same rapt attention. He seemed totally out of place in such a common setting and, at the same time, he seemed completely at home. It dawned on me that these people were here for him. The lounge was packed with avid fans, loyal followers who came specifically to hear him perform. I’d seen this before, this otherworldliness, and it had taken me years to sort the truth from the illusion.

My second husband, Daniel Wade, was a musician. The first time I saw him, he was playing piano in a bar in downtown Santa Teresa. It was late. The air was smoky in the same way it was smoky here. I don’t even remember now why I was there or whether I was in the company of someone else. Daniel, with his cloud of curly golden hair, leaned over the keys like an alchemist. He played like an angel. His talent was magic, the philosopher’s stone that promised to turn base metal into gold. I saw him through a haze of longing. I fell in love, not with the man, but with a mirage. Watching him play, I’d assumed he was as remarkable a person as his music implied. I wanted to believe. I projected onto him qualities he didn’t possess, qualities that only appeared to emanate from somewhere deep inside. I don’t know that he was aware of the effect he had, so I can’t accuse him of trickery or deception. He was accustomed to admiration and it may not have occurred to him that his skill obscured the reality of who he was. I thought I was seeing the truth about Daniel when it was really only a reflection cast up along the wall.

And now, here was Ethan Dace, whose metamorphosis had changed my very perception of him. There was something compelling in his voice; sorrow and wisdom and hope. What was he doing in Bakersfield? I couldn’t imagine him rising to fame and fortune in so unlikely a place, but clearly no one in a position to help had recognized his talent and offered him a break.

Big Rat materialized at my side, saying, “Dude can sing. The guy’s like a rock star. I’m impressed.”

“Me, too.”

“Where the hell’s this coming from? He’s a douche bag.”

“Apparently, he’s not. Or maybe you can be a douche bag and talented at the same time.”

I stayed for the entire set. I’d expected the band to be amateurish; loud, and discordant, running off covers of popular songs done better by the recording artist. Instead, they played what I had to guess were original numbers with blues and jazz undertones. At some point, Big Rat peeled off, and 11:00 came and went and I realized this was way too late for me. The waitress passed and I caught her attention, making the universal gesture for the check.

She nodded and proceeded to the bar. The band took a break and the temporary vacuum was suddenly filled with loud talk and boisterous laughter. Instead of feeling magical, it was only a bar again; badly lighted and smelling rank. The waitress returned and handed me a bifold of leather with a cash register slip hanging out like a tongue. I moved to the nearest table where the light was better. I opened the folder and looked at the list of charges that ran all the way down the page. The total was $346.75.

“Wait, wait. This isn’t mine. I had two glasses of wine.”

“Anna said you were running a tab.”

“Me?”

“Wasn’t that your party?”

“We came in together, but I wouldn’t call it my ‘party.’”

“Is now. Everybody else is gone.”

I looked at the check again. “This has to be a mistake.”

“Nope. Don’t think so.” She peered over my shoulder, using her pen to refer to each item in turn. “Two beers. Those were Hank’s. He’s a cute guy, isn’t he? Ellen had three margaritas and two shots of tequila.”

“I counted two margaritas.”

“Are you going to argue with me over every little thing? She ordered the third one while you were in the other room, watching Anna play pool. Now see here? Anna ordered two martinis and this is where she switched to Champagne.”

“For two hundred and ninety bucks? How many glasses did she drink?”

“She ordered a bottle. She likes Dom Pérignon. She wanted the ’82, but I talked her out of it.”

“I can’t believe they did this to me.”

“Guess you don’t know them very well. I could have told you straight off if you’d asked me nice.”

I fumbled in my shoulder bag and came up with my wallet and took out my American Express card.

“We don’t take AmEx. Visa or MasterCard.”

I pulled out a second card, this one Visa.

She studied it briefly. “You have a photo ID?”

I experienced the miracle of self-control as I opened my wallet and held it up so my driver’s license was clearly visible.

“No offense. Boss requires us to check. I’ll be right back.”

“You are too kind,” I said, but she was already heading for the bar, where I saw her pass the check and my credit card to the closest bartender. Moments later, she returned with a copy of the cash register receipt and the charge slip, complete with carbons, bearing the numbers she’d swiped. She held out the pen.

For a moment, I struggled, trying to determine the amount of a tip. It wasn’t like she’d served us food.

“The pay here is really crummy,” she reported conversationally. “We pool our tips and split with the bartenders, which doesn’t leave much. Most of us can barely make ends meet. And I’ve got two kids.”

I ran the tip up another five percent, making it an even ten. It wasn’t until I was going out the door that I chanced to look back. In the far room, the redhead Anna had been playing pool with was leaning up against the wall and Ethan was using his index finger to trace a line along the low square of her dress. By some uncanny intuition, he glanced in my direction and saw that I was watching him. I made my exit before he had a chance to react.

• • •

At 2:35 A.M., I sat straight up in bed. I pushed the covers back and padded across the room to the desk chair where I’d flung my shoulder bag. As is true in so many motel rooms, the glaring lights from the parking lot threw all the surfaces into high relief. I picked up my bag and dug into one of the outside pockets, feeling for my index cards. I removed the rubber band and sorted through as though preparing for a magic trick. Pick a card, any card. I flicked on the desk lamp, pulled out the chair, and settled uneasily into the leather upholstered seat, which was chilly from the air-conditioning. While I’m frugal in my use of California water, I keep a motel room at arctic temperatures. The Holiday Inn had graciously accorded me an extra blanket that I’d pulled down from the closet shelf in its clear plastic bag.

I’d gone to sleep in my usual T-shirt and underwear, blanket and spread pulled up almost over my head. Now I was aware of the cold. I returned to the bed, propped two fat pillows against the headboard, and slipped under the covers again. In checking the 1942 Polk, I’d found two Dace families: Sterling and Clara, who lived at 4619 Paradise Road; and Randall J. and Glenda, living at 745 Daisy Lane. In the 1972 Polk, I’d found R. Terrence and Evelyn, also at 745 Daisy Lane, and I’d speculated that the couple had moved into his parents’ house at some point during the intervening years. I’d also noted the names and addresses of neighbors on either side. The Pilchers, who’d lived next door to Terrence and Evelyn Dace in 1974, had since disappeared. On the other side, at 743, Lorelei Brandle was no longer in evidence, but there was an L. Brandle on Ralston. I looked up the name for the second time in the current phone book and this time I made a note of the phone number. I turned off the light and burrowed under the covers.

I woke again at 6:00, disoriented. Still in Bakersfield. Just my luck. I’d have given anything to have been at home in my own bed. I lay there in a funk. Since I didn’t intend to jog, I had time to go through my mental checklist again. By and large, I’d taken care of business. The only remaining question had nothing to do with my responsibilities as executor of the estate. I wanted to know what Evelyn Dace was up to. A man’s honor was at stake and that troubled me. I realized I’d been hoping for a way to rehabilitate Dace’s reputation in the eyes of his kids, but two of the three were unreceptive and I hadn’t been able to budge them. While, technically, this was unpaid work, that half a million dollars did suggest a different point of view. In some respects, this was the highest-paid job I’d ever undertaken and I decided I might as well satisfy myself in the bargain.

I ate breakfast in the hotel coffee shop, opting for orange juice, cold cereal, buttered rye toast, and three cups of coffee. Once in my room again, I checked my notes. It was by then 8:35, which seemed early but not indecent for a Saturday-morning call. I picked up the handset and dialed an outside line, then punched in the phone number for the L. Brandle listed on Ralston Street. I was about equally torn between wanting to succeed and wanting to fail. Chances were I was on the wrong track and this L. Brandle was in no way related to the Brandle who’d lived next door to Terrence and Evelyn Dace. If that were the case, my job in Bakersfield was done and I could go home.

The number rang three times and then a woman picked up. “Hello?”

“Oh, hi. May I speak to Mrs. Brandle?”

There was a moment of quiet and I couldn’t help but burble on as though adding information would change the facts. “I’m calling because I’m trying to locate a Lorelei Brandle, who lived on Daisy Lane in the early seventies.”

The woman said, “She can’t come to the phone right now. May I ask who’s calling?”

“Really? This is the Lorelei Brandle who lived next door to Evelyn and Terrence Dace?”

“She doesn’t go by the name Lorelei. She’s been ‘Lolly’ since the age of two.”

“Sorry.”

“She moved here from Daisy Lane six years ago. Evelyn Dace remarried. I believe she’s still in Bakersfield, but I have no idea where.”

“Would there be any way I might speak with Lolly?”

There was a pause. “I’m sorry. I don’t believe I caught your name.”

“Kinsey Millhone. Terrence Dace died this past week. He’s the—”

“I know who Terrence is, dear. Everyone in town knows him. If you don’t mind my asking, what’s this have to do with Lolly?”

“It gets complicated, but basically I’m distantly related to Mr. Dace and I’ve been talking with some of the surviving family members. A question has come up about his whereabouts the night Karen Coffey was kidnaped and I thought Lorelei . . . Lolly . . . might help us out.”

“Just one moment.”

I heard her clunk the handset down on a tabletop. There was a long interval of silence. Eventually she picked up again.

“I just went to check on her. She hasn’t been well.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. I drove up from Santa Teresa yesterday and I should head back before long. I was hoping to speak to her sometime soon. Are you her caregiver?”

“I’m her cousin, Alice.”

“I’ll keep my visit as brief as possible. I only need a few minutes of her time.”

“Ordinarily I wouldn’t do this, Miss . . .”

“Millhone.”

She lowered her voice. “No one in the family’s been to visit Lolly in the past five years. She’s eighty-six years old and she’s depressed. Frankly, I think a visit would lift her spirits regardless of the subject.”

“Was that who you were talking to just now?”

“Yes, it was. She seems to like the idea or I wouldn’t have permitted you to pursue the subject. What time were you thinking?”

“Shortly. Actually, right now.”

Her silence made me think she was going to turn me down, but she said, “I suppose that would do.”

“Thanks. I really appreciate your help. I’m at the Holiday Inn near the Convention Center downtown. I’m looking at a Ralston Street address, but I don’t know where that is.”

“We’re on the east side of the Union Cemetery. Ralston runs two blocks between South Owens Street and MLK Boulevard.”

“Uh, could you give me directions?”

“Of course. We’re only ten blocks away.”

I made a note of her instructions, not even bothering to check the map because it wasn’t that complicated. I returned the handset to its cradle and the phone rang again. “Hello?”

A woman said, “May I speak to Kinsey Millhone?”

“This is she.”

“This is Mamie. Ethan’s wife. I’m glad I caught you. I was afraid you’d be gone by now. How are you doing?”

“I’m fine. How about yourself?”

“I’m well,” she said.

There was half a beat of quiet, which I didn’t want to fill with chat.

Smoothly, she said, “I know you and Ethan had a long talk yesterday and we’re confused about where you come into the picture. You told him Terrence was your favorite uncle, but Evelyn says he didn’t have any nieces or nephews.”

“Ethan misunderstood. My father was Terrence’s favorite uncle. I have photographs of the two of them taken years ago.”

“Your father,” she said blankly.

“Randy Millhone. His mother—my paternal grandmother—was Rebecca Dace.”

“I can’t say that means much.”

“My father was born in Bakersfield. His family and the Daces were close once upon a time. Does the name Millhone ring a bell?”

“I’d have to ask Evelyn. It’s not a name anyone’s mentioned to me. You said something about photographs, but I’m not sure what those would tell us. I suppose Evelyn could take a look and see if she recognizes anyone.”

“Unfortunately, the photos are still in Terrence’s safe deposit box, which I won’t have access to until after the probate hearing. I wish I could be more specific about the family connections.”

“So do I,” she said. “I mean, I’m not saying there’s anything fishy going on, but it would be helpful if you had proof of your identity. Otherwise, it seems odd you show up out of a clear blue sky and announce you’re inheriting. Can you document any of this?”

“I gave Ethan a copy of his father’s will.”

“I’m talking about you. How do we know you’re who you say you are?”

“I can show you my driver’s license and a photostat of my private investigator’s license. Turn the question around and tell me how you’d prove who you are. It’s easier said than done.”

“I suppose.”

“Is there something in particular that bothers you or just the situation in general?”

“A little bit of both. I’ve gone over the papers you left and I’m confused about a number of things. We think we should get together today since this might be our only chance.”

I paused, instantly resistant as I sensed my trip home drifting further away. The last thing in the world I wanted to do was meet Ethan’s code-enforcer wife, but I thought I should at least pretend to cooperate. “I’m willing to meet you, but how will that help? I suggested Ethan get legal counsel. That way his attorney and mine could handle any questions that arise. I don’t want to turn this into a personal argument with him.”

“When I said ‘we,’ I wasn’t talking about him. I was referring to myself.”

“Ah.”

“A conversation might help us sort ourselves out.”

“Look, I’ll be happy to explain how I got roped into this. What I don’t want to discuss are the actual terms of the will.”

“Oh? And why is that?”

“Because those are legal issues. I’m not a lawyer and as far as I know, you’re not either.”

“No, I’m not,” she said. “So what do you suggest? I have this morning open.”

I went through a quick debate. As far as I knew, she had no legal standing in the matter and I was reluctant to subject myself to another interrogation. At the same time, she seemed to wield considerable influence in the family, which meant that winning her over might defuse the situation. I did think it was preferable to meet face-to-face. “I’m due back in Santa Teresa midafternoon,” I said.

“If we’re going to meet, it might be smart to have Evelyn on hand. She knows the family history better than either one of us,” Mamie said.

“I don’t want to complicate matters.”

“It would be a way to avoid going through this again with her if it comes to that. With Evelyn present, she could ask questions that might not occur to me. I’m sure she’d appreciate the opportunity to express her views.”

“You think she can be objective about this?”

“Probably not, but the two of us can’t either, so what’s the difference?”

I’ll admit I was curious about Dace’s ex-wife, whose unseen presence had hovered in the background since I’d first come across her name in the divorce decree and the quitclaim in his safe deposit box. “All right. I suppose that makes sense. I have an appointment coming up, but it shouldn’t take long. Can we make it ten o’clock?”

“That should work.”

“Fine. I’ll meet you in the lobby and we can take it from there.”

“Wonderful,” she said.

On impulse, I said, “I saw Ethan at the Brandywine last night.”

She said, “Really.”

I was certain someone had already told her as much.

“It was Anna’s idea,” I said. “She brought Ellen and Hank along so I’d have a chance to meet them as well. I was actually there long enough to hear Ethan play. He’s very talented.”

“You sound surprised.”

“I guess I am. Hard to believe he hasn’t come to the attention of someone in the music business.”

“I’m sure he’d love nothing more, except now he’s got three little kids and where would they be if his career took off?”

I experienced a quick flash of Binky gnawing on her doorknob. If Ethan left, her baby heart would break. “That would be very tough.”

“Yes, it would. My opinion, if he was so hell-bent on success, he should have pursued it before he made babies.”

“Probably so.”

Mamie and I went through polite fare-thee-wells. I hung up, wishing I hadn’t agreed to meet. It wasn’t a conversation I was looking forward to. My curiosity about the ex–Mrs. Dace was the only draw.

• • •

On my way to Ralston Street, I took a ten-minute detour, stopping at a Walgreens drugstore just long enough to buy a Whitman’s Sampler, which I didn’t think they were even making anymore. These were the Russell Stover deluxe candies . . . coconut, chocolate-covered cherries, nougats . . . all the kinds I hate. The box had a bird and a basket of flowers on the front that looked like it had been stitched in needlepoint. I could have purchased the sugarfree candy, but why bother? For $6.99, I also picked up a bouquet of daisies, Alstroemeria, and some fluffy green stuff, all wrapped in cellophane.

I got back in the car and rolled down the windows. This was mid-October and the day was sunny. The humidity must have been low because while the temperature posted on the bank marquee I’d passed said it was eighty-five degrees, the air had an autumn feel to it, as though scented with the hint of burning leaves. There was little evidence that the trees were changing colors. From the flora and fauna I could see, the evergreens outnumbered deciduous species by three to one. Beyond a variety of palms, I recognized manzanita, junipers, California bay, and the coast live oak.

The house on Ralston was plain; a dark green one-story box with a modest yard, enclosed by a picket fence. The place would have benefited from the services of a handyman. The front gate sagged to the point where I had to lift it off the sidewalk before it would swing open. The wooden porch steps needed a coat of paint. I wasn’t sure what to expect of Cousin Alice. She’d sounded like a young woman, but telephone voices can be deceptive. I rang the bell. A flat metal mailbox was affixed to the wall near the front door. The printed calling card visible in a small slot read ALICE HILDRETH FIX.

The woman who came to the door appeared to be in her seventies. I suspected she was wearing a wig because her blond hair was too thick and glossy to be her own. She wore it in what in my day was referred to as a flip; shoulder length, with the ends turned up perkily. She wore a yellow crewneck sweater and a gray tweed skirt, knee-high hose, and penny loafers. I wouldn’t have guessed about the knee-highs, except that she’d rolled both down around her ankles to ease her circulation.

“Hi, I’m Kinsey,” I said. “And you’re Alice?”

She opened the storm door. “I am. Lolly’s mother and mine were sisters. Are those for her?”

“Oh, sorry,” I said, handing her the bouquet. I held out the candy box. “These are for her as well.”

She took both, saying, “Very nice. Won’t you come in?”

“Thanks. I really appreciate your letting me stop by.”

“Lolly’s in the backyard,” she said. “I’ll introduce you, but I should warn you, ten minutes from now she won’t remember who you are. She suffers dementia and she’s easily confused.”

I felt my heart sink, wishing she’d mentioned this on the phone. My optimism faded as I followed her through the house. I’d be asking Lolly about events that occurred some sixteen years before. It hadn’t seemed like such a stretch when I came up with the plan. Now I wondered if there was any point.