Kinsey and Me (2 page)

part one

kinsey

introduction

K
INSEY
M
ILLHONE ENTERED
my life, like an apparition, sometime in 1977. I was living in Columbus, Ohio, at
the time, writing movies for television while my husband attended Ohio State, working
on his Ph.D. She arrived by degrees, insinuating herself with all the cunning of a
stray cat who knew long before I did that she was here to stay. The name came first.
The “Kinsey” I spotted in a copy of
The Hollywood Reporter
in the little column announcing births. A couple in Hollywood had named their infant
daughter Kinsey and the name leapt out at me. “Millhone” was probably the product
of a finger stroll through the telephone book or a random matching process, wherein
I tried various syllables and rhythms until I found one that suited me.

I should note that the novels are set in the 1980s because of the decision I made
at the time to have Kinsey age one year for every two and a half books. In
A is for Alibi
, she’s thirty-two years old. Thirty years later, in
V is for Vengeance
, she’s thirty-eight. My only other choice was to have her age one year for every
book, which would mean that if I kept her in real time, she’d be middle-aged by now
and less likely to live with such reckless abandon. Since her life proceeds at such
a measured pace, I am, myself, caught in a time warp. One obvious consequence of this
same decision is that many of the technological advancements in the forensic sciences
and most certainly innovations in communications are nowhere in evidence. No Internet,
no cell phones, little DNA testing. This means she’s forced to do her sleuthing the
old-fashioned way, which better suits her personal style and the needs of the narrative.

I originally decided to write about a hard-boiled private eye because those are the
books I was raised on. My father, C. W. Grafton, was a municipal bond attorney all
his life, but he also wrote and published three mystery novels:
The Rat Began to Gnaw the Rope, The Rope Began to Hang the Butcher
, and
Beyond a Reasonable Doubt
. Because of him, I developed a real passion for the genre. I elected to write about
a female protagonist at the outset because I’m female (hot news, huh?) and I figured
it was my one area of expertise. When I started work on
A is for Alibi
, I wasn’t even sure what a private investigator did. In the course of writing that
first book, I began the long (and continuing) task of educating myself. I read books
on forensics, toxicology, burglary and theft, homicide, arson, anatomy, and poisonous
plants, among many others. My personal library has grown since I began writing about
Kinsey and I now have quite a storehouse of information at my fingertips.

The cases I write about are invented, though some owe their inspiration to tidbits
gleaned from the crime section of my local newspaper, which I clip from almost daily.
I like looking at the dark side of human nature, trying to understand what makes people
kill each other instead of going into therapy. In my soul, I’m a real law-and-order
type and I don’t want people to get away with murder. In a mystery novel there is
justice and I like that a lot.

Kinsey is my alter ego—the person I might have been had I not married young and had
children. The ’68 VW she drove (until
G is for Gumshoe
) was a car I owned some years ago. In
H is for Homicide
, she acquires the 1974 VW that sat in my driveway until I donated it as a raffle
item for a local theater group. The lucky ticket holder “won” the car for her ten-dollar
purchase. It was pale blue with only one minor ding in the left rear fender. I didn’t
mind Kinsey using the car, but with her driving record, I refused to put her on my
insurance policy.

What’s stimulating about her presence in my life is that since she can know only what
I know, I have to do a great deal of research and this allows me, in essence, to lead
two lives—hers and mine. Because of her, I’ve taken a women’s self-defense class and
a class in criminal law. I’ve also made the acquaintance of doctors, lawyers, P.I.’s,
cops, coroners, and all manner of experts. I own both of her handguns and, in fact,
I learned to shoot so that I’d know what it feels like. I own the all-purpose dress
she refers to in the books. Like Kinsey, I’ve been married and divorced twice (though
I’m currently married to husband number three and intend to remain so for life). The
process of writing informs both her life and mine.

While our biographies are different, our sensibilities are the same. As I’ve said
on previous occasions, I think of us as one soul in two bodies and she got the good
one. The particulars of her history usually come to me in the moment of writing. Often
I feel she’s peering over my shoulder, whispering, nudging me, and making bawdy remarks.
The humor comes from her, and the acid observations—also whatever tenderness seeps
into the page. She is a marvel for which I take only partial credit, though she probably
claims
all
the credit for me. It amuses me that I invented someone who has gone on to support
me. It amuses her, I’m sure, that she will live in this world long after I am gone.
I trust that you will enjoy her companionship as I have.

Sue Grafton

between the sheets

I
SQUINTED AT THE
woman sitting across the desk from me. I could have sworn she’d just told me there
was a dead man in her daughter’s bed, which seemed like a strange thing to say, accompanied,
as it was, by a pleasant smile and carefully modulated tone. Maybe I’d misunderstood.

It was nine o’clock in the morning, some ordinary day of the week. I was, I confess,
hungover—a rare occurrence in my life. I do not drink often or much, but the night
before I’d been at a birthday party for my landlord, Henry Pitts, who’d just turned
eighty-two. Apparently the celebration had gotten out of hand because here I was,
feeling fuzzy-headed and faintly nauseated, trying to look like an especially smart
and capable private investigator, which is what I am when I’m in good form.

My name is Kinsey Millhone. I’m thirty-two years old, divorced, a licensed P.I., running
my own small agency in a town ninety-five miles north of Los Angeles. The woman had
told me her name was Emily Culpepper and that much made sense. She was very small,
one of those women who at any age will be thought “cute,” God forbid. She had short
dark hair and a sweet face and she looked like a perfect suburban housewife. She was
wearing a pale blue blouse with a Peter Pan collar, a heather-colored Shetland sweater
with grosgrain ribbon down the front, a heather tweed skirt, hose, and Capezios with
a dainty heel. I guessed her to be roughly my age.

I reached for my legal pad and a pencil as though prepared to take important notes.
“Excuse me, Mrs. Culpepper, but could I ask you to repeat that?”

The pleasant smile became fixed. She leaned forward. “Are you recording this?” she
said with alarm. “I mean, can this be used against me in court?”

“I’m just trying to understand what you’re talking about,” I replied. “I
thought
you just told me there was a dead man in your daughter’s bed. Is that correct?”

She nodded solemnly, her eyes huge.

I wrote down,
Dead man in daughter’s bed,
but I wasn’t really sure what to ask next. So many questions crowd about when someone
says something like that. “Do you know the man?”

“Oh, yes. It’s Gerald,” she said.

I noted the name. “Your husband?”

“My lover,” she said. “I’m divorced.”

“And where is your daughter at this point?”

“She’s with him. My husband. But she’s probably on her way home. He really isn’t supposed
to take her on weekdays. It says so in my decree, but he’s been out of town and I
thought it was all right. Just this once.”

“I’m sure it is,” I said, hoping to reassure her on this one small point. “And when
did you notice”—I checked my notes—“Gerald?”

“This morning at about six. Well, closer to ten of, actually.”

“What kind of dead is he?”

“What?”

“I’m wondering if you noticed the cause of death.”

“Oh. Yes, I did. He was shot.”

I waited for her to go on, but she didn’t. “Where?”

She pointed to her heart.

I made another brief note. This was like pulling teeth. “And you’re sure he was dead?”

“I’m not positive,” she replied uneasily. “But he was cold. And stiff. And he didn’t
breathe at all.”

“That should cover it,” I said. “What about the weapon?”

“A gun.”

“You saw it?”

“It was right on the bed beside him.”

“Do you happen to know the make?” I thought the technicalities would throw her, but
she perked right up.

“Well, it’s a little High Standard two-shot derringer, a .22, with dual barrels and
double action, so it’s safety-engineered. I mean, it can’t fire accidentally, even
if it’s dropped. And let’s see. It’s polished nickel with black grips and it’s just
about that wide,” she said, holding her thumb and index finger about an inch apart.

I was staring at her. “The gun is yours?”

“Of course. I just bought it last week. That’s why I was so upset when I realized
he’d been shot with it. And right in Althea’s bed. She’s only four, but she’s big
for her age. She takes after my ex-husband’s side of the family.”

I really didn’t think we’d exhausted the matter of Gerald quite yet. “Why did you
buy a gun?”

“It was on sale. Half off.”

“Is that what you told the police?” She paled and I didn’t like this new expression
on her face. “You did call the police, didn’t you? I mean, when you discovered that
Gerald was dead?”

“Actually, I didn’t. I know I should have, but I didn’t think anyone would believe
me because we quarreled last night and I walked out. I never lose my temper, but I
just blew my stack. I stood there and screamed at him. It was awful. I told him I’d
kill him. I actually said that. Then I burst into tears and ran out the door and drove
around all night.”

“Did anyone hear you make this threat?”

“Just the neighbors on both sides.”

I had a strong desire to groan, but I repressed the impulse. “I see. And what did
you do besides drive around all night? Did you talk to anyone? Can anyone verify your
whereabouts for the time you were gone?”

“I don’t think so. I just drove. I was trying to work up the nerve to kick him out.
We’ve been living together for about six months, and it’s been heaven. Just wonderful.
I can’t think when I’ve been happier.”

“Usually people don’t get killed when things are that good,” I pointed out.

“I know, then I found out he’d been cheating on me with a woman right in the same
apartment building, which is what made me see red. I was a basket case. I really was.
Can you believe it? The man has borrowed thousands of dollars from me and then to
find out he was f— Well, doing you-know-what with Caroline.”

“And you knew nothing about it until last night?”

“No, no. I found out about Caroline weeks ago. I won’t even tell you about the scene
I had with her. It was horrible. She was so hysterical, she moved out. I don’t know
where she went, but good riddance.”

“Had Gerald ever done this before?”

“Cheat? I’m not sure. I suppose so. Actually, he has. I know he’s been involved with
dozens of women. Gerald was a bit of a Don Juan. He cheated incessantly from what
he said, but I never thought he’d do it to me.”

“What was the attraction?” I asked. I’m always curious about women who fall in love
with bounders and cads.

“Gerald is—”

“Was,” I reminded her.

“Yes. Well, he was very good-looking and so . . . I don’t know . . . tenderhearted.
It’s hard to explain, but he was very loving and sentimental. Such a romantic. I adored
him. Really.”

She seemed on the verge of tears and I allowed her a few moments to compose herself.

“What did you quarrel about last night?”

“I don’t even remember,” she said. “We went out to have a drink and one thing led
to another. We got into some silly argument at the bar and next thing you know, the
whole subject of his past came up—this woman Lorraine he was crazy about years ago,
Ann-Marie, Trish, Lynn. He kept talking about how wonderful they were. He got ugly
and so did I. We came back to the apartment and things just went from bad to worse.
I had to get out of there so I left. When I came back this morning, I thought he was
gone. Then I noticed Althea’s bedroom door was ajar and there he was. Right in her
bed, like Goldilocks.”

“What was he doing in her room?”

“Well, I’d locked him out of mine. He kept banging on the bedroom door, insisting
that I let him in, but I refused. I told him if he so much as set foot in there again,
I’d blow his ba— I indicated I’d injure him where it counts. Anyway, it looks like
he took a glass and a bottle of bourbon into her room and drank ’til he passed out.
I waited until I could hear him snoring and then I unlocked my bedroom door and slipped
out the front. When I came back this morning, I could see he was still stretched out
on Althea’s bed. I stood in the doorway and told him he’d have to move out. I thought
he was listening to me, of course, just pretending to be asleep, but when I finished
and he didn’t say a word, I got furious and started shaking him. That’s when I realized
he was dead, when I pulled the covers down and saw all the blood.”

I was taking notes as fast as I could and I didn’t realize she’d stopped. When the
silence stretched, I glanced up at her. She was beginning to dissolve, her mouth trembling,
eyes brimming with tears. “Take your time,” I murmured.

“Well,” she said. She fumbled in her handbag for a tissue and dabbed at her eyes.
She blew her nose and took a deep breath. “Anyway, when I saw the gun on the bed,
I just did the first thing that occurred to me.”

I could feel my heart sink. “What was that?”

“I picked it up.”

“Mrs. Culpepper, you shouldn’t have done that. Now your fingerprints are
on
the gun.”

“I know. That’s why I put it right back down and left. My goodness, I was so upset.”

“I can imagine,” I said. “What next?”

“Well, I got in my car and drove around some more and then I stopped and looked up
your number in the phone book and came here.”

“Why me?” I said, trying not to sound plaintive.

“You’re a woman. I thought you’d understand. I’ll pay you anything if you’ll help
me straighten this out. I mean, if you could explain it all to the police . . .” She
twisted the tissue, looking at me helplessly.

My eyeballs were starting to bulge with pain. I wanted an Alka-Seltzer in the worst
kind of way. I slid my desk drawer open a crack and spied a packet. I wondered what
would happen if I opened the foil and slipped an Alka-Seltzer onto my tongue like
a Necco wafer. I’ve heard it kills you to do that, but I’m not sure it’s true. The
rumor circulated through my grade school one year, along with the yarn about the mouse
tail that showed up in a bottle of soda pop. I’ve been uneasy about pop bottles ever
since, but who knows how stories like that get started.

I tried to bring my battered intelligence back to the matter at hand. I knew I was
secretly hoping to avoid dealing with Emily Culpepper’s problem, which was a whopper.

“Emily . . . May I call you Emily?”

“Please do. And I’ll call you Kinsey, if that’s all right.”

“Perfect,” I said. “I think what we should do at this point is deposit you in the
offices of a friend of mine, an attorney right here in the building. While you’re
bringing her up to date, I’ll take your keys and go over to your place and check this
out and then I’ll call the cops. They’ll want to talk to you, of course, but at least
they’ll be forced to do it in the presence of legal counsel.”

I made a quick call to Hermione, apprising her of the situation, and then I walked
Emily Culpepper across the hall and left her there, taking her house keys with me
as I headed down the back stairs to the municipal lot where my VW was parked.

I
T WAS “WINTER”
in Santa Teresa, which is to say California at its best. The day was sunny, the town
lush and green, the ocean churning away like a washing machine on the gentle cycle.
While most of the country endured rain, sleet, hail, and snow, we were in shirtsleeves
and shorts playing volleyball at the beach. At least, some people were. I was on my
way out to Emily Culpepper’s apartment building, reciting to myself a litany of the
troubles she had brought down on herself. Not only had Gerald been shot with her little
derringer, but she’d picked the damn thing up, thus (probably) smudging any latent
prints and superimposing a clear set of her own. And then, instead of calling the
cops right away, which at least would have made her look like a conscientious citizen,
she’d run! The whole situation was so damning, I wondered if she was setting me up,
providing herself with an elaborate (though preposterous) alibi of sorts. Maybe she’d
actually killed him and had cooked up this bizarre tale to cover her tracks. Her behavior
throughout had been so dumb, it might almost pass for smart.

The address she’d given me was on a shady side street not far from downtown Santa
Teresa. There were twenty apartments altogether, ten down, ten up, arranged in a square.
The building was done in that mock Spanish style so prevalent out here: red tile roof,
whitewashed stucco walls, arches, and a central courtyard with a fountain in the center.
Emily’s apartment was number two, on the ground floor, right next to the manager’s.
I scanned the premises. There wasn’t a soul in sight, so I took out the keys she’d
given me and unlocked her front door, feeling guilty somehow and very tense. Dead
bodies aren’t fun and I wasn’t sure quite what was in store.