Kinsey and Me (3 page)

My heart was thudding and I could feel a drop of sweat trickle down the small of my
back. She’d described the layout for me, but I still took a few moments to orient
myself. The room I’d stepped into was a combination living room–dining room, with
a kitchen counter jutting out to my right and the kitchen beyond. Everything was done
in greens and golds, with comfortable-looking upholstered furniture. There were a
few toys scattered through the room, but for the most part the apartment was clean
and orderly.

I crossed the living room. To the left, there was a short hallway with a bathroom
visible at the end and a bedroom on either side. Emily had indicated that her bedroom
was on the left, Althea’s on the right. Both doors were closed. I found myself tiptoeing
down the hall and then I stood for a moment outside Althea’s room. I placed a tissue
over the knob to preserve any prints, and then I opened the door.

I peered around the frame, being careful not to touch anything. A quick glimpse showed
pale pink walls, toy shelves, stuffed animals on the window ledge, a child-sized flouncy
white canopied bed.

And no body.

I pulled my head back into the hallway and stared at the door with puzzlement. Was
this the right room?

I opened the other bedroom door and stuck my head in briefly. Everything looked fine.
No evidence of a body anywhere. Emily’s room was just as tidy as her daughter’s. Maybe
Emily Culpepper had flipped her tiny lid. I went back into Althea’s room, feeling
utterly perplexed. What was going on? The bed looked absolutely untouched, the coverlet
a pristine white, the pillows plump. Cautiously, I pulled the spread down and examined
the linens under it. No sign of blood. Under the fitted sheet, there was a rubber
sheet, apparently to protect the mattress from any bedwetting misdemeanors on Althea’s
part. I peeled back the rubber sheet. The mattress itself showed no evidence of blood
or bullet holes. I remade the bed, smoothing the coverlet back into place, rearranging
the ruffled throw pillows on top.

I backed out of the bedroom, mentally scratching my head. I found the telephone, which
I’d seen on the kitchen wall. Emily had written a phone number in pencil beside the
phone. I covered the receiver with a tissue and picked it up. The line was dead.

“May I help you?”

I jumped a foot. The woman was standing just to my right, her expression dark with
suspicion. She was in her forties, with a faded prettiness, spoiled now by the deep
lines that pulled at her mouth and tugged at the corners of her eyes.

“Oh God, you scared me to death!” I gasped.

“So I see.”

“Hey, I know how it looks, but honestly, Emily Culpepper gave me her house keys and
asked me to come over here to check on something for her.”

“And what might that be?” she asked.

“I’m a private investigator. I’ve got identification right here.”

I opened my handbag and took out the photostat of my license with that awful picture
of me. “I’m Kinsey Millhone,” I said. I pointed to the name on my ID and then gave
her a chance to study it for a moment. I was hoping she’d remark that the picture
didn’t look a thing like me, but she never said a word. She returned the ID grudgingly.
“You still haven’t said what you’re doing.”

“Are you a neighbor of Emily’s?”

“I’m the building manager. Pat Norman.”

“Do you know Emily’s friend Gerald?”

“Gerry? Well, yes. I know him.” She still seemed suspicious, as though I might, at
any minute, pull out a rubber snake and toss it at her as a joke.

“Maybe you know what’s going on, then,” I said. “Emily says she quarreled with him
last night and left in a snit. When she came home this morning, she found him in her
daughter’s room, shot to death.”

“Dead!” she said, startled. “Good heavens, why would she do that? I can’t believe
it. That’s not like Emily at all.”

“Well, it seems to be a little bit more complicated than that,” I went on. “I can’t
find the body and her phone is dead. Do you mind if I borrow yours?”

I
FOLLOWED
P
AT
N
ORMAN
into her apartment. She showed me the phone and I called Hermione, uncomfortably aware
that Pat was eavesdropping shamelessly as I reported the details. Hermione said she’d
collect Emily and the two of them would be over in ten minutes.

While I waited, Pat offered me some coffee. I accepted, looking around idly while
she got out the cups and saucers. Her apartment was done up in much the same manner
as Emily’s. The layout was different, but the carpet was the same and the wallpaper
in the kitchen was identical, right down to the telephone number penciled on the wall
by the phone. Pat’s taste ran to framed photographs of herself with celebrities, signed
with various extravagant sentiments. I didn’t recognize any of the signatures, but
I supposed I should be impressed. “Quite a collection,” I remarked. I never said of
what.

“I was on the LPGA tour when I was younger,” she said.

“How long have you managed this place?”

“Two years.”

“What about Emily? How long has she lived here?”

“Ever since she and that husband of hers broke up. Ten months, I’d guess. Gerald moved
in soon afterwards.” She hesitated. “I have to be honest and tell you that I did hear
them quarrel last night. I could hardly help it with her place right next to mine.
I don’t for a minute believe she’d hurt him, but she did make threats—not that she
meant them. Given his behavior, who could blame her if she did?”

“Do you know what they quarreled about?”

“Women, I’m sure. I heard he was quite a philanderer. He was the sort who borrowed
money and then disappeared.”

“Did you hear anything unusual once she left?”

“I can’t say that I did.”

“What about Caroline? The one he was supposedly having an affair with?”

“‘Supposedly’ my behind. He fooled around with her for months before Emily found out.
I knew the two of them were going at it hot and heavy, but I kept my mouth shut. It
was none of my business and I kept out of it.”

“Did he borrow money from Caroline?”

“I have no idea. She had the apartment two doors down from Emily’s. She only left
last week. Short notice, too. Very inconsiderate.” She glanced down at her watch.
“Fortunately, I’m showing the place this afternoon. I hope to have it rented before
the month is out.”

There was a knock at the door and she went out to answer it. I half expected to see
Hermione and Emily, but it was a short person, who said, “Is my mommy here?”

Pat shot me a look, suddenly taking on that special, silly tone adults use with kids.
“No, she’s not, Althea. Why don’t you come on in. Is your daddy with you?”

“He’s in the car.”

Ordinarily, I don’t take to children. I’m an only child myself, raised by a maiden
aunt who thought most kids were a nuisance, sometimes including me. But Althea had
a strange appeal. Her sturdy four-year-old body was topped by an ancient face. I knew
exactly what she’d look like as an adult. Her cheeks were plump and she wore plastic
glasses with pink frames, the lenses so thick they made her gray eyes seem huge. She
had mild brown hair, straight as a stick, caught up in pink barrettes that were already
sliding off. She wore a Polly Flinders dress, smocked across the front, with short
puffed sleeves biting into her plump upper arms. She seemed poised and humorless and
I could imagine her, later in life, evolving into one of those mysterious women to
whom men gravitate. In some terribly bossy, mundane way, she would break all their
hearts and never quite understand their pain.

“I suppose I should go get him,” Pat said to me in a lowered tone. I watched Althea’s
gaze shift from Pat to me.

“Hi, I’m Kinsey,” I said to Althea.

She said, “Hello.”

Pat hurried off to the parking lot to tell Mr. Culpepper what was going on.

Althea regarded me with the solemnity of a cat. She sat herself on an upholstered
chair, scooting way back until her legs stuck straight out. “Who are you?”

“I’m a private investigator,” I said. “Do you know what that is?”

She nodded, pushing her glasses back on her nose.

I assumed her knowledge of private investigators came from TV and I was reasonably
sure I didn’t look like one, which might explain why she was staring.

“I didn’t wet the bed,” she announced.

“I’m sure you didn’t.”

She studied me until she was satisfied that she was no longer a suspect. “Where do
you live?”

“Over by the beach,” I said.

“Why did you come here?”

“Your mom asked me to.”

“What for?”

“Just to look around and talk to Pat, things like that.”

She looked at her shoes, which were patent leather with a T-strap. “Know what?”

“What?”

“Chicken butt,” she said, and then a small, shy smile played across her face.

I laughed, as much at the look on her face as the joke, which I’d told myself when
I was her age. “What’s your daddy’s name?”

“David. He’s nicer than Gerald.”

“I’ll bet.”

She had to lean forward then and pick at her shoe. She sat back, wagging her feet
back and forth. “Where’s my mother?”

“On her way home, I expect,” I said.

Silence. Althea made some mouth noises like horses clopping. Then she sighed, resting
her head on one hand. “Do you wet your bed?”

“Not lately.”

“Me neither because only babies wet the bed and I’m big.”

She fell silent. Apparently, we’d exhausted the subject.

I could hear the murmur of voices and Pat returned in the company of a man who introduced
himself as David Culpepper. He was big, with a mustache, beard, and bushy head of
hair. Wide shoulders, narrow hips, and biceps that suggested he lifted weights. He
wore boots, blue jeans, and a flannel shirt that made him look like he should be accompanied
by Babe the Blue Ox. “Pat filled me in,” he said. “Is Emily here yet?”

“She’s on her way,” I said.

Without even thinking about it, we all looked at Althea, aware of the fact that whatever
was happening, she should be spared any tacky revelations.

Pat, talking now like Minnie Mouse, said, “Althea, sweetheart, do you want to go outside
and play on the swings?”

“I already
did
that.”

“Althea,” her father said warningly.

Althea sighed and got up, moving toward the front door with an injured air. As soon
as she’d disappeared, David Culpepper turned to me.

“What is this?”

“You know as much as we do, at this point,” I said. “Your wife swears that at six
this morning, Gerald was dead as a doornail in Althea’s bed. I can’t find a trace
of him.”

“But my God,” he said, “why would Emily say such a thing if it weren’t true?”

“Uh, I hope you’ll excuse me,” Pat said. “I’ve got an apartment to show and I’d just
as soon wait outside. Let me know if you need anything.” She took a set of keys from
the counter and moved out into the courtyard.

“Maybe you should see Althea’s room yourself,” I said to David.

“I’d like that.”

Emily’s apartment was still open and we moved through the living room to Althea’s
bedroom, which was just as bare of bodies as it had been when I first checked. David
went through the same procedure I had, pulling back the counterpane and the top sheet
to the bedding underneath.

“Was Gerald responsible for the breakup of your marriage?” I asked, watching as he
remade the bed.

“I guess you could say that.”

“What else could you say?”

“I don’t know that it’s any of your business.”

“Wait and tell the cops, then,” I said.

He sighed. “Emily had worked before Althea was born, but she stayed home after that.
Apparently, she was getting restless. Or that’s what she claims now. Once Althea started
preschool, Emily had too much time on her hands. She started spending her afternoons
at the country club. I thought she was having a ball. Hell, I wouldn’t mind a schedule
like that myself. She played tennis, golf, bridge. She met Gerald.”

He left the rest unsaid, but the implications were clear. Her relationship with Gerald
must have started out as recreational sex, developing into an affair with more serious
overtones.

“What sort of work do you do?” I asked.

“I’m a building contractor. It’s pretty basic stuff,” he said, almost apologetically.
“I guess I didn’t come across as romantic—a man of the world. I sure never had any
leisure time. I busted my nuts just trying to get the bills paid.”

“From what Emily says, Gerald was a skunk. He cheated, he borrowed money. Why would
she put up with that?”

“Ask her,” he said. “The guy was a jerk. Try paying alimony and child support when
you know the money’s goin’ to the guy who’s diddling your wife.”

“David, how dare you!”

Both of us turned. Emily Culpepper was standing in the doorway, her color high. Behind
her, I saw Hermione Santoni, the criminal attorney whose office is just across the
hall from mine. Hermione is almost six feet tall, with black curly hair and violet
eyes—all of which David Culpepper took in at a glance. I made introductions all around
and went through the whole explanation again.