The Best of Sisters in Crime (15 page)

“I—I have to
leave. Now.”

His hand
tightened around her elbow, sending a flow of electricity up her arm. As
disappointment crossed his face, she said, “An errand has come up, something I
really and truly have to do. I’m sorry. I’d like to stay for a drink, but I
have to go. Right now. There isn’t much time. I’m sorry.”

“We leave in the
morning and won’t be through here for at least six months,” he said with a
sigh, his blue eyes lowered. “I was very excited about getting to know you, if
only for one night. I couldn’t believe you’d actually waited for me, but I
suppose you’ve changed your mind.” He looked up with a wistful smile. “I wanted
to make you happy this one night.”

Anne took a deep
breath as she studied the sweep of his eyelashes, the faint frown that managed
to provoke his dimples, the haze of moisture on his neck from a hurried shower.
She knew what his shirt and jeans covered, and she could envision what the
khaki triangle had hidden. This—or a frantic drive down a dark, rutted road to
the cabin to save two treacherous people from a fate they well deserved?

As the lights
swept across the room, her face changed from red to blue to green. “The errand’s
not all that important,” she said in a soft, slow voice.

Back to table of
contents

Sue Grafton’s private
eye, Kinsey Millhone, plies her trade from the coastal town of Santa Teresa,
which clever Californians might think is much like Santa Barbara. Kinsey’s
combination of wit and grit have endeared her to readers as her exploits take
her through the alphabet, via the bestseller lists, from
“A” is for Alibi
through the upcoming and yet-to-be-titled
“N”. Along the way, her novels have won four Anthonys, three Shamus awards, two
American Mystery awards, and five Doubleday Mystery Guild awards; her short
stories have collected three Macavitys, an Anthony, and an American Mystery
award.

“In a Poison That Leaves
No Trace,” winner of an American Mystery award, Kinsey advises a client that
there is no such thing—until she discovers the toxic nature of certain bitter
pills.

The woman was waiting
outside my office when
I arrived that morning.
She was short and quite plump, wearing jeans in a size I’ve never seen on the
rack. Her blouse was tunic-length, ostensibly to disguise her considerable rear
end. Someone must have told her never to wear horizontal stripes, so the bold
red-and-blue bands ran diagonally across her torso with a dizzying effect. Big
red canvas tote, matching canvas wedgies. Her face was round, seamless, and
smooth, her hair a uniformly dark shade that suggested a rinse. She might have
been any age between forty and sixty. “You’re not Kinsey Millhone,” she said as
I approached.

“Actually, I am.
Would you like to come in?” I unlocked the door and stepped back so she could
pass in front of me. She was giving me the once-over, as if my appearance was
as remarkable to her as hers was to me.

She took a seat,
keeping her tote squarely on her lap. I went around to my side of the desk,
pausing to open the French doors before I sat down. “What can I help you with?”

She stared at me
openly. “Well, I don’t know. I thought you’d be a man. What kind of name is
Kinsey? I never heard such a thing.”

“My mother’s
maiden name. I take it you’re in the market for a private investigator.”

“I guess you
could say that. I’m Shirese Dunaway, but everybody calls me Sis. Exactly how
long have you been doing this?” Her tone was a perfect mating of skepticism and
distrust.

“Six years in
May. I was with the police department for two years before that. If my being a
woman bothers you, I can recommend another agency. It won’t offend me in the
least.”

“Well, I might
as well talk to you as long as I’m here. I drove all the way up from Orange
County. You don’t charge for a consultation, I hope.”

“Not at all. My
regular fee is thirty dollars an hour plus expenses, but only if I believe I
can be of help. What sort of problem are you dealing with?”

“Thirty dollars
an hour! My stars. I had no idea it would cost so
much.”

“Lawyers charge
a hundred and twenty,” I said with a shrug.

“I know, but
that’s in case of a lawsuit. Contingency, or whatever they call that. Thirty
dollars an
hour. . .”

I closed my
mouth and let her work it out for herself. I didn’t want to get into an
argument with the woman in the first five minutes of our relationship. I tuned
her out, watching her lips move while she decided what to do.

“The problem is
my sister,” she said at long last. “Here, look at this.” She handed me a little
clipping from the Santa Teresa newspaper. The death notice read: “Crispin,
Margery, beloved mother of Justine, passed away on December 10. Private
arrangements. Wynington-Blake Mortuary.”

“Nearly two
months ago,” I remarked.

“Nobody even
told me she was sick! That’s the point,” Sis Dunaway snapped. “I wouldn’t know
to this day if a former neighbor hadn’t spotted this and cut it out.” She tended
to speak in an indignant tone regardless of the subject.

“You just
received this?”

“Well, no. It
came back in January, but of course I couldn’t drop everything and rush right
up. This is the first chance I’ve had. You can probably appreciate that, upset
as I was.”

“Absolutely,” I
said. “When did you last talk to Margery?”

“I don’t
remember the exact date. It had to be eight or ten years back. You can imagine
my shock! To get something like this out of a clear blue sky.”

I shook my head.
“Terrible,” I murmured. “Have you talked to your niece?”

She gestured
dismissively. “That Justine’s a mess. Marge had her hands full with that one,”
she said. “I stopped over to her place and you should have seen the look I got.
I said, ‘Justine, whatever in the world did Margery die of?’ And you know what
she said? Said, ‘Aunt Sis, her heart give out.’ Well, I knew that was bull the
minute she said it. We have never had heart trouble in our family. . . .”

She went on for
a while about what everybody’d died of; Mom, Dad, Uncle Buster, Rita Sue. We’re
talking cancer, lung disorders, an aneurysm or two. Sure enough, no heart
trouble. I was making sympathetic noises, just to keep the tale afloat until
she got to the point. I jotted down a few notes, though I never did quite
understand how Rita Sue was related. Finally, I said, “Is it your feeling there
was something unusual in your sister’s death?”

She pursed her
lips and lowered her gaze. “Let’s put it this way. I can smell a rat. I’d be
willing to
bet
Justine had a hand
in it.”

“Why would she
do that?”

“Well, Marge had
that big insurance policy. The one Harley took out in 1966. If that’s not a
motive for murder, I don’t know what is.” She sat back in her chair, content
that she’d made her case.

“Harley?”

“Her husband . .
. until he passed on, of course. They took out policies on each other and after
he went, she kept up the premiums on hers. Justine was made the beneficiary.
Marge never remarried and with Justine on the policy, I guess she’ll get all
the money and do I don’t know what. It just doesn’t seem right. She’s been a
sneak all her natural life. A regular con artist. She’s been in jail four
times! My sister talked till she was blue in the face, but she never could get
Justine to straighten up her act.”

‘“How much money
are we talking about?”

“A hundred
thousand dollars,” she said. “Furthermore, them two never did get along. Fought
like cats and dogs since the day Justine was born. Competitive? My God. Always
trying to get the better of each other. Justine as good as told me they had a
falling-out not two months before her mother died! The two had not exchanged a
word since the day Marge got mad and stomped off.”

“They lived
together?”

“Well, yes,
until this big fight. Next thing you know, Marge is dead. You tell me there’s
not something funny going on.”

“Have you talked
to the police?”

“How can I do
that? I don’t have any
proof.”

“What about the
insurance company? Surely, if there were something irregular about Marge’s
death, the claims investigator would have picked up on it.”

“Oh, honey, you’d
think so, but you know how it is. Once a claim’s been paid, the insurance
company doesn’t want to hear. Admit they made a mistake? Uh-uh, no thanks. Too
much trouble going back through all the paperwork. Besides, Justine would
probably turn around and sue ’em within an inch of their life. They’d rather
turn a deaf ear and write the money off.”

“When was the
claim paid?”

“A week ago,
they said.”

I stared at her
for a moment, considering. “I don’t know what to tell you, Ms. Dunaway. . . .”

“Call me Sis. I
don’t go for that Ms. bull.”

“All right, Sis.
If you’re really convinced Justine’s implicated in her mother’s death, of
course I’ll try to help. I just don’t want to waste your time.”

“I can
appreciate that.” she said.

I stirred in my
seat. “Look, I’ll tell you what let’s do.

Why don’t you
pay me for two hours of my time. If I don’t come up with anything concrete in
that period, we can have another conversation and you can decide then if you
want me to proceed.”

“Sixty dollars,”
she said.

“That’s right.
Two hours.”

“Well, all
right. I guess I can do that.” She opened her tote and peeled six tens off a
roll of bills she’d secured with a rubber band. I wrote out an abbreviated
version of a standard contract. She said she’d be staying in town overnight and
gave me the telephone number at the motel where she’d checked in. She handed me
the death notice. I made sure I had her sister’s full name and the exact date
of her death and told her I’d be in touch.

My first stop
was the Hall of Records at the Santa Teresa County Courthouse two and a half
blocks away. I filled out a copy order, supplying the necessary information,
and paid seven bucks in cash. An hour later, I returned to pick up the
certified copy of Margery Crispin’s death certificate. Cause of death was
listed as a “myocardial infarction.” The certificate was signed by Dr. Yee, one
of the contract pathologists out at the county morgue. If Marge Crispin had
been the victim of foul play, it was hard to believe Dr. Yee wouldn’t have
spotted it.

I swung back by
the office and picked up my car, driving over to Wynington-Blake, the mortuary
listed in the newspaper clipping. I asked for Mr. Sharonson, whom I’d met when
I was working on another case. He was wearing a somber charcoal-gray suit, his
tone of voice carefully modulated to reflect the solemnity of his work. When I
mentioned Marge Crispin, a shadow crossed his face.

“You remember
the woman?”

“Oh, yes,” he said.
He closed his mouth then, but the look he gave me was eloquent.

I wondered if
funeral home employees took a loyalty oath, vowing never to divulge a single
fact about the dead. I thought I’d prime the pump a bit. Men are worse gossips
than women once you get ’em going. “Mrs. Crispin’s sister was in my office a
little while ago and she seems to think there was something . . . uh, irregular
about the woman’s death.”

I could see Mr.
Sharonson formulate his response. “I wouldn’t say there was anything
irregular
about the woman’s death, but there was
certainly something sordid about the circumstances.”

“Oh?” said I.

He lowered his
voice, glancing around to make certain we couldn’t be overheard. “The two were
estranged. Hadn’t spoken for months as I understand it. The woman died alone in
a seedy hotel on lower State Street. She drank.”

“Nooo,” I said,
conveying disapproval and disbelief.

“Oh, yes,” he
said. “The police picked up the body, but she wasn’t identified for weeks. If
it hadn’t been for the article in the paper, her daughter might not have ever
known.”

“What article?”

“Oh, you know
the one. There’s that columnist for the local paper who does all those articles
about the homeless. He did a write-up about the poor woman. ‘Alone in Death’ I
think it was called. He talked about how pathetic this woman was. Apparently,
when Ms. Crispin read the article, she began to suspect it might be her mother.
That’s when she went out there to take a look.”

“Must have been
a shock,” I said. “The woman did die of natural causes?”

“Oh, yes.”

“No evidence of
trauma, foul play, anything like that?”