"U" is for Undertow (38 page)

“I didn’t expect to see you.”

“Sorry about that, Dad. I should have called, but I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop by. There’s something I’d like to ask about.”

“Come in, come in,” Walter said, stepping back. “You have time for a cup of coffee?”

“I could probably manage that,” he said. “Don’t go to any trouble—”

“No trouble. Let’s go back to the great room, where you can make yourself comfortable. How are Carolyn and the children?”

“Doing well, thanks. I just came from the house, as a matter of fact. And yourself?”

“Tolerable. That pain in my hip is largely gone and I’ve been increasing my walks. I’m up to two miles these days.”

Walker perched on the couch and watched as his father set about putting together a pot of coffee, carefully filling a carafe of water, which he poured into the tank. He added six small scoops of ground coffee, double-checking everything before he pressed the button that set the coffeemaker in brewing mode.

His father returned to the sitting area. “Coffee will take a minute,” he remarked.

Walker couldn’t think of a response. He was casting about for some way to introduce the subject of the accident and all of its attendant horrors.

His father cleared his throat. “I don’t suppose I need to tell you how distressed I am about this recent business of yours. Carolyn stopped by and told me. She made a special point of coming over because she didn’t want me to hear about it from a third party.”

“I appreciate her consideration. I would have told you myself, but I’ve been down for the count.”

“Yes.”

The word seemed like a non sequitur. Walker had hoped for some help getting through the awkwardness of the discussion. “I was horrified, as you might imagine.”

“And rightly so. If your mother were alive, this would break her heart.”

“Well, I guess we can both be grateful she was spared,” Walker said. Wrong tone, he thought. He tried again. “I understand how upset you must be, but I’ve been knocked to my knees as well. How do you think I feel, knowing that poor girl is dead because of me?”

“Carolyn said you’d blanked on all of it.”

“I had a concussion. I was knocked unconscious. The doctor says amnesia is pretty common under the circumstances.”

“Carolyn believes you suffered an alcoholic blackout, which is a horse of another color.”

“That’s ridiculous. I didn’t
black
out.”

“Perhaps not. I thought she made a good case.”

“Well, I’m glad the two of you had such a happy chat at my expense.”

“She’s entitled to her opinion.”

“She’s hardly the reigning expert—”

“Son, you’d be wise to cut the sarcasm. She’s a wonderful woman and you’re fortunate you have her standing by you.”

“I don’t know where you got the impression she was ‘standing by’ me. She’s barely civil.”

“I’m sure she’ll come around in time. You have the children to think of. It would be a pity if this tragedy ruined their lives as well as hers.”

The coffee was done and his father left the sitting area to attend to cups and saucers. He set up a tray with the sugar bowl, a cream pitcher, and two spoons.

While he was occupied, Walker debated how best to approach the matter of Kinsey Millhone. The name had no more than crossed his mind when he glanced down at the coffee table and saw her business card propped up against a potted plant. He picked it up, noting her office address and phone number. There was nothing about the kinds of cases she handled. Walker fingered the card.

His father returned with a tray, cups rattling against the saucers as he walked. He set the tray on the coffee table and passed a cup to Walker. “I forget what you take with your coffee. I have half-and-half.”

“Black’s fine,” he said. “What’s this?”

“What’s what?”

“This is what I wanted to ask. Carolyn told me a private investigator called the house looking for you. According to my attorney, a conversation with this woman would be out of line.”

“I’ve already met with her and you needn’t be alarmed. Her reasons for seeing me had nothing to do with you. She stopped by a few days ago and asked about a dog I treated once upon a time.”

“A dog?”

“She had questions about the protocol when a pet was put down. I told her what I could, and she left her card in case I had something to add. She was a very pleasant young woman. We chatted for a bit about this and that, and then she left. I doubt she was here thirty minutes, if that.”

“Did she mention I went to high school with her?”

“I wasn’t aware of it. She was here on an entirely separate matter.”

“What did you tell her?”

His father stopped with the cup halfway to his lips. “I’m quite capable of having a conversation independent of your oversight.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to butt in. I don’t want her to take advantage of our prior acquaintance.”

“Your name didn’t come up. She sought me out of her own accord, though it’s no concern of yours. I suggest you get your own house in order and let me worry about mine.”

He let the subject drop, stung by the rebuke. The conversation bumbled on until he felt enough time had passed to make his excuses and return to the car. His father declined to walk him to the door.

He was barely aware of the drive home. He rolled down the nearest window and let the air whip through the car’s interior, cooling his face and buffeting his hair. He loosened his tie and unbuttoned the collar of his shirt. Brent shot him a look in the rearview mirror. Walker didn’t feel he had to explain. He was hot. What business was that of Brent’s? The same thoughts assailed him persistently. Kinsey knew about the dog. He couldn’t figure out how she’d arrived at his father’s door. By what circuitous logic had she linked his father and the dog’s remains? Walker had seen her at the dig and within a week, she was six steps behind him and gaining.

By the time Brent dropped him off at the Pelican, the combination of caffeine and anxiety had triggered something close to a panic attack. Walker locked the door behind him and staggered to the bed. His heart was thudding at a rate that made him pant and sweat. It was like an overdose of speed, which he’d experienced twice in his lifelong association with drink and drugs. He sat on the edge of the bed, clutching his chest, afraid to stand up again for fear of passing out. He was dying. He would die. The terror would mount until it crushed him under its weight.

Seven days sober. He wondered if it was possible to make it even one more hour. There was a cocktail lounge two blocks away. He pictured the quick walk, the glittering rows of bottles behind the bar. The lighting would be muted and he doubted he’d see anyone he knew. One drink would calm him. One drink would tide him over to the next day. Mornings were easier anyway, though the day would stretch before him like eternity. All he had to do was get up, cross the room, walk the two blocks to the bar. His hands began to shake.

He picked up the phone and called Leonard.

 

 

Monday afternoon I dialed Information and picked up a phone number for Dancer Custom Woodwork in Belicia. Deborah hadn’t given me the business name, but when I checked the local yellow pages, most custom cabinetmakers seemed to use their own last names by way of a designation. I was prepared to try Dancer Woodworking, Dancer Cabinetry, and variations on that theme. Fortunately I hit it the first time out. I punched in the number and the line rang twice before a man picked up.

“Dancer Custom Woodwork.”

“Is this Shawn Dancer?”

“It is. Who’s this?”

“My name is Kinsey Millhone. I’m a private investigator in Santa Teresa. Deborah Unruh suggested I talk to you about Greg and Shelly. Would you be willing to meet with me?”

“I can save you a trip. Anything I know, I can tell you by phone. It doesn’t amount to much.”

“I’d be happier talking face-to-face if it’s all the same to you. I won’t ask for any more time than you’re willing to spare.”

“Up to you,” he said.

He gave me his work address and said he’d be in the shop all of Tuesday and Wednesday. He had an installation on Thursday so he’d be gone Thursday and Friday. I told him Tuesday afternoon would be fine. Stacey had called that morning to tell me Grand’s private investigator was still in business, operating out of the same office he’d occupied at the time. My plan was to stop first in Lompoc and talk to Hale Brandenberg, then drive the additional fifty miles north to Belicia, covering both sources in one day.

Tuesday morning I gassed up my car and hit the northbound 101. I had the manila envelope of letters on the passenger seat, along with the invoices Brandenberg had submitted. I assumed there’d once been reports attached, but he might have agreed to convey his findings verbally to avoid written accounts. I’ve done the same thing myself when the issues are sensitive and a paper trail seems unwise. As long as the client is satisfied, I can work either way. I keep a set of notes for my own files, as a hedge against an investigation coming back to bite me in the butt, but the client doesn’t need to know.

The drive was uneventful. The day was gorgeous, temperatures in the low seventies with a light breeze coming off the ocean. I’d had the Mustang serviced the week before and the car was driving like a dream. We’d had intermittent rain in February and March, and the rolling hills on either side of the road had turned a lush green. Thirty-five miles later, I took the 132 off-ramp and drove west toward Vandenberg Air Force Base.

The town of Lompoc boasts a population of roughly thirty-six thousand, with single-family homes ranging in price from $225,000 to $250,000. There’s a small airport, a U.S. penitentiary, an attractive public library, pocket parks, good schools, and three percent more single men than single women, if you happen to be husband hunting. The surrounding area produces half the flower seeds grown in the world, which means that in May, thousands of acres of flowers are visible from the road. This was early in the season, but in another couple of months the fields would be sprouting the colors of a Persian carpet.

The business district was low-key, with wide streets and few structures over two stories high. Hale Brandenberg was on the second floor of a chunky office building. At ground level, to the right, there was a real estate company, its front windows papered with photographs of houses for sale; on the left, a title company. A glass-paneled door between the two opened onto a wide carpeted staircase. The directory posted on the wall showed his suite number as 204.

I went up the stairs, marveling at the proportions of the place. The windows in the upper hallway were huge and the ceilings were easily twenty feet high. A race of giants could have moved in and had headroom to spare. The corridor was dead quiet. I counted eight offices, each entrance marked by a transom above the door, the old-world equivalent of air-conditioning. I was taking a chance he’d be out, but when I tapped on his door and then opened it to stick my head in, he was sitting on the floor in the middle of his one-room suite, rubbing saddle soap into one of two worn leather-upholstered chairs.

His office was sparsely furnished—leather-top desk, the two leather chairs, and a bank of filing cabinets. His windows, like those in the corridor, were big and bare, spotlessly clean, revealing an uninterrupted expanse of blue sky. I caught sight of a patch of green across the street, trees just leafing out.

“Housekeeping chores,” he said, explaining his homely activity.

“So I see. Mind if I come in?”

He was a rangy-looking man somewhere in his sixties, with a thin face and a cleft in his chin. His fair hair, cropped short, was threaded with gray. He wore faded jeans and cowboy boots, a Western-cut shirt, and a string tie. He looked like he’d be happier outdoors, preferably on horseback. He’d finished conditioning one of the leather chairs and was working on the second. The sections he’d finished looked darker and more supple. “If you’re looking for Ned, he’s across the hall.”

“I’m looking for you, if you’re Hale Brandenberg.”

“You selling something?”

“No.”

“Serving papers?”

“I’m looking for information.”

“Come on in and have a seat. You can use my desk chair since it’s the only one available. You mind if I work while we talk?”

“Fine with me,” I said. Taking advantage of his offer, I circled his desk and sat. His swivel chair was upholstered where mine was not, but I felt at home anyway because the squeaks were similar. As I watched, I was struck by a sense of familiarity. “I know you. Don’t I know you?”

“I get that a lot. People tell me I look like the Marlboro Man.”

I laughed. “You do.”

He moved his rag across the tin of saddle soap, which he applied to the chair arm with a circular motion. “You have a name?”

“Oh, sorry. Kinsey Millhone. I’m a PI from Santa Teresa. Are you sure we haven’t met? I could swear I’ve run into you. Maybe a professional meeting?”

“I don’t do those. Do you socialize up here?”

“I hardly socialize anywhere.”

“Nor do I. So what can I do for you?”

“Does my name ring a bell?”

He took his time answering. “Possibly, though the context escapes me. Refresh my memory.”

“You worked for my grandmother once upon a time. Cornelia Kinsey.”

He moved from the side of the chair to the back, the leather looking almost wet as he rubbed in the saddle soap. “What makes you think I worked for her?”

“I have the invoices.”

“Mrs. Kinsey still alive?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not at liberty to discuss her business without her consent.”

“Admirable.”

“You said you’re a PI. You must find yourself in the same boat every now and then.”

“As a matter of fact, it happened in the last two weeks.”