W Is for Wasted (20 page)

“You know that woman?” I asked.

“That’s Markie. She’s in here all the time.”

“What’s she do for a living?”

“Not what you think. She’s an aesthetician.”

“Ah,” I said, though I wasn’t entirely certain what that meant. Hooker seemed like a better fit, but what did I know?

I’m not sure why I stayed. I was tired and the bad wine was making my head ache. The bar had filled to capacity and the noise level was almost unbearable. Cigarette smoke had tinted the air with a milky pallor. Hank and Ellen joined us just long enough to say their good-byes, not wanting to impose on his mother’s generosity. Ellen leaned into Hank like the floor was aslant, and the last I saw of her, one leg gave way as though she’d stepped into a hole. Hank had to steady her while she righted herself. Chances were, I wouldn’t see either one of them again.

It occurred to me that since I’d be hitting the road first thing the next morning, this might be my last chance to pump Anna for information. Mercifully, she’d dropped the subject of her hitching a ride with me. I had no reason to believe she was reconciled to her father’s fiduciary rebuke, but that was another subject she hadn’t mentioned in the last hour.

I watched her empty her Champagne flute. A waitress passed and she held up the glass and waggled it to signal the woman that she needed a refill. If her Champagne was on a par with the low-grade Chardonnay I’d been served, she’d be nursing a world-class hangover come morning—not that it was any business of mine. Of the three Dace kids, Ellen was the only one who seemed to care about her dad. The other two I’d written off as stonyhearted.

At least Anna was speaking to me. I had no chance of getting through to Ethan. He was implacable, unwilling to concede even the smallest point in his father’s favor. I wondered if my cousins saw me as just as stubborn and unreasonable with regard to family matters. Being righteous and opinionated reduces everything to black and white; much easier to deal with than all the shades in between.

With Ethan, only one small issue remained and I figured I might as well tackle it. I turned to Anna. “Can I ask a question?”

“In exchange for what?”

“Knock it off and be nice.”

“Make it quick,” she said.

“Ethan made a remark that puzzled me. I don’t remember now how he phrased it, but I got the impression he wasn’t convinced his father was innocent. Does he think Dace was somehow involved in that young girl’s death?”

“How should I know what he thinks? Why don’t you ask him?”

“Oh, come on. As pissed off as he is, I can hardly go back and quiz him about an offhand comment.”

“I don’t want to talk about this stuff.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s boring.”

“Do
you
believe your dad had something to do with that girl’s death?”

“What difference does it make?”

“The difference between believing he did or didn’t commit a cold-blooded murder. Seems like that would count for something, but apparently it doesn’t.”

The waitress reappeared with a fresh glass of Champagne on a tray. Anna took it and made an imaginary toast. “Cheers.”

I touched the edge of her glass with mine.

Then she said, “You know what your problem is? You think it’s all cut and dried. Just because he got out doesn’t mean he’s innocent.”

“That’s what Ethan said! Exactly.”

“A consensus of opinion at long last,” she said.

“Weren’t you relieved when he was exonerated? Didn’t that mean anything to you? He came here thinking you’d be happy. Ellen says your brother spit in his face and you treated him like shit.”

“You are really tedious, you know that?”

“We all have our little failings. Stick to the subject.”

“Which is what?”

“Do you think he was guilty?”

“Maybe.” She thought about it and shrugged. “Probably.”

“He was home. Your mother testified in his behalf.”

“She was trying to protect him.”

“From what? He didn’t do anything.”

“Then where was he?”

“Home with her.”

Anna shook her head. “He was there early in the evening but then he went out. He didn’t come home again until after two. How do we know he wasn’t off with Herman Cates?”

“There wasn’t any evidence linking him to the crime.”

“No evidence was
found
. That doesn’t mean it wasn’t there.”

“Cates recanted. He admitted he lied. Your father had nothing to do with Karen Coffey’s death.”

“Talk is cheap, as I’m sure you know.”

“I don’t understand where this is coming from.”

“He was convicted by a jury of his peers. She did what she could for him, but it wasn’t enough.”

“The newspaper account said a neighbor was there.”

Anna’s gesture was dismissive. “Mrs. Brandle. She’s a busybody. Mom says she doesn’t know what she’s talking about. Anyway, I shouldn’t have said anything. Mom did what she had to do. She’d be in trouble if the truth ever came out.”

“Were you home that night?”

She shook her head. “Ellen and I were at our cousin’s house. She had a pajama party for her birthday and we both went.”

“What about Ethan?”

“He was off with the high school marching band at a regional competition. I don’t know where the festival was held. I was twelve and I didn’t pay attention to those things. I remember he left on the bus with the other kids and he was gone until Sunday afternoon.”

“How can you be so convinced your dad was guilty when none of you really know if he was home or not? What’s your opinion based on?”

“What she told us, okay?”

“Are you telling me your mother lied about it?”

“Would you just drop it?”

I stared at her. “Your mother perjured herself?”

She looked away from me, her face shutting down. I didn’t think I could coax anything more out of her if I tackled the subject head on.

“Let’s drop the word ‘perjury,’” I said. “The statute of limitations has probably run out on that in any event, so it’s not an issue. I’m curious how you found out she was covering for him. It must have been after the trial.”

She looked off across the room.

“Giving me the time frame doesn’t threaten your mother at all.”

“Why do you want to know?”

“I’m just curious. Was it two years later? Five?”

“I don’t see why it matters.”

I shut my mouth. I could see her weigh the question, looking for the booby trap.

“Is that true what you said about the statute of limitations?”

“Sure. I don’t know how long it would run, but it’s been, what, fifteen years? Nobody’s going to go after her at this late date.”

“It was after Dad called Ethan to say he was out. He told Ethan he sued the state and got a settlement and that’s what he wanted to come talk to us about.”

I said, “Really. She never said anything before then?”

“I can see you’re trying to make something of it, but it’s all beside the point. The man was a drunk. First, last, and always. We deserved better than we got.”

Her eyes strayed to a point behind me and she said, “Crap. Look what the cat dragged in.”

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—”