C is for Corpse (Kinsey Millhone 3)

"Of course. She's been stoned since she walked in my front door. It's been such a bone of contention between Derek and me I can hardly speak of it. She's ruining our relationship." She closed her mouth and composed herself, then said, "What makes you put it that way?"

"About the drugs? It seems odd to me, that's all," I said. "I can't believe she'd leave them in her bed-table drawer in a Ziploc bag for starters and I can't believe she'd have pills in that quantity. Do you know what that stuff is worth?"

"She has an allowance of two hundred dollars a month," Glen said crisply. "I've argued and cajoled until I'm blue in the face, but what's the point? Derek insists. The money comes out of his own account."

"Even so, it's pretty high-level stuff. She'd have to have an incredible connection somewhere."

"I'm sure Kitty has her little ways."

I let the subject pass and made a mental note for myself I'd recently made the acquaintance of one of Santa Teresa High School's more enterprising drug dealers and he might be able to identify her source. He might even be her source, for all I knew. He'd promised me he'd shut down his operation, but that was like a wino promising to buy a sandwich with the dollar you'd donated in good faith. Who were we trying to kid here?

"Maybe we should let it go for now," I said. "I'm sure this day has seemed long enough. I'd like to have the name and telephone number of Bobby's old girl friend if you have it, and I'll probably want to talk to Rick's parents, too. Can you tell me how to get in touch with them?"

"I'll give you both numbers," she said. She got up and crossed to a little antique rosewood desk with pigeonholes and tiny drawers along the top. She opened one of the large drawers below and took out a monogrammed leather address book.

"Beautiful desk," I murmured. This was like telling the Queen of England she has nice jewels.

"Thank you," Glen said idly, while she leafed through the address book. "I bought it at an auction in London last year. I'd hesitate to tell you how much I paid for it."

"Oh, give it a whirl," I said, fascinated. I was getting giddy hanging out with these people,

"Twenty-six thousand dollars," she murmured, running a finger down the page.

I could feel myself shrug philosophically. Hey, big deal. Twenty-six grand was as nothing to her. I wondered what she paid for underwear. I wondered what she paid for cars.

"Here it is." She scribbled the information on a scratch pad and tore off a leaf, which she passed to me.

"You'll find Rick's parents rather difficult, I suspect," she said.

"How so?"

"Because they blame Bobby for his death."

"How does he handle that?"

"Not well. Sometimes I think he believes it himself, which is all the more reason to get to the bottom of this."

"Can I ask you one more thing?"

"Of course."

"Is it 'Glen' as in 'West Glen'?"

"The other way around," she said. "I wasn't named for the road. The road was named for me."

By the time I got back in my car, I had a lot of information to digest. It was 9:30, fully dark, and too chilly for a black gauze tunic that ended six inches above my knees. I took a few minutes to wiggle out of my pantyhose and hunch into my long pants. I dropped the high heels into the backseat and pulled on my sandals again, then started the car and put it in reverse. I backed around in a semicircle, looking for a way out. I spotted the second arm of the drive and followed it, catching a glimpse of the rear of the house. There were four illuminated terraces, each with a reflecting "pool, shimmering black by night, probably giving back sequential images of the mountains by day, like a series of overlapping photographs.

I reached West Glen and turned left, heading toward town. There'd been no indication that Derek had gotten home and I thought I'd try to catch him at St. Terry's before he left. Idly, I wondered what it'd be like to have a city street named after me. Kinsey Avenue. Kinsey Road. Not bad. I figured I could learn to live with the tribute if it came my way.

Chapter 6

Santa Teresa Hospital, by night, looks like an enormous art deco wedding cake, iced with exterior lights: three tiers of creamy white, with a square piece missing in front where the entranceway has been cut out. Visiting hours must have been over because I found a parking space right across the street. I locked my car, crossed, and headed up the circular driveway. There was a large portico and covered walk leading up to double doors that shushed open as I approached. Inside, the lobby lights had been dimmed like the interior of an airplane on a night flight. To my left was the deserted coffee shop, one waitress still at work, dressed in a white uniform almost like a nurses. To my right was the gift shop with a window display done up with the hospital equivalent of naughty lingerie. The whole place smelled like cold carnations in a florist's refrigerated case.