U Is for Undertow (Kinsey Millhone 21)

“So you told her Aunt Gin was straight?”

“She was.”

I squinted at him. “Are you leveling with me?”

“Why wouldn’t I? To me, the idea was ridiculous. There was never a shred of evidence Virginia Kinsey was anything other than a dyed-in-the-wool heterosexual. She preferred being single, but that’s not aberrant behavior. A lot of folks are like that. I’m one.”

“Me, too,” I said. “I don’t understand why Grand would even raise the question.”

“It must have been the worst thing she could think of, so naturally, she wanted it to be true.”

“As old-fashioned and proper as she seems, I can’t believe she even knew about such things.”

“Don’t kid yourself. Even Victorian women had their ‘special’ friends. When two ‘single’ women settled in together, eyebrows went up. The arrangement was referred to as ‘a Boston marriage.’ ”

“Did Aunt Gin know what Grand was up to?”

“I believe she did.”

“I don’t know what to do with this. For years, I’ve been feeling sorry for myself because I thought my grandmother didn’t give a shit. Now it looks like she cared so much, she’d have blackmailed her own daughter to achieve her ends.”

“That’s about the size of it. On the bright side, she failed.”

“Yeah, and on the dark side, look at what it cost. My poor Aunt Gin. I had no idea what she was going through. She made sure no whisper of it ever reached my ears. For years, I wasn’t aware I had family beyond her. I only learned about my relatives when she was gone.”

“A woman of contradictions. Forthright and secretive in the same breath.”

I studied him, wondering if I was missing something. “I don’t want you bending the truth. I’m truly fine with it either way.”

“Why so suspicious? You must have ‘trust issues,’ as they’re referred to in the common parlance.”

I laughed. “Maybe. And what about you?”

“You’d have to be a fool to trust most people. I credit myself with more intelligence.”

I glanced at my watch. “Oops. I have a meeting in Belicia, so I should hit the road. I appreciate your confidence. My lips are sealed.” I made a zipping motion across my mouth.

Hale wadded up the paper sack and tossed it in the trash. “If you have other questions, don’t hesitate to call.”

It wasn’t until I was on the road again that I realized he hadn’t actually answered my question about whether he’d lie.

26

The business address Shawn Dancer had given me in Belicia turned out to be his home address as well. The town itself was small, spread out like a net between the highway and the beach. The main source of income was the tourist trade, visitors attracted by the setting and the work of local artisans, who made everything from cheeses to breads to boutique wines. I spotted seven art galleries on the main thoroughfare, where there were also shops selling jewelry, handmade furniture, textiles, and other one-of-a-kind crafts. Countless small hotels and bed-and-breakfast places lined the narrow streets, with high-end restaurants, cafés, and bistros sufficient to service the locals as well as the numerous travelers who’d come to explore the area. At this time of year, rates were reasonable and I saw a number of No Vacancy signs.

Shawn Dancer lived in a one-story gray-painted frame house, with a suggestion of Victoriana in its steep gables, fish-scale shingled roof, and gingerbread trim. I pulled up in front and parked. I knocked at the front door and waited the requisite few minutes, wondering if anyone was home. The door was opened by a young woman I judged to be scarcely out of her teens. She was just a slip of a thing, with large hazel eyes and a halo of black curls. She was barefoot, wearing cutoffs and a T-shirt that she’d knotted in the front. Her right arm was weighted with silver bracelets.

I said, “Hi. I hope I have the right house here. I’m looking for Shawn.”

“He’s in his shop around back.”

Since she offered nothing else, I thanked her and then went down the porch steps, turned right, and followed the drive. The workshop was the main house in miniature, connected by a breezeway. The door was standing open and the scent of glue and raw wood perfumed the air. I could hear the high-pitched singing of a lathe. Shawn, in coveralls and goggles, was intent on his task, which allowed me a moment to study him without his being aware.

He was tall with a mop of dark curly hair. The seams of his white coveralls were etched in sawdust. Unacquainted as I was with the tools of his trade, I could still identify buffing and drilling machines, routers, planes, disk sanders, miter and band saws. He’d glued the edge joints of two wide flat panels together, then placed them in a big C-clamp. Rough lumber was stacked on end against one wall. Hundreds of drill bits, small tools, and wooden templates were arranged neatly on wall-mounted pegboard panels.