W is for Wasted (Kinsey Millhone 23)

“I never went at all. I’m the baby in the family. By the time it was my turn, Daddy was in prison and the money was gone.”

“What money?”

“From the house. Mom sold it when she married Gilbert and moved into his. They’ve built a new one. Three thousand square feet and a three-car garage. Looks just like Tara, from Gone With the Wind.”

I said, “What about Ethan? Did he go to college?”

“Nah. He had the chance, but he was busy with his career. You know what I got? A big fat zero. I mean, I get that Daddy left us nothing, but isn’t there some way you could borrow against the estate? I’d pay you back for sure.”

“At this point, the money isn’t mine.”

“At least Ellen has a husband,” she said, apropos of nothing.

“Does she have kids?”

Anna held up three fingers. “Same as my brother,” she said. “Remember that English writer, Virginia Somebody?” She snapped her fingers. “Woolf.”

“I’ve heard of her, but I’ve never read her work.”

“I was in this book club for a couple months? We read a novel by her about a day in the life of this lady who gives a party. Mrs. Dalloway’s the title of it. Like who gives a shit. Anyway, she committed suicide—the writer, not the hostess—and you know how she offed herself?”

“No clue,” I said, wondering where she was going with this.

“Loaded her coat pockets with big rocks and walked into a river. Sank to the bottom and she drowned. Over and out. I figure kids are like that. Get pregnant, you might as well fill your pockets with stones.”

The waitress appeared with my white wine, which was mercifully bad, a bonus under the circumstances, since I considered this work and I didn’t want to drink too much.

Anna caught the waitress’s attention. “We’ll run a tab.”

“Sure thing.”

Anna propped her chin on one hand, giving me the big blue eyes. “Is Santa Teresa expensive? I mean, for someone like me who rents?”

“Actually, it is. A lot of people opt for Colgate just north of us or Winterset to the south.”

“So how much for a studio, something small like that?”

“Six hundred a month.”

“For a studio? You’re shittin’ me.”

I shrugged. “That’s the going rate.”

“Are you, like, in the snooty part of town?”

“I’m down by the beach.”

“Six hundred bucks a month is a lot of money. How much do you make?”

“Enough. Are you thinking about a move?”

“Well, I sure don’t want to hang out in a town like this. Spend the rest of my life in Bakersfield? Get serious. I’m twenty-six years old. I got a dead-end job and I bunk in with the dog in my sister’s spare room. No bathroom back there, so I have to trek all the way down the hall. Two hundred a month and I help around the house. She makes out big time on that deal, I’m telling you.”

“I can see why you’d want a change.”

“If I could ever catch a break. You know what gets me? Even if I want to move to, like, Santa Teresa or someplace nice? I don’t know a soul and I wouldn’t have a place to stay while I was looking for work. First and last month’s rent? Forget about it. There’s no way.”

“Maybe you should save some cash.”

“On my salary? Good luck,” she said. She laid the big blue eyes on me. “I don’t suppose you know anyone who’d put me up.”

“Not off hand.”

“It’d just be temporary and I could pay some. Not a lot, but I’d be happy to pitch in.”

“If I hear of anything, I’ll let you know.”

I was hoping we’d exhausted the subject, but she had simply paused to sip her drink.

“So what time do you head for home?”

“I’m not sure. Depends on when I get up. Early.”

“Because I was thinking I could snag a ride. As long as you’re going anyway, I could keep you company.”

“What about work? Aren’t you supposed to give two weeks’ notice?”

“I make minimum wage. What do I owe them?”

“Seems like a courtesy,” I said.

“Oh, yeah, right. Easy for you to say. So how about it?”

“How about what?”

“Me bumming a ride. Crap you’ve laid on us, I’m entitled to something, don’t you think?”

I stared at her. For the life of me, I couldn’t think of a response.