W is for Wasted (Kinsey Millhone 23)

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—”

“I know who Terrence is, dear. Everyone in town knows him. If you don’t mind my asking, what’s this have to do with Lolly?”

“It gets complicated, but basically I’m distantly related to Mr. Dace and I’ve been talking with some of the surviving family members. A question has come up about his whereabouts the night Karen Coffey was kidnaped and I thought Lorelei . . . Lolly . . . might help us out.”

“Just one moment.”

I heard her clunk the handset down on a tabletop. There was a long interval of silence. Eventually she picked up again.

“I just went to check on her. She hasn’t been well.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. I drove up from Santa Teresa yesterday and I should head back before long. I was hoping to speak to her sometime soon. Are you her caregiver?”

“I’m her cousin, Alice.”

“I’ll keep my visit as brief as possible. I only need a few minutes of her time.”

“Ordinarily I wouldn’t do this, Miss . . .”