W is for Wasted (Kinsey Millhone 23)

“No, I’m not,” she said. “So what do you suggest? I have this morning open.”

I went through a quick debate. As far as I knew, she had no legal standing in the matter and I was reluctant to subject myself to another interrogation. At the same time, she seemed to wield considerable influence in the family, which meant that winning her over might defuse the situation. I did think it was preferable to meet face-to-face. “I’m due back in Santa Teresa midafternoon,” I said.

“If we’re going to meet, it might be smart to have Evelyn on hand. She knows the family history better than either one of us,” Mamie said.

“I don’t want to complicate matters.”

“It would be a way to avoid going through this again with her if it comes to that. With Evelyn present, she could ask questions that might not occur to me. I’m sure she’d appreciate the opportunity to express her views.”

“You think she can be objective about this?”

“Probably not, but the two of us can’t either, so what’s the difference?”

I’ll admit I was curious about Dace’s ex-wife, whose unseen presence had hovered in the background since I’d first come across her name in the divorce decree and the quitclaim in his safe deposit box. “All right. I suppose that makes sense. I have an appointment coming up, but it shouldn’t take long. Can we make it ten o’clock?”

“That should work.”

“Fine. I’ll meet you in the lobby and we can take it from there.”

“Wonderful,” she said.

On impulse, I said, “I saw Ethan at the Brandywine last night.”

She said, “Really.”

I was certain someone had already told her as much.

“It was Anna’s idea,” I said. “She brought Ellen and Hank along so I’d have a chance to meet them as well. I was actually there long enough to hear Ethan play. He’s very talented.”

“You sound surprised.”

“I guess I am. Hard to believe he hasn’t come to the attention of someone in the music business.”

“I’m sure he’d love nothing more, except now he’s got three little kids and where would they be if his career took off?”

I experienced a quick flash of Binky gnawing on her doorknob. If Ethan left, her baby heart would break. “That would be very tough.”

“Yes, it would. My opinion, if he was so hell-bent on success, he should have pursued it before he made babies.”

“Probably so.”

Mamie and I went through polite fare-thee-wells. I hung up, wishing I hadn’t agreed to meet. It wasn’t a conversation I was looking forward to. My curiosity about the ex–Mrs. Dace was the only draw.

•   •   •

On my way to Ralston Street, I took a ten-minute detour, stopping at a Walgreens drugstore just long enough to buy a Whitman’s Sampler, which I didn’t think they were even making anymore. These were the Russell Stover deluxe candies . . . coconut, chocolate-covered cherries, nougats . . . all the kinds I hate. The box had a bird and a basket of flowers on the front that looked like it had been stitched in needlepoint. I could have purchased the sugarfree candy, but why bother? For $6.99, I also picked up a bouquet of daisies, Alstroemeria, and some fluffy green stuff, all wrapped in cellophane.

I got back in the car and rolled down the windows. This was mid-October and the day was sunny. The humidity must have been low because while the temperature posted on the bank marquee I’d passed said it was eighty-five degrees, the air had an autumn feel to it, as though scented with the hint of burning leaves. There was little evidence that the trees were changing colors. From the flora and fauna I could see, the evergreens outnumbered deciduous species by three to one. Beyond a variety of palms, I recognized manzanita, junipers, California bay, and the coast live oak.

The house on Ralston was plain; a dark green one-story box with a modest yard, enclosed by a picket fence. The place would have benefited from the services of a handyman. The front gate sagged to the point where I had to lift it off the sidewalk before it would swing open. The wooden porch steps needed a coat of paint. I wasn’t sure what to expect of Cousin Alice. She’d sounded like a young woman, but telephone voices can be deceptive. I rang the bell. A flat metal mailbox was affixed to the wall near the front door. The printed calling card visible in a small slot read ALICE HILDRETH FIX.

The woman who came to the door appeared to be in her seventies. I suspected she was wearing a wig because her blond hair was too thick and glossy to be her own. She wore it in what in my day was referred to as a flip; shoulder length, with the ends turned up perkily. She wore a yellow crewneck sweater and a gray tweed skirt, knee-high hose, and penny loafers. I wouldn’t have guessed about the knee-highs, except that she’d rolled both down around her ankles to ease her circulation.