X (Kinsey Millhone 24)

“He waited a long time after your mother died.”

“No, no. There was Phyllis, the wife before Celeste.”

“Oh, sorry. That’s right. I remember hearing about her. What’s the story there?”

“He married her when I was seven. I guess she didn’t take to the role of mother substitute, so that only lasted a couple of years. A few years post-Phyllis, he dated a woman who worked at the same company. She was neat and he adored her. I liked her, too. He didn’t marry her, but she ended up suing him anyway, so it might as well have been a divorce. By then I was off at Pomona College and missed the fireworks.”

I’d have asked what the woman sued him for, but I knew we were talking about Taryn, so I let that slide as she went on.

“Essentially, if you count my mother on one end and Celeste on the other, that’s only four serious relationships in twenty-eight years. That’s, what, an average of one every seven years?”

“Not so bad when you put it that way.”

“We’ll see how long Celeste lasts. Not a lifetime, I can guarantee.”

“What’s their relationship like?”

“Very compatible. He’s a bully and she’s a mouse. They act like everything’s fine, but it’s not. We have them for dinner once a month, and that’s as much as I can tolerate. As a matter of fact, they’re coming up tomorrow night, so that’s one chore I can check off the list.”

“You think your relationship might change once the baby’s born?”

“Like we’d see them more often? I’m sure he’s hoping so, but I don’t.”

“I never know what to make of conversations like this,” I said. “I sometimes have this fantasy that life would be wonderful if only my mother and my father were alive. Then I hear stories like yours and I want to get down on my hands and knees and rejoice.”

She laughed. “I better get a move on. I need to get to the grocery store and I’m sure you have work to do.”

“Could I ask a quick favor? I’d like to write to Sacramento and request a copy of your mother’s death certificate, which means I’ll need her date of birth.”

“August 7, 1940.”

“What about a social security number?”

“She never had a job, as far as I know. She wasn’t even out of high school when I was born. Why do you want to see her death certificate?”

“In the interest of being thorough.”

“About what? She took an overdose. End of story, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know if it is or not. What if her death was accidental?”

“Oh. That never occurred to me. Good point. That would be amazing, wouldn’t it?”

“Seems like it’s worth looking into. I’m not sure I’ll learn anything, but I think I should make the effort.”

“You’ll let me know?”

“Of course.”

She leaned forward and turned the key in the ignition.

I opened the car door and then turned and looked at her. “You won’t tell your father you came to see me?”

“Oh, man. Not a word. He would blow.”

32

By the end of the workday, my alarm system was in and fully operational. Cullen taught me the basics and told me to come up with an arming and disarming code that didn’t consist of my address, a variation on my birthdate, or any string of numbers such as 1-2-3-4 or 0-0-0-0. He said I’d also need a one-word response code so if the alarm went off and the S.O.S. operator called, they’d know I was the one answering and not a burglar. I settled on Henry’s birthdate—February 14, 1900—which translated to 2-1-4-0 for the numerical code. My response code was “Ed.” I wrote Cullen a check and he handed me an instruction manual longer than the California Penal Code.

Once he left, I located a file that contained various forms published by the California Department of Public Health; in this case, I was looking for an application for a copy of a death record. I wasn’t entitled to a certified copy since I wasn’t related to her, wasn’t a member of law enforcement, had no court order, and had no power of attorney. Now that I had Lenore’s date of birth, I could request a Certified Informational Copy of her death certificate, which would be a duplicate, but printed with a legend on the face of it stating that it was “informational” and therefore could not be used as documentation to establish identity.

I hauled out my portable Smith Corona and set it up on my desk, then rolled in the blank form and filled out the section asking for my name, address, and phone. I typed in Lenore Redfern Lowe’s name, sex, city and county of death, date of birth, state of birth, and date of death, including her mother’s name and Ned Lowe’s name where indicated. In the heading for that portion of the form to be completed was the phrase “to the best of your knowledge,” which I hoped would cover any errors. When I was finished, I made a copy of the form, wrote a check to cover the fee, and put the whole of it in an envelope addressed to the California Department of Public Health Vital Records in Sacramento. I applied the proper postage stamp and set it aside to drop in a mailbox on my way home.