O is for Outlaw (Kinsey Millhone 15)

"Bullshit. Don't do that. You're stalling while you think of an excuse. It's four now. You can hop in the shower and be ready in half an hour. I'll send the car at four-forty-five."

"No, no. Don't do that. I'll use my own."

"Great. We'll see you then."

"I'll do what I can, but I make no promises."

"If we don't see you by six, I'm coming after you myself."

As soon as he hung up, I let out a wail, picturing the house, the servants, and all their la-di-da friends. I'd rather have a root canal than go to these things. Why hadn't I just lied and told him I was tied up? Well, it was too late now. I put the cleaning gear away and trudged up the spiral stairs. I opened my closet door and stared at my dress. I admit to a neurotic sense of pride in only owning that one garment, except for times like this. I took the dress from the closet and held it up to the light. It didn't look too bad. And then a worse thought struck. What if they were all decked out in designer jeans? What if I was the only one who showed up in a dress made of a wrinkle-free synthetic fabric that scientific tests would later prove was carcinogenic? I'd end up looking like a social geek, which is what I am.

EIGHTEEN.

I drove into the parking area at the Hightowers' estate shortly after 6 P.M. The house was ablaze, though it wouldn't be dark for another hour yet. The evening was cool, 6 degrees, according to the report on my car radio. I parked my 1974 VW between a low-slung red Jaguar and a boxy chrome-trimmed black Rolls, where it sat looking faintly plaintive, a baby humpback whale swimming gamely among a school of sharks. In a final moment of cunning, I'd solved my fashion dilemma with the following: black flats, black tights, a very short black skirt, and a long-sleeved black T-shirt. I'd even applied a touch of makeup: powder, lip gloss, and a smudgy line of black along my lashes.

A middle-aged white maid in a black uniform answered the door chimes and ushered me into the foyer, where she offered to take my bag. I declined, preferring to retain it on the off chance I'd spy the perfect opportunity to flee the premises. I could hear a smattering of conversation, interspersed with the kind of laughter that suggests lengthy and unrestrained access to booze. The maid murmured a discreet directive and began to cross the living room in her especially silent maid's shoes. I followed her through the dining room and out into the screened atrium, where some fifteen to twenty people were already standing about with their drinks and cocktail napkins. A serving wench was circulating with a tray of hors d'oeuvres: teeny-weeny one-bite lamb chops with paper panties on the ends.

As is typical of California parties, there was a percentage of people dressed far better than I and a percentage dressed like bums. The very rich seem particularly practiced at the latter, wearing baggy chinos, shapeless cotton shirts, and deck shoes with no socks. The not-so-very-rich have to work a little harder, adding an abundance of gold jewelry that might or might not be fake. I tucked my bag against the wall behind a nearby chair and then stood where I was, hoping to get my bearings before the panic set in. I didn't know a soul and I was already flirting with the urge to escape. If I didn't see Eric or Dixie in the next twenty seconds, I'd ease right on out.

A black waiter in a white jacket appeared at my shoulder and asked 'if I'd like a drink. He was tall and freckle-faced, somewhere in his forties, his tone refined, his expression remote. His name tag said STEWART. I wondered what he thought of the Montebello social set and sincerely hoped he wouldn't take me for one of them. On second thought, there probably wasn't too much danger of that.

"Could I have Chardonnay?"

"Certainly. We're pouring Kistler, Sonoma-Cutrer, and a Beringer Private Reserve."

"Surprise me," I said, and then I tilted my head. "Don't I know you from somewhere?"

"Rosie's. Most Sundays."

I pointed in recognition. "Third booth back. You're usually reading a book."

"That's right. I work two jobs at the moment, and Sunday's the only day I have to myself. I got three kids in college and a fourth going off next year. By 1991, I'll be a free man again."

"What's the other job?"

"Telephone sales. I have a friend owns the company, and he lets me fill in when it suits my scheduling. His turnover's fast anyway, and I'm good at the spiel. I'll be back in a moment. Don't you go away."

"I'll be here."

Halfway across the room I caught sight of Mark Bethel in conversation with Eric, hunkered beside Eric's wheelchair. Eric had his back to me; Mark was just to the left of him and facing my way. Mark's face was long and his hairline was receding, which gave him a high-domed head with a wide expanse of brow. He wore glasses with tortoise-shell rims, behind which his eyes were a luminous gray. While technically not goodlooking, the television cameras were amazingly kind to him. He'd removed his suit coat and, as I watched, I saw him loosen his tie and roll up the sleeves of his crisp white dress shirt. The gesture suggested that despite his buttoned-down appearance he was ready to go to work for his constituents. It was the sort of softfocus image that would probably show up later in one of his commercials. The thrust of his campaign was shamelessly orchestrated: babies and old folk and the American flag waving over patriotic music. His opponents were portrayed in grainy black-and-white, overlaid with tabloid-type headlines decrying their perfidy. Mentally, I slapped myself around some for being such a cynic. Mark's wife, Laddie, and his son, Malcolm, were standing a few feet away, chatting with another couple.