P is for Peril (Kinsey Millhone 16)

"Not anymore. Leila's mother put a stop to it. Said Paulie was too wild. Ask me, that Lloyd's the wild one. Thought he'd get around me because I'm old and deaf, but I surprised him. Evicted him proper and had a marshall show up, make sure he went without a fuss. Fellow like that might decide to trash the place if he doesn't get his way."

"Any idea where he went?"

"No, and I don't care. You a bill collector?"

"I'm a private detective."

"What kind of trouble is he in?"

"None as far as I know. I need to talk to him."

"Can't help. I think he's somewhere in town, but that's as much as I know. Can't even forward his bills, so I have to throw 'em in the trash. Nice-looking man, but shiftless as they come."

"So I've heard. Thanks, anyway."

"You're entirely welcome," she said, and closed the door.

I sat in the car and considered my options. The simplest course of action would be to ask Crystal where Lloyd had gone. Since the two shared custody, I assumed she'd know. I fired up the engine and headed for Horton Ravine again.

Dr. Purcell's house was built on a lush, wooded knoll with a narrow view of the ocean if you raised up on tiptoe. The residence itself wasn't impressive, despite Fiona's boasting about her talent for design. In typical fashion, she'd piled box on box in tiers up to a flat concrete roof. A reflecting pool extended from the front, providing a mirror image of the house in case you happened to miss it the first time around. The style, though futuristic, was oddly dated, imitative of architects more talented than she. It was clearly not Crystal's taste and I could see where she'd chafe at having to live there. Given her love of the glass-and-frame Cape Cod beach house, this must have felt like a prison. The white Volvo and the Audi convertible were parked in the drive, along with a snappy little black Jaguar I hadn't seen before.

When I rang the bell, I heard nothing, but within a minute, Crystal appeared at the door. She was wearing boots, black wool slacks, and a heavy black wool sweater. Her hair was feathered away from her face, the layered blond strands carelessly disarranged. "Good. Thank God. Maybe you can help. Nica, it's Kinsey! Come on in," she said to me, harried.

I stepped through the door. "What's going on?"

"Anica's just driven up from Fitch," she said. "Leila left campus without permission and we're trying to track her down before she blows it. She'll be kicked out of school as soon as they realize she's gone. Don't worry about me. I'm only going out of my mind. Rand took Griff to the zoo."

Anica appeared from the kitchen, wearing navy blue slacks and a red blazer with a gold-stitched Fitch Academy patch on the breast pocket. Her shirt was tailored, crisp white, and she wore a pair of low-heeled navy blue pumps. Her manner was straightforward, and she managed a wide smile despite Crystal's distress. "Always walking into uproar. Hello, Kinsey. Nice to see you again. How are you?" She reached forward and we shook hands.

"Fine. I'm sorry about Leila. You think she's heading this way?"

"Let's hope," Crystal said. She passed us on her way into the kitchen, talking over her shoulder. "I'm making coffee while we try to decide what to do. She knows she's not allowed to hitchhike. I've expressly forbidden it. . . ."

"That's probably why she's done it," Anica said. "I'd be sick with worry if I wasn't so mad at her. How do you take yours, Kinsey?"

"Black's fine with me."

While Anica and I followed her into the kitchen, I made a quick eyeball assessment of the living room to my right. The interior of the house was curious: stone floors, stark white walls, no window covering, all angles and cold light-clearly Fiona's imprint. Over it Crystal had asserted her own taste: assorted shabby Oriental carpets laid together like pieces of a puzzle, sagging upholstered furniture slipcovered with faded chintz. The wood tables and padded chairs were an antique white with green-and-white checkered seats. Some of the stray pieces were made of bentwood; big rounded chairs that had been woven from twigs. There was a white-painted wrought-iron day-bed piled with oversized pillows in mismatched fabrics. Books were stacked on the coffee table and there were vases of flowers carelessly arranged. The effect was comfortable and slouchy, a place where kids could roam without ruining much since everything looked ruined to begin with.

The kitchen showed the same sort of changes. I could see Fiona's bare-bones approach: cold, streamlined surfaces and the rounded art deco corners. Crystal had introduced glass-fronted cabinets and a hutch where her collection of assorted china plates was displayed. The room looked old-fashioned, a place grandma would have loved for putting up peaches and tomatoes. The appliances were obviously up-to-date. The stove was a six-burner Viking. I spotted two dishwashers, four ovens, and an island topped with speckled gray granite. Dried herbs hung from the rafters along with a rack for copper pots and pans. At the far end of the room, there was a red-brick fireplace that looked like it was added after Fiona's departure. Too folksy for her taste.