U Is for Undertow (Kinsey Millhone 21)

At the entrance to the coffee shop I paused. There was only one young woman at a table alone. She raised a hand and waved, having identified me by the same process of elimination. I indicated to the hostess that I was joining a friend. I slid into the padded Naugahyde booth across from her and signaled to a waitress who was passing with a fresh carafe of coffee. She turned my mug right-side up and filled it.

Rain passed the stainless steel pitcher of milk and I added enough to turn the coffee beige. We introduced ourselves properly and then chatted about nothing in particular, which gave her a chance to study me while I made a study of her. She had the fresh look of youth. Her complexion was clear and her features were delicate. She had Betty Boop lips and hair like a cloud of platinum-blond frizz, bobbed level with her ears. Discreet pearl-and-diamond earrings caught the light. She wore jeans and a gossamer white shirt over a white lace camisole, a combination more elegant than I’d have imagined. Two booths over, a busboy wiped down the table with his eyes pinned on her, as though she might be a celebrity.

“Have you ordered yet?” I asked.

“I was waiting for you.”

The waitress returned with her order pad in hand. I asked for a small tomato juice, rye toast, and a soft-boiled egg. Rain ordered the breakfast special. When the meal came I watched her work her way through orange juice, scrambled eggs, home fries, bacon, link sausages, and buttered biscuits with strawberry jam. Though she ate as rapidly as I did, I finished first, leaving her with two biscuits to go.

“How old are you?” I asked.

“I’ll be twenty-five in July. Why?”

“Please tell me you don’t eat like that and then go to the ladies’ room and barf it all up again.”

“And waste all this food? I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“No laxatives? Ipecac? Finger down your throat?”

She laughed. “I’ve got the metabolism of a bird.”

“That’s what the skinny actresses say to cover up their eating disorders.”

“Not me. In my teens I had migraines and I barfed enough for a lifetime. I admit I was pretty good at it, but eating’s too much fun.”

“Can I ask you about your father’s business? Deborah says you took over after he died.”

“I did. He was actually my grandfather, as I’m sure you know, but I called him Daddy because that’s what he was to me. He owned a plant in downtown L.A., manufacturing sports uniforms. Later, he created a line of foul-weather gear—raincoats, rain hats, anoraks, rain jackets, slickers, umbrellas . . .”

I stared at her. “Are you talking about Rain Checks?”

“That’s him.”

“You’re kidding. You’re the ‘Rain’ in Rain Checks?”

“Yep.”

“How did he come up with the idea when California has so little rainfall? What is it, fifteen days a year?”

“He was smart. Early in his career he worked for a company that made sports apparel. He was on the road a lot, mostly in the North-west, Oregon and Washington States. He could see the niche. People had raincoats, umbrellas, and boots, but it was all a hodgepodge and none of it was stylish. He decided to tackle the high-end market, where Burberry and London Fog were the only competition. Now we sell through all the luxury department stores; Neiman Marcus, Bloomingdale’s, Bergdorf Goodman. We have a huge worldwide presence as well. London, Rome, Prague, Tokyo, Singapore. ‘When foul weather threatens your day, take a Rain Check.’ ”

“I love those ads,” I said. “You know how to run a business?”

“I’m learning,” she said. She popped the last bite of biscuit in her mouth and wiped her fingers on her napkin. “After Daddy died, I changed my major from social work to business and got my MBA. I have a team of experts holding my hand, and we’ve done well so far. Knock on wood.”

“I am totally amazed.”

“You’re not the only one,” she said. “Anyway, I know your primary interest is the kidnapping—abduction, or whatever.”

“I’m curious about the experience.”

“It was fine. Really. I was four. I didn’t know what was going on so why would I react badly?”

“No unpleasant associations?”

“Not at all. The guys were nice. I got to play with this adorable yellow kitten. The only thing I was ever upset about was not getting to keep her when it was all over with.”

“There were two guys?”

“Two that I saw. One was Santa and the other was just this goofball who wore glasses with cardboard eyes in the frames and a big plastic nose. He had a wig, too—bright red fake hair like Raggedy Andy. There might have been other guys, but I doubt it.”