U Is for Undertow (Kinsey Millhone 21)

His father returned with a tray, cups rattling against the saucers as he walked. He set the tray on the coffee table and passed a cup to Walker. “I forget what you take with your coffee. I have half-and-half.”

“Black’s fine,” he said. “What’s this?”

“What’s what?”

“This is what I wanted to ask. Carolyn told me a private investigator called the house looking for you. According to my attorney, a conversation with this woman would be out of line.”

“I’ve already met with her and you needn’t be alarmed. Her reasons for seeing me had nothing to do with you. She stopped by a few days ago and asked about a dog I treated once upon a time.”

“A dog?”

“She had questions about the protocol when a pet was put down. I told her what I could, and she left her card in case I had something to add. She was a very pleasant young woman. We chatted for a bit about this and that, and then she left. I doubt she was here thirty minutes, if that.”

“Did she mention I went to high school with her?”

“I wasn’t aware of it. She was here on an entirely separate matter.”

“What did you tell her?”

His father stopped with the cup halfway to his lips. “I’m quite capable of having a conversation independent of your oversight.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to butt in. I don’t want her to take advantage of our prior acquaintance.”

“Your name didn’t come up. She sought me out of her own accord, though it’s no concern of yours. I suggest you get your own house in order and let me worry about mine.”

He let the subject drop, stung by the rebuke. The conversation bumbled on until he felt enough time had passed to make his excuses and return to the car. His father declined to walk him to the door.

He was barely aware of the drive home. He rolled down the nearest window and let the air whip through the car’s interior, cooling his face and buffeting his hair. He loosened his tie and unbuttoned the collar of his shirt. Brent shot him a look in the rearview mirror. Walker didn’t feel he had to explain. He was hot. What business was that of Brent’s? The same thoughts assailed him persistently. Kinsey knew about the dog. He couldn’t figure out how she’d arrived at his father’s door. By what circuitous logic had she linked his father and the dog’s remains? Walker had seen her at the dig and within a week, she was six steps behind him and gaining.

By the time Brent dropped him off at the Pelican, the combination of caffeine and anxiety had triggered something close to a panic attack. Walker locked the door behind him and staggered to the bed. His heart was thudding at a rate that made him pant and sweat. It was like an overdose of speed, which he’d experienced twice in his lifelong association with drink and drugs. He sat on the edge of the bed, clutching his chest, afraid to stand up again for fear of passing out. He was dying. He would die. The terror would mount until it crushed him under its weight.

Seven days sober. He wondered if it was possible to make it even one more hour. There was a cocktail lounge two blocks away. He pictured the quick walk, the glittering rows of bottles behind the bar. The lighting would be muted and he doubted he’d see anyone he knew. One drink would calm him. One drink would tide him over to the next day. Mornings were easier anyway, though the day would stretch before him like eternity. All he had to do was get up, cross the room, walk the two blocks to the bar. His hands began to shake.

He picked up the phone and called Leonard.

25

Monday, April 18, 1988

Monday afternoon I dialed Information and picked up a phone number for Dancer Custom Woodwork in Belicia. Deborah hadn’t given me the business name, but when I checked the local yellow pages, most custom cabinetmakers seemed to use their own last names by way of a designation. I was prepared to try Dancer Woodworking, Dancer Cabinetry, and variations on that theme. Fortunately I hit it the first time out. I punched in the number and the line rang twice before a man picked up.

“Dancer Custom Woodwork.”

“Is this Shawn Dancer?”

“It is. Who’s this?”

“My name is Kinsey Millhone. I’m a private investigator in Santa Teresa. Deborah Unruh suggested I talk to you about Greg and Shelly. Would you be willing to meet with me?”

“I can save you a trip. Anything I know, I can tell you by phone. It doesn’t amount to much.”

“I’d be happier talking face-to-face if it’s all the same to you. I won’t ask for any more time than you’re willing to spare.”