U Is for Undertow (Kinsey Millhone 21)

“How so?”

He smiled. “I’d have to cite confidentiality again.”

“Were you supposed to grab me and run?”

“Oh, god no. I wouldn’t have hired out if that was the point.”

I sorted through the invoices. “She paid you close to four thousand dollars.”

“I put in a lot of hours.”

“Doing what?”

He was quiet and I could see him brooding.

I said, “Look. This is all ancient history. There’s nothing at stake. Whatever Grand’s intentions, she couldn’t have succeeded because here I sit.”

He was quiet for a moment more. “Can I buy you a cup of coffee?” Surprised, I said, “Sure. I’d like that.”

I pictured a coffee shop, but Hale had something else in mind. We went into the lobby of an office building three doors down. In one corner, there was a coffee cart, complete with wee containers of half-and-half, sugar packets, stirring sticks, and freshly baked cinnamon buns. He glanced at me. “Have you had lunch?”

“It’s ten A.M.”

He smiled. “How about a sticky bun?”

“Sure, why not? I skipped breakfast this morning along with my three-mile run.”

He pointed to three big cinnamon buns that the woman behind the cart picked up with a sheet of waxed paper and placed in a sack. He asked for two jumbo coffees to go, which she poured, and then set in a collapsible cardboard tray. He picked up a handful of half-and-half containers the size and shape of bonbons, and then he added a pile of sugar packets.

After he paid, I followed him out the lobby door and from there to the grassy park across the street. I got the impression this was his morning ritual. The bench he chose was in dappled shade. By the time he sat down, setting the cardboard tray between us, a Disney-like assortment of birds and squirrels had appeared in anticipation of the third pastry, apparently intended for them. Our conversation proceeded by fits and starts while we sipped coffee and munched on sticky buns, tossing nuggets to the little creatures gathered at his feet.

“You understand I could have my license yanked if this got back to her.”

“How would it get back to her? I won’t breathe a word of it. Scout’s honor.”

He sat and thought about it. “What the hell. I’m close to retirement. I’ll take you at your word.”

“Please.”

“You’re right about the job. Mrs. Kinsey hired me to do a background check on Virginia.”

“She wanted proof Aunt Gin was unfit to act as my guardian, right?”

“Basically. Your grandmother had enough money to pay for the best attorneys. Still does, for that matter. She also had enough to pay for my services, which didn’t come cheap . . . as you so kindly pointed out. She thought she could influence the social workers and the judge and she wasn’t too far wrong. Virginia Kinsey was an odd duck.”

“ ‘Eccentric’ is the word,” I said. “So what went on?”

He smiled, conceding the point. “Your parents left no instructions about guardianship if something happened to them. Your aunt had no experience with kids. You must have discovered that yourself if you had half a brain. She was one of a kind. She could knock back whiskey with the best of them and she cussed like a stevedore. I could have made a case for your grandmother being the better equipped to care for a five-year-old.”

“Is that what you did?”

“No.”

“What happened?”

“I’ll get to that in a bit. Two things I should tell you first. I didn’t like your grandmother then and I don’t like her now. Maybe she reminds me too much of my own granny, who was stingy and bad-tempered, as hateful as they come. Mrs. Kinsey’s the same, self-centered and autocratic, which won’t fly with me. I’ve worked for her a time or two after that job, but it’s been years now, which is why I asked if she was still alive.”

“Fair enough.”

“Here’s the other thing. That was the only job I ever did strictly for the money. I was just getting into the business. I’d borrowed from the bank to set up my office, but clients weren’t exactly breaking down my door. The loan officer . . . the cranky so-and-so . . . expected payment and I didn’t have a dime. I put him off as long as I could, but I was running out of excuses. I don’t know what the bank would’ve done if I’d defaulted. I figured the last thing they wanted was an empty office filled with my used furniture. I knew the location was good and I was convinced I’d have business enough to support myself—at least modestly—within a short period of time. I just didn’t have the cash in hand.