U Is for Undertow (Kinsey Millhone 21)

I said, “You’re sure you don’t want to make the trip up to Climp? It would save you a few bucks.”

“I don’t want to. They probably wouldn’t talk to me in any event.”

“I see.” I studied him. “You want to tell me what’s going on here? You can’t talk to your siblings and now you can’t talk to your prep school pals?”

“I already told you I didn’t have pals. It has more to do with the administration.”

“How come?”

“There were some difficulties. I had a problem.”

“Like what, you were expelled?” I love stories about flunking and expulsions. With my history of screwups, those are like fairy tales.

“It’s not something I want to get into. It has nothing to do with this.” A stubborn note had crept into his voice. “You go up there. They’ll let you see yearbooks as easily as me.”

“I doubt it. Educational institutions hate handing over information about their students. Especially with the words ‘private investigator’ thrown into the mix.”

“Don’t tell ’em you’re a PI. Think of something else.”

“I didn’t even attend Climping Academy so why would I want to see a yearbook? It makes no sense.”

He shook his head. “I won’t do it. I have my reasons.”

“Which you’re not about to share.”

“Right.”

“Okay, fine. It’s no skin off my nose. If that’s how you want to spend your five hundred bucks, I can live with it. I love driving through Horton Ravine.”

I got up, and as we shook hands again, I realized what was bothering me. “One more question.”

“What’s that?”

“The article came out two weeks ago. Why’d you wait so long before you went to the police?”

He hesitated. “I was nervous. All I have is a hunch. I didn’t want the police to write me off as a crank.”

“Nuh-uh. That’s not all of it. What else?”

He was silent for a moment, color rising in his cheeks again. “What if the guys find out I remembered them? I might have been the only witness and I told them my name. If they’re the ones who killed Mary Claire, why wouldn’t they kill me?”

2

While Sutton and I were chatting, the mail had been delivered. Walking him to the door, I paused to collect the scattering of envelopes the postman had pushed through the slot. Once he’d gone off to the bank, I moved into my office, sorting and separating the stack as I sat down at my desk. Junk, bill, another bill, junk, junk, bill. I came to a square vellum envelope with my name and address written in calligraphy: Ms. Kinsey Millhone, with lots of down strokes and flourishes, very lah-di-dah. The postmark was Lompoc, California, and the return address was printed in the center of the back flap. Even without the sender’s name in evidence, I knew it was a Kinsey family member, one of numerous kin whose existence I’d first learned about four years before. Until that strange turn of events, I’d prided myself on my loner status. There was a benefit to my being an orphan in the world, explaining as it did (at least to my way of thinking) my difficulties in forming close bonds with others of my species.

Looking at the envelope, I could guess what was coming up—a christening, a wedding, or a cocktail party—some formal affair heralded by expensive embossing on heavy card stock. Whatever the occasion, I was either being informed of, or invited to, an event I didn’t give a rat’s ass about. At times, I’m a sentimental little thing, but this wasn’t one. I tossed the envelope on my desk, then thought better of it, and threw it in the wastebasket, which was already brimming with trash.

I picked up the phone and punched in the number for Cheney Phillips at the STPD. When he picked up, I said, “Guess who?”

“Hey, Kinsey. What’s up?”

“I just had a chat with Michael Sutton and thought I better touch base with you before I did anything else. What’s the deal with him?”

“Beats me. That story sounded just screwy enough to be true. What was your impression?”

“I’m not sure. I’m willing to believe he saw two guys digging a hole. What I’m skeptical about is the relevance to Mary Claire Fitzhugh. He says the dates line up because he went back and checked his recollections against the articles in the paper, but that doesn’t prove anything. Even if the two events happened at the same time, that doesn’t mean they’re related.”

“Agreed, but his recollections were so specific he pretty much talked me into it.”