W is for Wasted (Kinsey Millhone 23)

“Was he a teacher?”

“No, but he sure knew a lot. He said before he went to prison, he’d been working on a landscaping degree. He was a tree trimmer by trade, which was how he supported his family, but he wanted to be a landscape architect. Nights and weekends, he took classes.”

“Must have been a bright guy.”

“Very. He was a sweet man, too.” Dandy shifted in his chair. “Something else. Pearl didn’t want me to tell you this, but I don’t see why not. She thinks he had money. Lots of it.”

“Really. Do you agree?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m not sure where it came from, but he didn’t live check-to-check like the rest of us. He kept a roll of bills in his pocket this big around.” He made a sizable circle with his thumb and index finger.

“But that makes no sense. If he had money, why was he living on the streets? Why not rent a room?”

“He didn’t care to spend his money that way. You might feel safe sleeping in your own bed, but to him, it was a nightmare. Furnished room was just like a cell to him. Too hot, too small, too noisy. Camping out feels like freedom. Even I know that and I never been in jail. Except a time or two . . .” he added, just to keep the record straight. “Point is, what he could afford wasn’t relevant.”

“So where do you think the money came from?”

“Beats me. He might have gone to prison for embezzlement. He might have robbed a bank. He didn’t seem like the sort who’d do either one, but what do I know? Any rate, he knew what he wanted done with it when he passed.”

“Such as what?”

“All I know is he went to that office-supply place up on State? He bought him a kit full of legal forms so he could draw up his last will and testament.”

“That was enterprising.”

“Yes, it was. He filled it out and had us sign as witnesses. Felix, Pearl, and me.”

I could feel my head tilt, like a dog picking up a high-pitched whine inaudible to us humans. “How long ago was this?”

“July. I believe it was the eighth.”

“So on the eighth of July, you witnessed his signature?”

“So did Felix and Pearl. We all did.”

“Then you must know his full name.”

Dandy’s change of expression was nearly comical. I’d nailed him and he knew it. He’d been neatly sidestepping the matter of Terrence’s identity, but he’d forgotten to censor the secondary references. Once I’d called him on it, he wasn’t quick enough to fabricate a cover story. He looked at me as though I were blessed with psychic powers. “I’m right about that, aren’t I?”

“I never lied. I wouldn’t do that.”

“But why didn’t you speak up? We’ve been talking all around the subject and you knew his name the whole time.”

“You didn’t ask.”

“I asked the first time we met. That was the whole point. I came down to the beach to find out who he was and I asked you straight out. The three of you were sitting right there.”

“Pearl said not to tell.”

“Are we still in grade school? Who made her the boss? I’m trying to do something nice for the man. Doesn’t that mean anything to you? Whether he was on good terms with his kids or not, they have a right to know he’s gone.”

I noticed he’d stopped making eye contact and he was busy picking at a snag on the knee of his trousers.

I said, “So what was his name?”

I didn’t think he’d answer. I watched him shift in his chair, wrestling with his conscience. On one hand, there was Pearl, the Holy Terror. If she found out he’d leaked the information, she’d break both of his clavicles, put him on the rack, and stretch him until she’d torn off his arms. On the other hand, there was me, all-around good person, generous with my coffee, and only occasionally guilty of sticking my nose into other people’s business. “Dandy?”

“R. T. Dace. He went by his middle name, Terrence, but you never heard it from me.”

I turned an imaginary key in my lips, locking them shut before I tossed away the key.

5

Fifteen minutes later, I dropped Dandy at the Harbor House. He hadn’t asked for a ride. I’d offered . . . nay, I’d insisted. I wanted to get rid of him so I’d have a chance to think about what he’d said. Having chided him for withholding information, I’d been less than forthcoming myself.

I’d actually heard the name R. T. Dace before. Twice as a matter of fact. I couldn’t remember the dates, but I knew of two distinct occasions in which people called to ask for him. What the heck was that about?