W is for Wasted (Kinsey Millhone 23)

I couldn’t think what else to do with myself, so I went back to my motel. This was my second mistake in as many moves. The Thrifty Lodge, while thrifty, was a sorry piece of work. When I pulled in, mine was the only car in the lot. Maybe word had gone out on the motel underground that something was afoot. Why wasn’t anyone else staying there, unless they knew something I didn’t? I unlocked the door and stepped into my room. I’d neglected to leave a light on for myself, and even at this hour of the day the room was shadowy. Some of the gloom I attributed to the fact that the drapes were closed, blocking what was otherwise an outstanding view of the parking lot. I crossed to the big window and pulled the drapery cord dangling to the right. I gave a mighty tug, but the drapes refused to budge.

I went into the bathroom, flipped on the light, and stared at myself in the mirror. Why did I feel so guilty? Why was I chiding myself when there wasn’t a good way to deliver the news I’d been called upon to “share”? I’d known I was doomed to failure before I made the drive to Bakersfield. Ethan couldn’t admit he was in any way responsible for the pain and distress he’d caused his father, and he wasn’t prepared to own up to the part he’d played in the changing of the will. I understood his rage. After years of humiliation, he’d suffered this final insult. During that last visit, his father had talked about the money, and while Ethan probably told himself he didn’t care, the idea must have lingered at the back of his mind in the same way it had in mine. You can’t anticipate a windfall like that without fantasizing what you’d do with it and what a difference it would make. Even with the money divided three ways, he was still looking at something close to two hundred thousand bucks. I could understand that, but I was puzzled by the cynicism he’d expressed about his father’s release from prison. Apparently, regardless of the reality, he still believed his father was implicated in the girl’s abduction and murder.

Whatever the underlying attitude, I was going to suffer a repeat of the same scene two more times, with Ellen and again with Anna. I assumed Ethan would slap them with the bad news the first chance he got, but I couldn’t be sure of it. I had the option of notifying both by mail, but I still harbored the notion that I could soften the blow if I talked to them in person. Not that I’d done such a sterling job to date. Still, I figured as long as I’d traveled 150 miles, I might as well try. With luck, I wouldn’t see the three of them again in my lifetime.

I left the bathroom and rounded up my shoulder bag, which I’d tossed on the bed. I checked the outside pockets and found Big Rat’s business card. I picked up the handset and dialed. Three rings . . . four. His machine kicked in.

“This is Big Rat. You know what to do.”

I waited for the beep and said, “Hi, Mr. Rizzo. This is Kinsey Millhone. We spoke earlier. I did manage to find Ethan at his wife’s house and we talked a short time ago. Could you give me the name of the salon where Anna works? I think I better touch base with her as well. My number is . . .”

I looked down at the phone. Usually there’s a circle in the dialing wheel, with the phone number of the motel, as well as the extension, which is a variation on the room number. I said, “Hang on a second . . .”

I scanned the room. The furnishings included a desk and a chest of drawers on the far side of the room, but both were bare. I opened the bed table drawer. There was a phone book, but it seemed absurd to take the time to look up the Thrifty Lodge in the yellow pages. No packet of Thrifty Lodge matches, no scratch pad, no promotional pen sporting the pertinent address and phone number. What was I thinking? There was no way the Thrifty Lodge management would pay for advertising gimmicks. Housekeeping hadn’t even bothered to put a wrapper around the plastic bathroom “glass” in a nod to sanitation.

“Skip the number. I’m at the Thrifty Lodge. I guess you’ll have to look it up. I’d appreciate a call.”

I hung up. Now what?

I thought I’d better hang around for a while in hopes that he’d call back. I opened my duffel and retrieved the Dick Francis novel I was reading. I stretched out on the bed and found my place. I reached over and turned on the bed table lamp, which had been equipped with a forty-watt bulb. I could barely see the page. I leaned sideways, holding the paperback elevated at an angle. This was ridiculous. If I couldn’t see to read now, what was I going to do at bedtime, which was my favorite time to curl up with a book?

I turned off the light, licked my fingertips, and unscrewed the bulb. I slid my room key into my pocket and locked the door behind me with the lightbulb in hand. When I reached the office, the midtwenties desk clerk was on the phone. He wore jeans, a white polyester dress shirt, suspenders, and a bow tie. When he spotted me, he held up a finger, indicating he’d be with me as soon as he was done. From his half of the conversation, I was guessing the matter was personal, so I leaned my elbows on the counter and listened to every word. In fewer than twenty seconds, he’d managed to terminate the call.