X (Kinsey Millhone 24)

“A padded mailing envelope. The circumstances are complicated and I apologize for catching you off guard, but I was hoping to work out a time when I could drop off the items and explain.”

Dead silence. “My mother? Well, that can’t be true. She’s been dead for years.”

“I know, and I promise you the keepsakes came from her.”

“Who’s this?”

“Kinsey Millhone. I’m a local private investigator.”

“I don’t understand. What keepsakes are you talking about? What does that mean, ‘keepsakes’?”

“I know it’s confusing and I’m hoping you’ll hear me out. Lenore left you her rosary and the Bible she was given when she was confirmed.”

A moment of dead quiet. “I don’t know what you want, but I’m not interested.”

“Hang on a minute. Please. I know it’s a lot to take in, but let me finish. Shortly before she died, she mailed the items to her parish priest, and he’s held on to them for years.”

I was omitting Pete Wolinsky’s part in the matter, but I figured there was only so much she could absorb. She was already stumbling over the concept. I was talking fast, trying to convey the gist of the story before she disengaged. The speedy summation probably wasn’t supporting the sincerity I’d hoped to communicate.

“Is this a sales call?”

“It’s not. I’m not selling anything.”

“Sorry. Can’t help. Bye-bye.” The latter was delivered in a singsong voice.

“Wait—”

“No, you wait. I don’t know what your angle is—”

“I don’t have an angle. I called because I didn’t want to spring it on you.”

“Spring what? Cash on delivery? You think I’m an idiot?”

“We don’t have to talk. I’ll be happy to leave the package on your porch as long as you know it’s there.”

“No. Absolutely not. You show up at my house, I will call the police.” Then she hung up.

Shit. Now what? If I’d had my wits about me, I’d have put the old mailing pouch in a larger mailing pouch and addressed it to April Staehlings and made a trip to the post office. But somehow I had it in my head I should hand-deliver the items since Pete Wolinsky, among others, had gone to so much trouble to see that the package reached her after all these years. Lenore to Clara to Father Xavier, from him to Pete Wolinsky, and from Pete to me. I’d put in a fair number of hours, not to mention the miles I’d driven. Now I wanted to finish the job I’d started.

What was I thinking? This was one more example of the do-gooder mentality that gets me in trouble every time it surfaces.

I made a note of her street address, which I located on my city map. She lived on the north end of Colgate in a subdivision I was dimly acquainted with. I could see how it looked from her perspective. She’d assumed I was running a scam, which I knew I was not. I grabbed the mailing pouch, locked the office, got in my car, and took the 101 north to Colgate. All I had to do was drop off the mailer and I’d be done with it.

29

April and her husband lived in a large Spanish-style home on a lot that was probably half an acre in size. The exterior was rough stucco with a terra-cotta tile roof, arches, and ornamental ironwork. A three-car garage dominated the front of the house. Most homes on the block looked much the same, barring a balcony or two. I was guessing the Staehlings’ residence had four bedrooms, four and a half bathrooms, a family room, an eat-in kitchen, and a large sheltered patio across the rear of the house. There would be a modest-size swimming pool. The neighborhood conveyed solid middle-class values. Or maybe I arrived at that conclusion because I knew William was an orthodontist and I put his 1989 annual income in the range of a hundred thousand dollars—not much in light of all the schooling he’d been required to complete. He might still be paying off his student loans.

For a moment, I sat in my car with the mailing pouch on the passenger seat in easy reach. My call had accomplished nothing except to trigger April’s hostility, and I was sorry I hadn’t done a better job of explaining myself. All I wanted to do now was slip up the front walk and lay the mailer on her doorstep. I wouldn’t even ring the doorbell, trusting she’d discover the package at some point during the day.

I was on the verge of exiting my car when I glanced in my rearview mirror and caught sight of a Santa Teresa County Sheriff’s Department black-and-white sliding into the stretch of curb behind my Honda. For a moment, I thought the deputy’s arrival was an independent occurrence. Maybe he lived next door; maybe he was doing a welfare check on the occupant. Nope.