Sue Grafton - V is for Vengeance

“You were introduced by friends?”

“Not really. We struck up a conversation. I’m a widower. My wife died a year ago and I was at loose ends. My girls were scandalized when I took up with Audrey, which is a laugh and a half. I had to remind them what I put up with when they were young. They’d be out until all hours, coming in drunk. The guys they dated were losers-scruffy and unemployed. Not that they stuck around for long. There was a constant turnover of bozos. I told ’em they had no business getting on my case.

“Audrey’s the first woman I dated since their mother died. The only woman, I might add. Margaret was the love of my life, but she’s dead now and I’m not. I’m not going to be a recluse just to satisfy the girls’ sudden sense of decorum. To hell with that. I’m sure Sabrina gave you an earful.”

“She told me you couldn’t find contact numbers for Audrey’s two kids. Have they been in touch?”

“No, and I’m sick about it. I went through everything-desk, chest of drawers, overnight bag. No address book, no letters, or any other reference to them.”

“What about the house in San Luis Obispo? Maybe she kept her address book there.”

“Possibly. I should probably drive up, but I’m chicken. I’ve never even seen the place and I can’t walk in when I don’t know what to expect.”

“Right. For all you know, she has a husband and kids.”

“Jeez. Don’t say that.”

“I was being a smart-ass. Don’t listen to me,” I said. “What about her background? Did she talk at all about where she was from?”

“Chicago originally, but she’d lived all over the place.”

“Have you tried directory assistance in the Chicago area?”

“Big waste of time. I gave it a try, but there are hundreds of people with the last name Vance. I don’t know if she was talking about the city itself or a suburb. Her parents were dead. This was years ago, I guess. She told me her kids worked in San Francisco, which I had no reason to doubt. She said her daughter was married. I don’t know if she kept her maiden name or took his. There isn’t a Don Vance in the book, but maybe his number’s unlisted. Doesn’t mean he isn’t there.”

“What about her past? Most people tell stories. She might have dropped bits and pieces that would help you work your way back.”

“She didn’t talk about herself. She didn’t like to be the center of attention. At the time, it didn’t seem important. I just figured she was shy.”

“Shy? The obituary said she was ‘fun-loving and vivacious.’”

“She was. Everybody loved her. She was interested in other people. You turn the subject back on her and she’d blow you off, like her life wasn’t worth talking about.”

“So in essence, you know nothing.”

“Well, yeah, and how embarrassing is that? You think you’re close and then something like this comes up. Turns out you don’t know shit.”

“If you know so little about her, what makes you so sure she didn’t kill herself? Maybe she was mentally ill. She might have spent the last two years in a looney bin. Maybe that’s why she wouldn’t talk about herself.”

“No. Absolutely not. She wasn’t nuts and she wasn’t depressed. Far from it. She had a sunny disposition. No mood swings, no PMS, no temper. Nothing like that. And she wasn’t on medication. A baby aspirin a day, but that’s about it,” he said. “You’d think the cops would be all over the case.”

“Trust me, they are. They’re just not sharing anything with you.”

“Tell me about it. I mean, shit. What would you do if you were in my shoes?”

“Go back to the police.”

“Another big waste of time. I tried and got zip. I was hoping you’d talk to them. They’d treat you like a professional. I’m just a close personal friend with an ax to grind.”

“Maybe so,” I said.

“So let’s say I hire you, then what?”

“Doesn’t that seem like a conflict of interest when I was responsible for her arrest? You’d think I’d be the last person in the world you’d hire to do anything.”

“But at least you were there and know part of the story. I’d hate to have to sit down and explain it all to someone else. Besides, you can’t do any worse than me finding out what’s going on.”

“You have a point.” I turned the subject over in my mind, looking for a starting place. “It would help if we knew what she was charged with and if she had a history of prior arrests.”

Incredulously, he said, “You can’t be serious! You think she might have been picked up before?”

“It’s entirely possible.”

He hung his head in despair. “This is just going to get worse and worse, isn’t it?”

“That would be my guess.”

Wednesday morning, Nora stopped at the downtown branch of Wells Fargo Bank, where she kept a safe-deposit box. She signed in and showed her identification, then waited while the teller compared her signature to the one kept on file. She followed the woman into the vault. She and the teller each used their keys to unlock the compartment. The teller removed the box and placed it on the table. As soon as the teller stepped out, Nora opened the box. In addition to her passport, vital documents, gold coins, and the jewelry she’d inherited from her mother, she kept five thousand dollars in cash.

She spread it all out on the table. In her handbag, she had the check for seven thousand dollars Maurice Berman had given her for the earrings and bracelet he’d bought. In the past, she’d sold minor pieces of jewelry in order to have money to play the market. She’d opened a Schwab account and in the previous three years she’d made close to sixty thousand dollars in profit, ten of which she kept for emergency purposes, five at home and the other five at the bank. The rest of the money she reinvested. It was not a sum most traders would brag about, but she took a secret satisfaction knowing the proceeds were the result of her acumen. She tucked her passport in her handbag and returned the rest of the items to the box.

Her portfolio was solid and diverse, weighted toward mutual funds. She had a few income-producing stocks and a handful of options she toyed with according to her mood. She’d avoided anything too risky, but maybe it was time to venture outside of her comfort zone. She wasn’t a financial whiz, by any means, but she was a devoted reader of the Wall Street Journal and an avid student of the ups and downs of the New York Stock Exchange. Since both she and Channing had been married before, they’d elected to keep their finances separate. Their pre-nup was straightforward: what was his was his, what was hers was hers. She used the same accounting firm, the same tax attorney, and the same financial planner she’d brought on board when her first marriage ended.

Channing was aware she had investments, but the particulars were none of his business as far as she was concerned. She’d been foolish to approach him for the eight thousand, but she’d spotted an opportunity at a time when she didn’t have access to sufficient cash. While she’d been furious at Thelma’s interference, in hindsight she knew the woman had saved her from a hideous mistake. Nora regarded her capital as her sole and separate property. The courts might disagree. That was an issue for another day and one she might never have to face. Legal niceties aside, comingling funds could be disastrous.

She left the bank and walked over to the Schwab offices, where she deposited the seven thousand dollars into her account.

Money matters carried a sexual charge that lifted her spirits and gave her a jolt of self-confidence. She thought about the heft and feel of the seventy-five thousand that had fallen into her hands and out again in a matter of minutes on Monday. She’d given Dante the impression she was morally scrupulous when she was really afraid. Withholding information from Channing was fine in small doses. Playing the market made her feel secure, especially when it came to the cash she was stashing away. If she had to, she’d sell everything and add that money to the money she had on hand. Seventy-five thousand was too tempting a sum, as damning in its own way as her husband’s affair. When it came to keeping secrets, what was the difference between his taking a mistress and her hiding substantial assets? In truth, she was putting together funds in case she decided to leave. Seventy-five thousand in cash represented a door that had opened a crack. What she saw frightened her and she’d backed away.