Sue Grafton - V is for Vengeance

“Nope.”

“I went to the visitation. There was a casket and two floral wreaths. You mean she wasn’t actually in there?”

“She’s still out at the morgue. I wasn’t at the post-Becker took that-but I know the body’s being held, pending blood and urine.”

“Why would they have an empty coffin?”

“You’d have to ask her fiancé,” Priddy said.

“I guess I will.”

“Sorry to be a hard-ass, but the kindhearted Mr. Striker had no idea what he was messing with when he took up with her.” Priddy looked up and I followed his gaze. A young woman in her late twenties was working her way across the patio. Ever the gentleman, Cheney rose from his seat as she approached. When she reached the table, she gave him a quick hug and then leaned over and gave Len a kiss on the cheek. She was tall and slim, with an olive complexion and dark hair to her waist. She wore tight jeans and high-heel boots. I couldn’t imagine what she saw in Len. He didn’t seem inclined to introduce us so Cheney did the honors.

“This is Len’s girlfriend, Abbie Upshaw,” he said. “Kinsey Millhone.”

We shook hands. “Nice meeting you,” I said.

Cheney held her chair for her and she sat down. Len caught the waitress’s eye and lifted a menu. I took it as a not-so-subtle suggestion that I should be on my way and I was happy to oblige.

I stopped off at a nearby deli and bought myself a tuna salad sandwich and Fritos, then returned to the office where I ate at my desk. While the information was fresh in my mind, I took out a pack of three-by-five index cards and jotted down the tidbits I’d picked up, including the name of Len’s girlfriend. The whole point of making notes is to be thorough about the details since it’s impossible to know in the moment which facts will be useful and which will not. I put the cards in my shoulder bag. I was tempted to gallop back to Marvin and drop the revelations at his feet like a golden retriever with a dead bird, but I didn’t want to add to his burden just yet. He hadn’t made his peace with the notion of Audrey shoplifting on one occasion, let alone having been convicted five times previously.

Modesty compels me to take only partial credit for being on target with my guess about her criminal history. A crime like shoplifting is more often a pattern than a one-shot deal. Whether the urge stems from necessity or impulse, that first success creates a natural temptation to try again. The fact that she’d been caught before should have cautioned her to brush up on her sleight-of-hand skills. Or maybe she’d been picked up only five times out of five hundred tries, in which case she was doing a damn fine job. At least until the previous Friday when she’d botched it royally.

I finished lunch, crumpled up the sandwich wrapping, and tossed it in the trash. I folded down the top of the cellophane bag with a generous helping of leftover Fritos and secured it with a paper clip. I slid them into my desk’s bottom drawer, saving them for a snack in case I felt peckish later in the afternoon. I heard the door in my outer office open and close. For a brief moment, I thought it might be Marvin and I looked up expectantly. No such luck. The woman who appeared in my doorway was Diana Alvarez, a reporter who worked for the local paper. While I’m not famous for my friendliness and charm, there aren’t many people whom I truly detest. She was at the top of my list. I’d met her in the course of the investigation I’d closed out the week before. Diana’s brother Michael had hired me to find two guys he’d suddenly remembered from an incident that occurred when he was six. The particulars don’t pertain so I’ll skip right over to the relevant part. Michael was highly suggestible, given to bending the truth. In his teens, he’d accused his family of hideous forms of sexual molestation after a shrink administered truth serum and regressed him to an earlier age. Turned out to be hogwash and Michael eventually recanted, but not before the family was destroyed. His sister, Diana-also known as Dee-was still bitter and did everything she could to undermine his credibility, even in death.

I took in the sight of her, reveling in my distaste. Seeing someone you dislike is almost as much fun as reading a really bad work of fiction. It’s possible to experience a perverse sense of satisfaction on every clunky page.

Diana was officious, superior, and aggressive. On top of that, I didn’t like the clothes she wore-though I’ll admit I’d adopted her habit of wearing black tights on the rare occasion when I wore a skirt. Today’s ensemble was a perky red-and-black plaid jumper with a red V-neck T-shirt under it. I repressed a tiny spark of appreciation.

I said, “Hello, Diana. I didn’t think I’d see you so soon.”

“A surprise to me as well.”

“I’m sorry about Michael’s death.”

“It’s just like the Bible says: you reap what you sow. I know that sounds cold, but what else would you expect after what he did to us?”

I let the comment pass. “I thought I’d see something in the paper about his funeral.”

“There won’t be one. We’ve decided against. If we change our minds, I’ll be happy to contact you.”

She sat down without invitation, tucking her skirt under her in a manner meant to minimize wrinkles. She put her purse on the desk while she settled herself. The first time she came to my office, she’d carried a clutch not much bigger than a pack of cigarettes. This bag was substantially bigger.

Fully settled, she said, “I’m not here to talk about Michael. I’m here to talk about something else.”

I said, “Be my guest.”

“I went to the services for Audrey Vance. I saw your name in the guest book, but I didn’t see you.”

“I left early.”

“The reason I bring it up is I pitched a story to my editor about the people who’ve gone off the Cold Spring Bridge, starting with Audrey and working back to 1964 when the bridge was completed.”

Her tone suggested she’d composed the lead in her head so she could try it out on me. My gaze strayed to the purse still sitting on my desk. Did the clasp harbor a teensy-weensy microphone attached to a recorder picking up every word we said? She hadn’t taken out her spiral-bound notebook, but she was clearly in reporter mode. “How did you know Audrey?” she asked.

“I didn’t. I went to the funeral home with a friend, who was there to pay his respects.”

“So your friend was a friend of hers?”

“I don’t want to talk about this.”

She steadied a look on me, one brow rising slightly. “Really. And why is that? Is there something going on?”

“The woman died. I never met her. Sorry I can’t help you turn her miserable demise into a feature-length article.”

“Oh, please. You can drop the pious tone. I’m not in it for the sentiment. This is work. I understand there’s a question about whether or not she jumped. If you think I’m exploiting her death, you’re missing the bigger picture.”

“Let’s just say this. I’m not a good source. You should try someone else.”

“I did. I spoke to her fiancé. He says he hired you to investigate.”

“Then I’m sure you understand why I can’t comment.”

“I don’t know why not when he’s the one who suggested I talk to you.”

“I thought it was because you saw my name in the guest book and couldn’t wait to chat.”

Her smile was thin. “I’m sure you’re as interested as I am in finding out what happened to the poor woman. I thought we could team up.”

“Team up ? As in what?”

“Sharing information. You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours.”

“Uh, no. I think not.”

“What if it was murder?”