Sue Grafton - P is for Peril

To my left, on the far wall were floor-to-ceiling bookcases, a sliding ladder affixed to a railing midway up. Closer inspection revealed shelves lined with romance novels by women writers with made-up-sounding names. A free-standing Swedish fireplace provided warmth on chilly nights without obstructing the ocean view. A long angled counter separated the high-tech kitchen from an eating area that looked out at the beach. To the right, there was a staircase that I surveyed with longing. The second and third floors probably contained the bedrooms, perhaps a study or home office where all the yummy paperwork was kept. Of course, it was likely her mail was sent to the main residence in Horton Ravine, which might explain the absence of letters sitting out in plain view.

I heard someone cross the room just above me, the muffled thump of bare feet on bare hardwood floors. I glanced up without thinking, following the sound. Belatedly, I realized there was a "window" in the ceiling, clear glass or Lucite maybe thirty-six inches square with a view into the bedroom directly above. Startled, I watched Crystal Pur-cell parade naked across my line of view. Thirty seconds later, she padded down the stairs, still barefoot, wearing wash-faded jeans cut so low her belly button showed. Her short-cropped T-shirt was gray, the neck of it pulled out of shape by years of wear. By my reckoning, she hadn't had enough time to pull on any underwear.

Her hair was an upscale-salon blond, a little longer than shoulder length, framing her face in a tangle of soft curls. A few strands along her neck were still damp from the shower. Holding out her hand, she said, "Hello, Kinsey. I'm sorry to keep you waiting. I just came back from a run and wanted to get rid of all the sweat and sand." Her grip was strong, her voice mild, her manner pleasant but subdued. "Where's Anica? Did she leave? I asked her to keep you company until I came down."

"She just left. She asked if you'd call her as soon as you're free."

Crystal moved into the kitchen, sailing her comments in my direction while she crossed to the stainless steel refrigerator and removed a bottle of wine. "She's been a godsend, especially with Leila coming home on weekends. It's been hard enough without worrying about her on top of everything else. Anica's the counselor at Leila's private school."

"That's what she said. Must be nice having her so close."

"She's a good friend. One of the few, I might add. Dow's Horton Ravine pals view me as beneath contempt."

I couldn't think how to respond so I kept my mouth shut. I moved as far as the counter, keeping her in view. I could see evidence of Griff's dinner. The tray on his chrome-and-plastic high chair still bore a three-sectioned Beatrix Potter plate, with drying curds of scrambled egg, toast crusts, and a smear of applesauce. A bib had been laid over the back of the chair.

"How long have you known her?"

"Really, not that long. Sometime early last spring. I saw her out on the beach and then later at Fitch at one of those dreadful parent-teacher conferences. Did she offer you a drink?"

"She did. I thought I'd better not have anything just yet."

"Really. How come?" She took a corkscrew from the kitchen drawer and began opening the bottle as she moved to the kitchen cabinet and fetched herself a glass.

"I don't know. It doesn't seem professional, given that I'm here on business."

Bemused, she took out a second glass and held it up. "You sure? It won't count against you. We can sit out on the deck and sip wine while we watch the sun go down."

"Oh, all right. Why not? You talked me into it."

"Great. I hate to drink by myself." She held out the glasses and the bottle. "If you'll take these, I'll make us up a plate of nibbles. That way we won't get looped… or any more looped than we choose."

I took the glasses in one hand, the stems forming an X, and tucked the bottle of white wine in the crook of my arm. I crossed the great room and pushed open one of the French doors with my elbow. Once on the deck, I set the items on a weathered wooden table between two wood-and-canvas sling chairs. The wind gusting in from the ocean was damp and smelled pungent, like an oyster liqueur. I took a deep breath, picking up the faint taste of salt at the back of my throat.

Two palms near the house made tiny scratching noises as the fronds swept back and forth against the graying exterior. I moved to the edge of the deck, my gaze sweeping along the surf. The beach was deserted, while out on the ocean, white lights were showing on the oil rigs like diamonds on dark velvet. The weather bore the edgy feel of danger. I sat down, crossing my arms as I huddled against the chill. It was nearly twilight; a gradual, indiscriminate darkening, with no color visible through the heavy clouds. Far out on the horizon, I could see patches of silver where rays from the late sun pierced the marine layer. I heard the distant whine of a commuter plane approaching along the coast. Through the French doors, the living room looked clean and cozy. I was grateful for the protection afforded by the long-sleeved turtle neck under my blazer. Idly, I glanced at the Chardonnay bottle with its classy black-and-silver label. I leaned closer. The price tag, $65, was more than I'd paid for my telephone and electric bills combined that month.

Two ornamental lamps came on, and Crystal, still barefoot, emerged from the house, carrying a tray of cheese and crackers, arranged with grapes and apple wedges. She'd pulled on a heavy navy sweater that hung, fetchingly, almost as far as her knees. She left the door open behind her, glancing over at me. "You look cold. I'm used to the ocean, but you must be freezing. Why don't I fire up the outside heaters? It'll just take a sec. You can pour the wine, if you would."

I did as she suggested and then watched as she hunkered next to a fat propane canister with a heater element affixed. Her fingernails and toenails were both done in a French manicure, white defining the half-moon at the base of the nail and under the rim. The look was clean, though-like her hair-the effect probably cost her dearly and had to be redone every other week. It wasn't hard to imagine her doing a bump-and-grind routine. She turned a valve, using an electric match to ignite the hissing gas as it escaped. Soon after, the reddening coils glowed nearly white. She lit the second of the two heaters, turning them to face us so that warmth poured out across the space between us. "Is that better?"

"Much."

"Good. If you need something warmer, don't hesitate to say so. I have a huge supply of sweaters in the downstairs closet."

We sipped wine in silence while I tried to decide how and where to begin. "I appreciate your taking the time to talk to me."

She smiled faintly. "I considered hiring a detective myself half a dozen times, but I didn't want to undermine the police. I have every confidence in the job they're doing. Apparently, Fiona doesn't."

"She likes the idea of someone devoted solely to the family's interests. The police have other cases requiring their more immediate attention." I paused. "I just want to be clear that any comments you care to make will be safe with me. If you have relevant information, I'll report it to her, but nothing else gets passed on. You can be as candid as you like."

"Thank you. I was wondering about that."

"I'm assuming there's no love lost."

"Hardly. Fiona's done everything in her power to make my life hell on earth." Her face was angular, mouth wide. Her eyes were gray, her brows pale, her lashes thick and black. Aside from mascara, she seemed to wear little or no makeup. I could tell she'd had her eyes done and probably her nose as well. In fact, just about everything I was looking at had been augmented or improved by some merry band of surgeons working on her, piece by piece. Crystal's smile was brief. Look. I know she's busy painting a picture of herself as the victim in all of this, betrayed and put-upon. The truth is, she never gave Dow a thing. It was all take, take, take. Dow reached a point where he had nothing left. Poor guy. When I think of the hours he worked, all the sacrifices he made for them, and in exchange for what? For years, the three of them have stood around with their hands out. Fiona in particular. She was always coming up with some new harebrained scheme, her current business venture being one. Interior design? Who's she trying to kid? She's a Horton Ravine matron spending someone else's money and suddenly, she's talking about her talent and her 'eye' for design. She only has one client-some friend of hers named Dana…"