Sue Grafton - P is for Peril

"And they all get along?"

"As far as I know. I mean, they hardly ever see each other. Joel and Harvey seem to be happy with Dow, so they tend to go their way and let him go his. An operating company does the billing. I know at first he was worried they'd interfere with the running of the place, but it hasn't turned out that way."

"How long have they owned the place?"

"I believe they bought it in 1980. It's over on Dave Levine Street right there at the corner of Nedra Lane. You've probably passed it a hundred times. Looks like Tara without the acreage-big white columns across the front."

"Oh, that. I see it on the right side any time I drive in from that end of town. There must be five or six nursing homes along that stretch."

"The staff people all refer to it as 'Formaldehyde Alley,' no disrespect intended. Dow hates when I repeat that."

"How did you two meet?"

"Mom…"

Crystal glanced into the great room through the open door. "We're out here." She must have caught sight of Leila because she turned back with an expression of annoyance and disbelief. "Oh, for heaven's sake."

I followed her gaze.

Leila was clumping down the stairs in a pair of black satin pumps with heels so high she could hardly stand erect. Now and then her ankles wobbled as though she were setting off across the ice for the first time on skates. Under her black leather jacket, her top was a see-through confection of chiffon and lace, worn with a long, narrow wool skirt. At fourteen, she was still in that coltish stage of development: no bust to speak of, narrow hips, and long, bony legs. The length of her skirt couldn't have been less flattering. She looked like the cardboard cylinder in a spent roll of paper towels. She'd also done something strange to her hair, which was cut short, dyed a white blond, sticking out in all directions. Some strands had been dreadlocked while the rest remained as wispy as cotton candy. She came to the open door and stood there staring at us.

Crystal snorted. "What's that getup supposed to be?"

"It's not a 'getup.' What's wrong with it?"

"You look ridiculous. That's what."

You do, too. You look like a bag lady. That sweater's down to your knees."

Fortunately, I'm not going out in public. Now please go upstairs and find something decent to wear."

"God, you are always so worried what other people think."

"Knock it off. I'm really tired of fighting with you."

"Then why don't you leave me alone? I can dress any way I want.

It's no reflection on you."

"Leila, you're not leaving the house dressed like that."

"Great. I won't go then. Thanks a lot and fuck you."

"Where's your suitcase?" Crystal said patiently, declining Leila's invitation to escalate.

"I don't have one. I told you I'm not going. I'd rather stay here."

"You didn't see him last time and I swore you'd be there."

"I don't have to go if I don't want to. It's my decision."

"No, it's not, it's mine, so quit arguing."

"Why?"

"Leila, I'm irritated at all the lip you've been giving me. What's the matter with you?"

"I just don't want to go. It's boring. All we do is sit around and watch videos."

"That's what you do here!"

"You promised I could see Paulie."

"I never said any such thing. And don't change the subject. Paulie's got nothing to do with it. Lloyd's your father."

"He is not! We're not even related. He's one of your stupid old ex-husbands."

"One ex-husband. I've only been married once before," she said. "Why are you being so hostile and obnoxious? Lloyd adores you."

"So what?"

"Leila, I'm warning you."

"If he's so full of adoration why does he force me to spend time with him against my will?"

"He's not forcing you. I am and that's final. Now get."

"I will if I can see Paulie."

"Absolutely not."

"God, you're so mean. You don't give a shit about me."

"That's right. I'm just here to abuse and mistreat you. Call Children's Protective Services."

"You think Lloyd's so great, why don't you go see him yourself?" Crystal closed her eyes, trying to control her temper. "We're not going to do this in front of company. He's got joint custody, okay? He's picking you up at seven, which means he's already on his way over. I'll come get you Sunday morning at ten. Now go back up and change. And you better pack a bag or I'll do it myself and you'll hate what I choose."

Leila's face shut down and I could see a patch of red form around her nose and mouth where she held back tears. "You are so unfair," she said, and clomped back up the stairs again. She slammed the door behind her after entering her room, then screamed the word "bitch" again from the far side of the door.

Crystal returned to our conversation, making no reference to Leila beyond a shake of her head and a rolling of her eyes. "Dow and I met in Vegas at the home of mutual friends. The first time I saw him, I knew I'd marry him one day."

"Wasn't he married?"

"Well, yes. I mean, technically speaking, but not happily," she said, as though Dow's marital angst justified her poaching on Fiona's turf. "You've met Fiona. She's only six months younger than him, but she looks like she's a hundred. She drinks. She smokes two packs a day. She's also hooked on Valium, which I doubt she mentioned when she was hiring you. Dow was sixty-nine last spring, but you'd never guess by looking. Have you seen a picture of him?"

"There was one in the paper."

"Oh, that was terrible. I have a better one. Hang on." She left the deck and moved into the great room, returning moments later with a framed color photo. She sat down on her chair again and passed the photograph to me. I studied Dow Purcell's face. The picture, taken on the golf course, had been cropped so that the others in his foursome were scarcely visible. His hair was white, trimmed close, and his face was lean. He looked tanned and fit, wearing a white golf shirt, pale chinos, and a leather golf glove on his right hand. I couldn't see the head of the club he was holding upright in front of him. "Where was this taken?"

"Las Vegas. The same trip. That was in the fall of 1982. We were married a year later when his final divorce papers came through."

I handed the photo back. "Does he gamble?"

She held the framed photograph and studied it herself. "Not him. He was speaking at a symposium on geriatric medicine. He loved Vegas for the golf, which he played all year long. He was a five handicap, really very good."

I wondered at the sudden use of the past tense but decided not to call attention to the shift. "Do you play?"

"Some, but I'm terrible. I play to keep him company when he's got no one else. It's nice when we travel because it gives us something to do." She leaned forward and set the picture on the table, studying it briefly before she turned back to me. "What happens now?"

"I'll talk to anyone who seems relevant and try to figure out what's going on."

"There's your mommy," a man said. He stood just inside the door, holding Griffith, who was dressed for bed in flannel jammies with enclosed rubber-soled feet and a diaper tailgate in back. His face was a perfect oval, his cheeks fat, his mouth a small pink bud. His fair hair was still damp, sharply parted on one side and combed away from his face. Blond curls were already forming where a few strands had dried. Mutely, he held his arms out and Crystal reached for him. She fit him along her hip, looking at him closely while she spoke in a high-pitched voice, "Griffie, this is Kinsey. Can you say 'Hi'?" This elicited no response from the child.

She took one of his hands and waved it in my direction, saying, "Hewwoh. I weady to doh feepy. I dotta doh beddy-bye now. Nighitie-night."

"Night-night, Griffith," I said, voice high, trying to get into the spirit of the thing. This was worse than talking to a dog because at least there you really didn't anticipate a high-pitched voice in response. I wondered if we were going to conduct the rest of the conversation talking like Elmer Fudd.