Sue Grafton - P is for Peril

"We're still working on that. We sent someone down to the school to see if we can get a match on the dates she was off campus and the money being pulled from the ATM. Those girls go any place but home for the weekend, they have to get permission from a parent or guardian, plus an okay from the person they intend to visit. It's already looking like she managed to play both ends against the middle. Not easy to do. School officials have seen every trick in the book, but she's smart. We've subpoenaed the bank records and the records from the mailing service where he kept his post-office box. The D.A. and probation are talking to the judge this afternoon. We're hoping to wrap that up."

"Here's something else. The other day I stopped over at the Horton Ravine house. Leila had left school without permission. Crystal was having fits and gave me permission to search her room. She's got a locked metal box hidden under the mattress. It's probably dope, but it might be the missing money. She and Paulie may be planning to take off. You might be smart to keep an eye on them."

"We can do that," he said.

I got back to the office at 1:15. The rain was picking up again and I was tired of it. A curious depression had descended in the wake of the shooting with the adrenaline rush that accompanied it. The subsequent crash was accelerated by my conversation with Odessa. I envied them the hunt-Jonah Robb, Odessa, and Jim Paglia. Purcell had been murdered and though they might not be any closer to finding out who killed him, the process was under way.

I sat at my desk and I stared at the leaves on my fake ficus plant. From halfway across the room, the accumulated dust resembled a light layer of talcum powder. One day soon I'd really have to wipe that down. I swiveled in my chair and picked up a pencil. I drew a box on my blotter.

I spent the rest of the afternoon catching up on all the chores that I'd been putting off for the past week. I typed up the information I'd unearthed about Genesis and made photocopies of Klotilde's bills, adding as much of her chart as I thought reasonable. I was hoping no one would ask how I acquired the medical data. While I stood there at the machine, feeding in copies, watching the light on the copier go back and forth, I pondered Fiona's request for the $975 in cash. There was probably a simple explanation. I didn't think she was seriously concerned my check would bounce, so it had to be something else. The picture that kept coming to mind was her weedy hillside property. I visualized the front hall of her house with its decor of drop cloths and permanent scaffolding.

I was also brooding about that green mohair blanket Crystal had given Dow, about someone sitting in his lap after he'd been shot to death. You wouldn't want to drive far. Certainly not out on public roads where a pedestrian or a driver in the next lane might look over at just the wrong moment and spot you in the dead man's embrace. If you were the killer, you'd think about the reservoir-how nice it would be if both the dead man and the car disappeared from view. Jonah had been assuming the killer made an unfortunate mistake, miscalculating the position of the boulder, which prevented the car from being fully submerged. What if the reverse were true? Maybe the killer intended to have the car found. If Dow's death was meant to look like suicide, then maybe the causal error went the other way. The killer knew the boulder was there and thought the car would still be visible when daylight came. Instead, the vehicle veered slightly and sank too far down to be seen easily.

It wasn't until late afternoon that I opened my bottom drawer and hauled out the phone book, turning to the yellow pages under the section that listed painting contractors. There must have been a hundred, column after column, some of them with box ads, some with catchy sayings: DON'T PAINT YOURSELF INTO A CORNER WHEN YOU CAN LET US DO IT. CHARLIE CORNER SONS, PAINTING. I had a quick vision of the Corner family sitting around the kitchen table, tossing back shots, coming up with log lines to stretch the advertising budget.

I started with the A's and ran my finger down the names until I found the one I remembered from Fiona's sign out front. One line of print. RALPH TRIPLET, COLGATE. No street address. I made a note of the phone number. Fiona struck me as the sort who'd pick a lone operator, somebody too hungry for business to argue with her. She'd by-passed all the splashy half- and full-page ads.

I dialed Ralph Triplet's number. I was going to cook up a ruse, but I couldn't think of one.

The phone was picked up on the first ring. "Ralph Triplet Painting." I said, "Hi, Mr. Triplet. My name is Kinsey Millhone. I just finished doing some work for Fiona Purcell up on Old Reservoir…"

"I hope you got your money up front."

"That's why I'm calling. Is she a slow pay by any chance?"

"No pay is more like it. You seen that place of hers? White everywhere. You think that'd be simple enough, but we've gone through six shades so far. Everything from Frost to Alabaster, Eggshell to Oyster. Couldn't find anything to suit. I'd get half a wall up, and then she'd want something else. Too green, she'd say. Or get the pink out of it. Meantime, I haven't been paid in weeks. The architect filed a lien against the property and I'm threatening to do likewise. Meantime, I finally got around to checking her credit. Should have done that in the first place, but how was I to know. She puts on a good show, but she's busy using one credit card to pay off another. What'd you say your name was?"

"Doesn't matter," I said and hung up.

I pulled out the rubber-banded packet of index cards. This time I didn't add anything. I shuffled back through my cards, checking the information I'd picked up in the past week, particularly the details about Dow's last day. In passing, Mrs. Stegler had confided an item that caught my attention in light of everything I'd learned since then. She said while he was out at lunch, Fiona had stopped by. She'd waited in his office and had finally departed, leaving him a note. I'd sat in that office myself and I know how easily she could have opened his desk drawer and taken his gun.

Driving up Old Reservoir Road in the gathering dark, I could feel myself in a state of suspended animation. The only sign of agitation was that I was taking the curves a little too fast for the current road conditions, which were wet, wet, wet. I had an idea, an intuition to verify before I called Jonah Robb. I turned left on the road that angled up beside her property and pulled into the parking area behind the house.

I went around to the front door and rang the bell. She took her sweet time coming to the door. I stared off at Brunswick Lake. In the waning light, the surface was as silvery as mercury. It had been eleven days since I first stood in this spot, looking out at the same sweeping views. The steep sloping lot was now a fairyland of knee-high weeds: fox tails, wild oats, and rye bending in the passing breeze. With much more rain, the now-softened hillside would slide down into the road.

The door opened behind me. Even baby-sitting for her grandchildren, Fiona was decked out in a black wool suit with big shoulder pads and a pinched-in waist. The lapels and jacket cuffs were done in a faux leopard print. She had her hair concealed in a matching leopard print turban. Gloria Swanson had nothing on her. I held out the envelope. "I included an invoice for your records. I hope you don't mind signing for the cash."

"Of course not. Won't you come in?"

I stepped into the foyer. There was a tricycle in the hall and the floor was covered with the same sort of kiddie detritus I'd seen at Blanche's house: Tinkertoys, blocks, a sock, broken crackers, crayons. The kids had built an enormous tent with the painter's drop cloths, which were now draped over all the chairs in the living room. I could see them bumping around in there, erupting in the sort of harsh, artificial giggles that signal the prelude to a big stinking fight.