Sue Grafton - G Is For Gumshoe

I tuned into the conversation at the table. Neil and I had been seated with two underwriters and their wives, a foursome talking bridge with an intensity I envied. I gathered they'd just returned from some kind of bridge-oriented cruise in which baby slams and gourmet foods were served up in equal measure. Much talk of no-trump, double finesses, and Sheinwold, whose strategies they were debating. Since neither Neil nor I played, we were left to our own devices, a possibility Vera had probably calculated well in advance.

At close range, the man was attractive enough, though I saw no particular evidence of all the virtues Vera had ascribed to him. Nice hands. Nice mouth. Seemed a bit self-satisfied, but that might have been discomfort masquerading as arrogance. I noticed that when we talked about professional matters (his work, in other words) he exuded confidence. When it came to his personal life, he was unsure of himself and usually shifted the subject to safer ground. By the time the dessert came, we were still groping our way through various conversational gambits, casting about for common interests without much success.

"Where'd you go to school, Kinsey?"

"Santa Teresa High."

"I meant college."

"I didn't go to college."

"Oh really? That surprises me. You seem smart enough."

"People don't hire me for 'smart.' They hire me because I'm too dumb to know when to quit. Also, I'm a woman, so they think I'll work cheap."

He laughed. I wasn't being funny so I gave a little shrug.

He pushed his dessert plate aside and took a sip of coffee. "If you got a degree, you could write your own ticket, couldn't you?"

I looked at him. "A degree in what?"

"Criminalistics, I would guess."

"Then I'd have to go to work for the government or the local cops. I already did that and hated it. I'm better off where I am. Besides, I hated school, too. All I did was smoke dope." I leaned toward him. "Now can I ask you one?"

"Sure."

"How did you and Vera meet?"

He was almost imperceptibly disconcerted, shifting slightly in his seat. "A mutual friend introduced us a couple of months ago. We've been seeing each other ever since… just as friends, of course. Nothing serious."

"Oh yeah, right," I said. "So what do you think?"

"About Vera? She's terrific."

"How come you're sitting here with me, then?"

He laughed again, a false, hearty roar that avoided a reply.

"I'm serious," I said. His smile cooled down by degrees. He still wasn't addressing the issue so I tried it myself. "You know what I think it is? I got the impression she had the hots for you herself and didn't know how to handle it."

He gave me a look like I was speaking in tongues. "I have a hard time believing that," he said. He thought about it for a moment. "Anyway, she's a bit tall for me, don't you think?"

"Not at all. You look great together. I was watching when you came in."

He gave his head a slight shake. "I know it bothers her. She's never actually come out and said so, but-"

"She'll get over it."

"You think so?"

"Does it bother you?"

"Not a bit."

"Then what's the problem?"

He looked at me. His face was beginning to appeal to me. His eyes held a nice light, conveying qualities of sincerity and competence. He was probably the kind of doctor you could call at 2:00 a.m., a man who'd sit up with your kid until the fever broke. I was about to hike up my pant leg and show him my bruise, but it seemed kind of gross.

"You should hear the way she talks about you," I went on. " 'Eight and a half on a scale of ten.' That's how she describes you. I swear to God."

"Are you kidding?"

"Neil, come on. I wouldn't kid about that. She's completely smitten with you. She just hasn't figured it out yet."

Now he laughed the kind of laugh that made his whole face light up. A boyish pleasure showed through and I could swear he blushed. He was really kind of cute. I glanced up in time to see Vera shoot me a stark look. I gave her a little finger wave and turned my attention back to him. "I mean, what the hell are relationships about?" I asked.

"But she's never given any indication…"

"Well, I'm telling you for a fact. I've known her for ages and I've never heard her talk about a guy the way she talks about you." He was taking it in, but I could tell he wasn't buying it.

"How tall are you?" I said. "You don't look short to me."

"Five seven."

"She's only five nine. What's the big deal?" Mac Voorhies tapped on his glass with a spoon about then, saying, "Ladies and gentlemen, if I may have your attention…" He and Marie had been placed at table two, near the center of the room. Jewel and her husband were at the same table and I could see Jewel begin to squirm, anticipating the speech to come. Maclin Voorhies is one of the California Fidelity vice presidents, lean and humorless, with sparse, flyaway white hair and a perpetual cigar clamped between his teeth. He's smart and fair-minded, honorable, conservative, ill-tempered sometimes, but a very capable executive. The notion of being publicly praised by this man had already brought the color to Jewel's face. The room gradually quieted.

Mac took a moment to survey the crowd. "We're here tonight to pay homage to one of the finest women I've ever been privileged to work with. As you all know, Jewel Cavaletto is retiring from the company after twenty-five years of service…"

There's something hypnotic about the tone and tenor of an after-dinner speech, maybe because everyone's full of food and wine and the room's too warm by then. I was sitting there feeling grateful that Mac had bypassed the canned humor and was getting straight to the point. I don't know what made me look at the door. Everyone else was looking at Mac. I caught something out of the corner of my eye and turned my head.

It was the kid. I blinked uncomprehendingly at first, as if confronted with a mirage. Then I felt a rush of fear.

The only clear glimpse I'd ever had of him was that first encounter at the rest stop. Mark Messinger had been feigning sleep that day, stretched out on a bench with a magazine across his face while Eric knelt on the pavement with his Matchbox car, making mouth noises, shifting gears with his voice. I'd seen him again one night in the motel parking lot, his features indistinguishable in the poorly lighted alcove where his father had taken him to buy a soft drink. I'd heard his laughter echo through the darkness, an impish peal that reminded me of the shadowy underworld of elves and fairies. The last time I'd seen him, his face had beer partially obscured behind the paper sticker on the passenger side of the truck in which his father tried to run me down.

He was small for five. The light in the corridor glinted on his blond head. His hair was getting long. His eyes were pinned on me and a half-smile played on his mouth. He turned to look at someone standing in the corridor just out of sight. He was being prompted, like a kid acting an unfamiliar part in the grade-school play. I could see him say, "What?" I didn't wait to see what the next line would be.

I grabbed my handbag and came up out of my seat, nearly knocking my chair over in the process. Dietz turned to look at me and caught the direction of my startled gaze. By the time he checked the entrance, it was empty. I bolted around Neil's chair, heading toward the hall, tagging Dietz's arm. "It's the kid," I hissed. His gun came out and he grabbed my arm, jerking me along behind him as he moved toward the door. Mac caught the commotion and stopped midsentence, looking up at us in astonishment. Other people turned to see what was going on. Some woman emitted a startled cry at the sight of Dietz's.45, but by then he'd reached the entrance and had flattened himself against the wall. He peered around the doorway to the right, glanced left, and drew back. "Come on," he said.