Sue Grafton - C is for Corpse

Moza looked cornered. I could see her debate, trying to decide which was worse: infuriating Rosie or getting caught spying on Lila Sams. It was going to be a close contest, but I knew who I was betting on.

I went back to my office late in the day and typed up my notes. There wasn't much, but 1 don't like to get behind. With Bobby dead, I intended to write regular reports and submit itemized bills at intervals, even if it was just to myself. I had tucked his file back in the drawer and I was tidying up my desk when there was a tap at the door and Derek Wenner peered in.

He said, "Oh. Hello. I was hoping I'd catch you here."

"Hi, Derek. Come on in," I said.

He stood for a moment, undecided, his gaze tracing the perimeters of my small office space. "Somehow I didn't picture this," he said. "Nice. I mean, it's small, but efficient. Uh, how'd you do with Bobby's box? Any luck?"

"I haven't had a chance to look closely. I've been doing other things. Have a seat."

He pulled a chair up and sat down, still looking around. He was wearing a golf shirt, white pants, and two-tone shoes. "So this is it, huh?"

This was his version of small talk, I assumed. I sat down and let him ramble briefly. He seemed anxious and I couldn't imagine what had brought him in. We made mouth noises at each other, demonstrating goodwill. I'd just seen him a few hours earlier and we didn't have that much to talk about.

"How's Glen doing?" I asked.

"Good," he nodded. "She's doing pretty well. God, I don't know how she's gotten through, but you know she's made of substantial stuff." He tended to speak in doubtful tones, as if he weren't absolutely certain he was telling the truth.

He cleared his throat and the timbre of his voice changed.

"Say, I'll tell you why I stopped in," he said. "Bobby's attorney gave me a call a little while ago just to talk about the terms of Bobby's will. Do you know Varden Talbot?"

"We've never met. He sent me copies of the reports on Bobby's accident, but that's the extent of it."

"Smart fellow," Derek said. He was stalling. I thought I better goose him along or this could take all day.

"What'd he have to say?"

Derek's expression was a wonderful combination of uneasiness and disbelief "Well, that's the amazing thing," he said. "From what he indicated, I guess my daughter inner-, its the bulk of Bobby s money."

It took me a moment to compute the fact that the daughter he referred to was Kitty Wenner, cokehead, currently residing in the psycho ward at St. Terry's. "Kitty?" I said.

He shifted in his seat. "I was surprised too, of course. From what Varden tells me, Bobby made out a will when he came into his inheritance three years ago. At that point, he left everything to Kitty. Then sometime after the accident, he added a codicil, so that a little money would go to Rick's parents as well."

I was about to say "Rick's parents?" as if I were suffering from echolalia, but I clamped my mouth shut and let him continue.

"Glen won't be back until late, so she's not aware of it. I'd imagine she'll want to talk to Varden in the morning. He said he'd make a copy of the will and send it over to the house. He's going to go ahead and file it for probate."

"And this is the first anybody's heard of it?"

"As far as I know." He went on talking while I tried to figure out what it meant. Money, as a motive, always seems so direct. Find out who benefits financially and start from there. Kitty Wenner. Phil and Reva Bergen.

"Excuse me," I said, cutting in. "Just how much money are we talking about?"

Derek paused to run a hand up along his jaw, as though deciding if he was due for a shave. "Well, a hundred grand to Rick's parents and gee, I don't know. Kitty probably stands to gain a couple mill. Now, you're going to have inheritance tax…"

All of the little zeros began to dance in my head like sugar plums. "Hundred grand" and "couple mill," as in a hundred thousand dollars and two million of them. I just sat and blinked at him. Why had he come in here to tell me this stuff?

"What's the catch?" I asked.

"What?"

"I'm just wondering why you're telling me about it. Is there some problem?"

"I guess I'm worried about Glen's reaction. You know how she feels about Kitty."

I shrugged. "It was Bobby's money to do with as he saw fit. How could she object?"

"You don't think she'd contest it?"

"Derek, I can't speculate about what Glen might do. Talk to her."

"Well, I guess I will when she gets back."

"I'm assuming the money was put in some kind of trust fund since Kitty's just seventeen. Who was named executor? You?"

"No, no. The bank. I don't think Bobby had a very high opinion of me. To tell you the truth, I'm a little worried about how this might look. Bobby claims someone's trying to kill him and then it turns out Kitty inherits all this money when he dies."

"I'm sure the police will have a chat with her."

"But you don't think she had anything to do with Bobby's accident, do you?"

Ah, the subtext of his visit.

I said, "Frankly, I'd find it hard to believe, but Homicide might see it differently. They might also want to take a look at you while they're at it."

"Me?!" He managed to pack a lot of punctuation into one syllable.

"What if something happens to Kitty? Who gets the money then? She's not exactly in the best of health."

He looked at me uncomfortably, probably wishing he'd never come in. He must have harbored the vague notion that I could reassure him. Instead, I'd only broadened the basis for his anxieties. He wound up the conversation and got up moments later, telling me he'd be in touch. When he turned to go, I could see that the golf shirt was sticking to his back and I could smell the tension in his sweat.

"Oh, Derek," I called after him. "Does the name Black-man mean anything to you?"

"Not that I know. Why?"

"Just curious. I appreciate your coming in," I said. "If you find out anything else, please let me know."

"I will."

Once he was gone, I put in a quick call to a friend of mine at the telephone company and asked about S. Blackman. He said he d check into it and call me back. I went down to the parking lot and hauled out the cardboard box I'd picked up from Bobby's garage. I went back up to the office and checked the contents, taking the items out one by one. It was all just as I remembered it: a couple of radiology manuals, some medical texts, paper clips, ballpoint pens, scratch pads. Nothing of significance that I could see. I hauled the box back out and shoved it into the backseat again, thinking I'd drop it back at Bobby's house next time I was there.

What to try next? I couldn't think of a thing.

I went home.

As I pulled into a parking place out front, I found myself scanning the walk for signs of Lila Sams. For a woman I'd only seen three or four times in my life, she was looming large, spoiling any sense of serenity I'd come to attach to the notion of "home." I locked my car and went around to the backyard, glancing at the rear of Henry s house to see if he was there. The back door was open and I caught the spicy scent of yeast and cinnamon through the screen. I peered in and spotted Henry sitting at the table with a coffee mug and the afternoon paper in front of him.

"Henry?"

He looked up. "Well, Kinsey. There you are." He came over and unlatched the screen, holding the door open for me. "Come in, come in. Would you like some coffee? I've got a pan of sweet rolls coming out in a minute."

I entered hesitantly, still half expecting Lila Sams to jump out like a tarantula. "I didn't want to interrupt anything," I said. "Is Lila here?"

"No, no. She had some business to take care of, but she should be back by six. I'm taking her out to dinner tonight. We have reservations at the Crystal Palace."