Sue Grafton - C is for Corpse

"I'd like that. Thanks."

She left the room, probably grateful for the chance to stall while she figured out how to cover her tracks. For my part, I was delighted with the opportunity to nose around. I crossed in haste to the easy chair, checking the table beside it. The top was littered with things I didn't want to touch. I eased the drawer open. The interior looked like a catchall for household fallout. Batteries, candles, an extension cord, receipts, rubber bands, packets of matches, two buttons, a sewing kit, pencils, junk mail, a dinner fork, a stapler gun- all of it surrounded by accumulated grit. I ran a hand down along the chair cushion and came up with a nickel, which I left there. I heard the chirp of a wine cork in the kitchen and the tinkle of wineglasses as she removed them from a cabinet. The glass rims began to clink together as she moved back toward the TV room. I abandoned my search and perched myself casually on the arm of the couch.

I was trying to think of something nice to say about her house, but I was secretly worried about my tetanus shots being out of date. This was the kind of place if you had to use the John, you'd want to put paper down on the seat. "Quite a house," I remarked.

Sufi made a face. "The cleaning lady comes tomorrow," she said. "Not that she does much. She worked for my parents for years and I don't have the heart to let her go." "Do they live with you?" She shook her head. "Dead. Cancer." "Both of them?"

"That's the way it goes," she said with a shrug. So much for family sentiment.

She poured a glass of wine and handed it to me. I could tell from the label, it was the same ultra-crummy stuff I drank before I got into the boxed brand with the picture of a phony-looking vineyard on the front. Clearly, neither of us had the budget or the palate for anything decent.

She settled into the easy chair, wineglass in hand. The change in her manner was conspicuous. She must have come up with a good one while she was gone.

She took a sip of wine, staring at me over the rim of her glass. "Have you talked to Derek lately?" she asked. "He stopped by my office this afternoon." "He moved out. When Glen got back from San Francisco this evening, she had the maid pack his bags and put them out in the driveway. Then she changed the locks." "My, my," I said, "I wonder what brought that on."

"You'd be smart to talk to him before you worry about me."

"Why's that?"

"He had a motive for killing Bobby. I didn't, if that's what you're getting at."

"What motive are you referring to?"

"Glen discovered he'd taken out a big life-insurance policy on Bobby eighteen months ago."

"What?" My wineglass tipped and wine slopped out on my hand. I couldn't disguise the fact that I was startled, but I didn't like the smug look that crossed her face in response.

"Oh yes. The insurance company tracked her down to ask for a copy of the death certificate. I guess the agent read about Bobby in the paper and remembered the name. That's how Glen found out."

"I thought you couldn't take out a policy on someone without their signature."

"Technically, that's true, but it can be done."

I busied myself wiping up spilled wine with a tissue. In the midst of the mop-up procedure, I realized, like a cartoon light bulb going on overhead, that she felt an intense dislike for Derek. "What's the story?" I asked.

"Derek got caught with his pants down," she said. "His claim is that he got the policy ages ago after Bobby'd totaled his car a couple of times. He thought Bobby would self-destruct. You know the type. One accident after another until the kid winds up dead. It becomes a socially acceptable form of suicide. Personally, I'm not sure Derek was that far off. Bobby drank like a fish and I'm sure he did drugs. He and Kitty were both a mess. Rich and spoiled and self-indulgent-"

"Be careful what you say here, Sufi. I liked Bobby Callahan. I think he had guts."

"I think we're all aware of that," she said. She was using that superior tone of voice that drove me mad, but I couldn't afford to react at this point. She crossed her legs, swinging one foot. The dandelion fuzz on that slipper undulated as the air passed over it. "You may not like it, but it is the truth. And that's not all of it. Word has it that Derek took out a policy on Kitty too."

"For how much?"

"Haifa million bucks on each."

"Come on, Sufi. That doesn't make any sense. Derek wouldn't kill his own daughter."

"Kitty isn't dead, though, is she?"

"But why would he kill Bobby? He'd have to be nuts. The first thing the cops are going to do is turn around and look at him."

"Kinsey," she said patiently. "Nobody ever said Derek had brains. He's an idiot. A fool."

"He's not that big a fool," I said. "How could he hope to get away with it?"

"Nobody's got any proof that he did anything. There never was any evidence from the first accident and Jim Fraker seems to think this one came about because Bobby had a seizure first. How can they pin that on Derek?"

"But why would he do it? He's got money."

"Glen's got money. Derek doesn't have a dime. He'd go for anything that would get him out from under her. Don't you know that?"

All I could do was stare at her, running the information through my mental computer. She took another sip of wine and smiled at me, loving the effect she'd produced.

Finally, I said, "I just don't believe it."

"You can believe anything you like. All I'm saying is you better check that out before you do anything else."

"You don't like Derek, do you?"

"Of course not. I think he's the biggest ass who ever lived. I don't know what Glen saw in him in the first place. He's poor. He's dumb. He's pompous. And those are his good qualities," she said with energy. "Aside from all that, he's ruthless."

"He doesn't seem ruthless to me," I said.

"You haven't known him as long as I have. He's a man who'd do anything for money and I suspect he's got lots he's not anxious to discuss. Doesn't he strike you as a man with a past?"

"Like what?"

"I'm not sure. But I'd be willing to bet you his buffoonery is just a cover for something else."

"Are you saying Glen's been hoodwinked? She seems smarter than that."

"She's smart about everything but men. This is her third time around, you know, and Bobby's father was a mess. Husband number two I don't know about. She was living in Europe when she married him and it didn't last long."

"Let's get back to you for a minute. The day of Bobby's funeral, I got the impression you were trying to steer me away from the investigation. Now you're giving me leads. Why the switch?"

She had to stop and pay attention to the tie on her robe, though she was talking to me the whole time. "I guess I thought you'd be prolonging Glen's pain and heartache," she said, looking up at me then. "It's clear now that nothing I say is going to dissuade you in any event, so I might as well tell you what I know.'

"Why'd you meet Bobby down at the beach? What was going on?"

"Oh, poo. Nothing," she said. "I ran into him a couple of times and he wanted to bitch about Derek. Bobby couldn't stand him either and he knew I made a good audience. That's all it amounted to."

"Why didn't you say that in the first place?" "I'm not accountable to you. You show up at my door uninvited and quiz me about all this bullshit. It's none of your business so why should I answer to you? I don't think you know how you come off sometimes."

I felt myself flush at the well-placed insult. I drank the last of my wine. I was having trouble believing her story about meeting Bobby, but it was clear I wasn't going to get much more out of her. I decided to drop it for the moment, but it didn't sit well with me. If she'd only been listening to his complaints, why not just say so to begin with?