I kept my mind blank, struggling with a curious resistance to the piece of digging I was about to do. There were several people at the counter, and for one brief moment I considered postponing the chore until some other day. Then another clerk appeared, a tall, lean fellow in slacks and a short-sleeved dress shirt, wearing a pair of glasses with one opaque lens. "Help you?"
"I'd like to check your records for a marriage license issued in November of 1935."
"The name?" he asked.
"Millhone, Terrence Randall. Do you need her name as well?"
He made a note. "This will do."
He pushed a form across the counter, and I filled in the blanks, reassuring the county about my purposes in asking. It was a silly formality in my opinion since births, deaths, marriages, and property recordings are a matter of public record. The filing system in use was called Soundex, a curious process whereby the vowels in the last name are eliminated altogether and consonants are awarded various numerical values. The clerk j helped me convert the name Millhone to its Soundex J equivalent, and then he sent me over to an old- fashioned card catalog where I found my parents listed, along with the date of their marriage, and the book and page numbers of the volume where the license was recorded. I returned to the counter with the information in hand. The clerk made a call to some web-footed creature in the bowels of the building, whose job it was to conjure up the relevant records consigned to cassettes. The clerk sat me down at the microfilm machine, rattling off a rapid series of instructions, half of which I missed. It didn't matter much, as he proceeded to turn the machine on and insert the cassette while he was telling me how to do it. Finally he left me to fast-forward my way through the bulk of the reel to the document in question. Suddenly, there they were-names and incidental personal data neatly entered into a record nearly fifty years old. Terrence Randall Millhone of Santa Teresa, California, and Rita Cynthia Kinsey of Lompoc, California, had married on November 18, 1935. He was thirty-three years old at the time of the wedding and listed his occupation as mail carrier. His father's name was Quillen Millhone. His mother's maiden name was Dace. Rita Kinsey was eighteen at the time of her marriage, occupation unlisted, daughter of Burton Kinsey and Cornelia Straith LaGrand. They were married by a Judge Stone of the Perdido Court of Appeal in a ceremony that took place in Santa Teresa at four in the afternoon. The witness who signed the form was Virginia Kinsey, my aunt Gin. So there they were, those three, standing together in the public register, not knowing that in twenty years husband and wife would be gone. As far as I knew there were no photographs of the wedding, no mementos of any kind. I'd seen only one or two pictures taken of them in later years. Somewhere had a handful of snapshots of my babyhood and early childhood, but there were none of their respective families. I realized what a vacuum I'd been living in. Where other people had anecdotes, photograph albums, correspondence, family gatherings, all the trappings of family tradition, I had little or nothing to report. The notion of my mother's family, the Burton Kinseys, still residing up in Lompoc conjured up curious emotional contradictions. And what of my father's people? I'd never heard any mention of the Millhones at all.
I felt a sudden shift in my perspective. I could see in a flash what a strange pleasure I'd taken in being related to no one. I'd actually managed to feel superior about my isolation. I was subtle about it, but I could see that I'd turned it into a form of self-congratulation. I wasn't the common product of the middle class. I wasn't a party to any convoluted family drama – the feuds, unspoken alliances, secret agreements, and petty tyrannies. Of course, I wasn't a party to the good stuff, either, but who cared about that? I was different. I was special. At best, I was self-created; at worst, the hapless artifact of my aunt's peculiar notions about raising little girls. In either event, I regarded myself an outsider, a loner, which suited me to perfection. Now I had to consider the possibility of this unknown family unit... whether I would claim them or they would claim me.
I rewound the reel of film and took the cassette up to the counter. I left the building and crossed the street, heading toward the three-story parking structure where I'd left my car. On my right was the public library, where I knew I could rustle up the Lompoc phone book if I was interested. But was I? Reluctantly I paused, debating the issue. It's only information, I said to myself. You don't have to make a decision, you just need to know.
I took a right, going up the outside stairs and into the building. I turned right again, pushing through the turn-stiles designed to capture book thieves. The city directories and various telephone books from towns all across the state were shelved on the first floor to the left of the reference desk. I found the telephone book for Lompoc and leafed through the pages where I stood. I didn't want to act as if I cared enough to sit.
There was only one "Kinsey" listed, not Burton but Cornelia, my mother's mother, with the telephone number but no address. I found the Polk Directory for Lompoc and Vandenberg Air Force Base, checking the section where the telephone numbers were listed in order, beginning with the prefix. Cornelia was listed with an address on Willow Avenue. I checked the Polk Directory for the year before and saw that Burton was listed with her. The obvious inference was that she'd been widowed sometime between this year's census and the last. Terrific. What a deal. First time I find out I have a grandfather, he's dead. I made a note of the address on one of the deposit slips at the back of my checkbook. Half the people I know use deposit slips in lieu of business cards. Why don't banks add a few blanks back there for memos? I shoved the checkbook in my bag again and resolutely forgot about it. Later, I'd decide what I wanted to do.
I went back to the law office and let myself in the side entrance. When I opened the door, I found the message light blinking on my answering machine. I pressed the playback button and then went about the business of opening a window while I listened.
"Miss Millhone, this is Harris Brown. I'm a retired Santa Teresa police lieutenant and I just got a call from Lieutenant Whiteside over there who tells me you're trying to locate Wendell Jaffe. As I believe he mentioned, that was one of the last cases I worked before I left the department, and I'd be happy to discuss some of the details with you if you'll give me a call. I'll be in and out this afternoon, but you can probably reach me between two and three-fifteen at..."
I snatched up a pen and caught the number as he re- cited it. I checked my watch. Poot. It was only twelve forty-five. I tried the number anyway on the off chance he'd be there. No such luck. I tried Renata Huff again, but she wasn't home, either. I still had my hand on the receiver when the phone rang. "Kinsey Millhone Investigations," I said.
"May I speak to Mrs. Millhome?" some woman asked in a sing-song voice.
"This is she," I replied with caution. This was going to be a pitch.
"Mrs. Millhome, this is Patty Kravitz with Telemarketing Incorporated? How, are you today?" She'd been instructed to smile at this point so her voice would sound very warm and friendly.
I ran my tongue along the inside of my cheek. "Fine. What about yourself?"
"That's good, Mrs. Millhome, we know you're a busy person, but we're conducting a survey for an ex- citing new product and wonder if you could take a few minutes to answer some questions. If you're willing to assist us, we have a nice prize already set aside for you. Can we count on your help?"
I could hear the babble of other voices in the boiler room behind her. "What's the product?"
"I'm sorry, but we're not allowed to divulge that information. I am permitted to indicate that this is an airline-related service and within the next few months will result in the introduction of an innovative new concept in business and leisure travel. Can we take just a few minutes out of your busy schedule?"
"Sure, why not?"
"That's good. Now, Mrs. Millhome, are you single, married, divorced, or widowed?"
I was really liking her sincere, spontaneous manner as she read from the laminated card in front of her. I said, "Widowed."
"I'm sorry to he
ar that," she said in a perfunctory manner as she breezed right on. "Do you own your home or rent?"
"Well, I used to own two homes," I said casually. "One here in Santa Teresa and one in Fort Myers, Florida, but now that John's passed away, I've had to sell the property down there. The only place I rent is an apartment in New York City."
"Really."
"I do quite a bit of traveling. That's why I'm helping you with the research," I said. I could practically hear her making frantic flagging motions to her supervisor. She had a live one on the line, and she might need help.
We moved on to the matter of my annual income, which I knew would be substantial with that extra million coming in. I proceeded to lie, fib, and equivocate, amusing myself with the questions while I honed my prevarication skills. We quickly worked our way down to the part where I only needed to write a check for $39.99 to claim the prize I'd won: a complete nine-piece set of matching designer luggage, retailing for over $600.00 in most department stores.
My turn to be skeptical. "You're kidding," I said. "And this is not a gimmick? All I pay is thirty-nine ninety-nine? I don't believe it."
She assured me the offer was genuine. The luggage was absolutely free. All I was being asked to cover was the shipping and handling, which I could also charge to my credit card if that was more convenient She offered to send someone over to pick up the check within the hour, but I thought it was easier to go ahead and put it on my card. I gave her the account number, inventing a nice series of digits, which she dutifully read back to me. I could tell from her tone of voice she could hardly believe her good luck. I was probably the only person that day who hadn't damaged her hearing by promptly hanging up. Before the end of the business day, she and her cronies would be trying to charge off merchandise to that account.
For lunch I ate a carton of nonfat yogurt at my desk and then took a nap,- leaning back in my chair. In between car chases and gun battles, we private eye types have occasional days like this. At two I roused myself, reaching over to pluck up the phone, trying Harris Brown again.
The number rang four times and then somebody picked up. "Harris Brown," he said, sounding cranky and out of breath.
I took my feet off the desk and introduced myself. His tone underwent a shift and his interest picked up. "I'm glad you called. I was surprised to hear the guy had surfaced."
"Well, we still don't have confirmation, but it's looking good to me. How long did you work the case?"
"Oh, geez, probably seven months. I never for a minute believed he was dead, but I had a hell of a time convincing anyone else. I never did manage it, as a matter of fact. It's nice to have an old hunch confirmed. Anyway, tell me what kind of help you need."
"I'm not sure yet. I guess I was hoping to brainstorm," I said. "I've got a line on the woman he was traveling with, a gal named Renata Huff, who has a house down on the Perdido Keys."
He seemed startled by the information. "Where'd you come up with that one?"
"Ohm, I'd prefer not to spell it out. Let's just say "I have my little ways," I said.
"Sounds like you're doing pretty good."
"Working on it," I said. "The problem is she's the only lead I have, and I can't figure out who else he'd turn to for help."
"To do what?"
I could feel myself backpedal, uncomfortable articulating my theory about Wendell. "Well, I hesitate to say this, but my hit on this is he heard about Brian..."
"The escape and shoot-out."
"Right. I think he's coming back to help his kid." There was a fractional silence.
"Help him how?"
"I don't know yet. I just can't think of any other reason he'd risk coming back."
"I might buy that," he said after giving it some r thought. "So you're figuring he'd either contact close family or old pals of his."
"Exactly. I know who his ex-wife is and I've talked to her, but she doesn't seem to have a clue."
"And you believe that."
"Actually, I'm inclined to. I think she's being straight."
"Go on. I'm sorry to interrupt."
"Anyway, when it comes to Wendell, mostly I'm sitting around hoping he'll show his face, which he doesn't seem to be doing. I thought if we could sit down together, we might come up with some other possibilities. Could I impose on your time?"
"I'm retired now, Miss Millhone. Time is all I've got. Unfortunately, I'm tied up this afternoon. Tomorrow's fine if that suits."
"Looks good to me. What about lunch? Are you free by any chance?"
"That'd be doable," he said. "Where are you?"
I gave him my office address.
He said, "I'm out here in Colgate, but I have an errand in town. Is there someplace we can meet?"
"Whatever's convenient for you."
He suggested a large coffee shop on upper State, not the best place for food, but I knew we wouldn't need reservations for lunch. r made a note on my calendar when I hung up the phone. On a whim, I tried Renata's number.
Two rings. She picked up.
Oh, shit, I thought. "May I speak to Mr. Huff?"
"He's not here at the moment. Would you care to leave a message?"
"Is this Mrs. Huff?"
"Yes."
I tried a smile. "Mrs. Huff, this is Patty Kravitz with Telemarketing Incorporated? How are you today?"
"Is this a sales pitch?"
"Absolutely not, Mrs. Huff. I can guarantee it. We're doing market research. The company I work for is interested in your leisure pursuits and discretionary spending. These forms are filed by number, so your answers are completely anonymous. In return for your cooperation, we have a nice prize already set aside."
"Oh, right. I bet."
Jesus, this lady wasn't very trusting. I said, "It will only take five minutes of your valuable time." Then I kept my mouth shut and let her work it out on her end.
"All right, but make it brief, and if it turns out you're selling something, I'm going to be annoyed."
"I understand that. Now, Mrs. Huff, are you single, married, divorced, or widowed?" I picked up a pencil and started doodling on a legal pad, thinking ahead frantically. What did I really hope to learn from her?
"Married."
"And do you own or rent your home?"
"What does this have to do with travel?"
"I'm getting to that. Is this a primary or vacation residence?"
Mollified. "Oh, I see. It's primary."
"And how many trips have you taken in the past six months? None, one to three, or more than three?"
"One to three."
"Of the trips taken in the past six months, what percentage were business?"
"Look, would you just get to the point?"
"Fine. No problem. We'll just skip some of these. Do you or your husband have plans to travel any time in the next few weeks?
Dead silence.
I said, "Hello?"
"Why do you ask?"
"Actually, that brings us to the end of my questionnaire, Mrs. Huff," I said, speaking rapidly and smoothly. "As a special thank-you, we'd like to provide you, at no cost, two round-trip tickets to San Francisco and two nights all expenses paid, at the Hyatt Hotel.
Will your husband be home soon to accept the complimentary tickets? There's absolutely no obligation on your part, but he will have to sign for them since the :, survey was in his name. Can I indicate to my supervisor 'when you might like to have us drop those off?"
"This is not going to work," she said, her voice tinged with irritation. "We expect to be leaving town momentarily, as soon as... I'm not sure when he'll be here and we're not interested." With a click, she disconnected.
Shit! I banged the phone down on my end. Where was the man, and what was he up to that might "momentarily" motivate his departure from Perdido? Nobody's heard from him. At least, nobody I knew of. I couldn't believe he'd talked to Carl Eckert, unless he'd done so within the last half day. As nearly as I could tell, he hadn't been in touch with Dana or Brian. I wasn't sure a
bout Michael. I'd probably have to check that out. What the hell was Wendell doing? Why would he come this close to his family without making contact? Of course, it was always possible he'd managed to talk to all three of them, and if that was the case, they were better liars than I was. Maybe it was time for the cops to put a tail on Renata Huff. And it might not hurt to run Wendell's picture in the local papers. As long as he was running, we might as well sic the dogs on him.
Meanwhile, come suppertime, I was going to have to make yet another trip to Perdido.
Chapter 15
* * *
I set out for Perdido again after supper that evening. The drive was pleasant, the light at that hour a tawny yellow, gilding the south-facing mountain ridges in gold leaf. As I passed Rincon Point, I could still see surfers out in the water. Most were straddling their boards, rocking in the low swell, chatting while they waited, ever hopeful, for a wave. The surf was mild for the moment, but the weather map in the morning paper had showed an eastern Pacific hurricane off the California Baja, and there was talk that the storm system was moving up the coast. I noticed then that the horizon was rimmed with black clouds like a row of brushes, sweeping a premature darkness in our direction. The Rincon, with its rocky projection and its offshore shoals, seems to act like a magnet for turbulent weather.
Rincon is the Spanish term for the cove formed by a land point projecting seaward. Here, the coastline is molded into a series of such indentations, and for a stretch, the ocean butts right up against the roadway. At high tide the waves erupt along the embankment, sending up a white wall of frustrated water. Beyond, on my left, fields of flowers had been cultivated on several terraces where the underlying earth was slumping toward the sea. The vibrant red, gold, and magenta of the zinnias glowed in the half-light as if illuminated from below. It was just after 7:00 when I left Highway 101 at Perdido Street. I sailed through the light at the intersection and crossed Main Street on a northbound path that cut through the Boulevards. I turned left at Median and pulled over to the curb about six houses down. Michael's yellow VW bug was parked in the driveway. The windows along the front of the house were dark, but I could see lights on in the rear, where I imagined the kitchen and one of the two bedrooms.