Kinsey and Me: Stories

Also by Sue Grafton

KINSEY MILLHONE MYSTERIES

A is for Alibi

B is for Burglar

C is for Corpse

D is for Deadbeat

E is for Evidence

F is for Fugitive

G is for Gumshoe

H is for Homicide

I is for Innocent

J is for Judgment

K is for Killer

L is for Lawless

M is for Malice

N is for Noose

O is for Outlaw

P is for Peril

Q is for Quarry

R is for Ricochet

S is for Silence

T is for Trespass

U is for Undertow

V is for Vengeance

A MARIAN WOOD BOOK

Published by G. P. Putnam’s Sons

Publishers Since 1838

Published by the Penguin Group

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Copyright © 2013 by Sue Grafton

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ISBN 978-1-101-61431-0

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Version_2

For Ivan, Marian, and Molly:

With admiration, appreciation, and affection

contents

also by sue grafton

title page

copyright

dedication

preface

part one: kinsey

introduction

between the sheets

long gone

the parker shotgun

non sung smoke

falling off the roof

a poison that leaves no trace

full circle

a little missionary work

the lying game

entr’acte

An Eye for an I: Justice, Morality, the Nature of the Hard-boiled Private Investigator, and All That Existential Stuff

part two: . . . and me

introduction

a woman capable of anything

that’s not an easy way to go

lost people

clue

night visit, corridor a

april 24, 1960

the closet

maple hill

a portable life

the quarrel

jessie

death review

a letter from my father

acknowledgments

preface

A MYSTERY SHORT STORY is a marvel of ingenuity. The writer works on a small canvas, word-painting with the equivalent of a brush with three hairs. In the space of twenty or so manuscript pages, the writer must establish the credentials and personality of the detective (Kinsey Millhone in this case), as well as the time period and the physical setting. Usually, there’s a murder or a missing person, whose disappearance is a matter of concern. Lesser crimes, such as burglary, theft, embezzlement, or fraud, may provide the spark for the story line, but as a rule, murder is the glue that holds the pieces in place.

In short order, the writer has to lay out the nature of the crime and introduce two or three viable suspects (or persons of interest as they’re referred to these days). With a few deft strokes, the writer must further create suspense and generate a modicum of action while demonstrating how the detective organizes the subsequent inquiry and arrives at a working theory, which is then tested for accuracy. A touch of humor is a nice addition to the mix, lightening the mood and allowing the reader momentary relief from the tensions implicit in the process. In the end, the resolution must satisfy the conditions set forth at the beginning.

While the mystery novelist has room to develop subplots and peripheral characters, as well as the leisure to flesh out the private life of the protagonist, in the short story such indulgences are stripped away. The subtleties of the artfully disguised clue and the placing of road signs pointing the reader in the wrong direction may be present in the short story, but pared to a minimum.

The crime story, the mystery story, and the detective story are related forms that differ in the following ways. A crime story dramatizes the planning, commission, or aftermath of a crime without introducing any element of mystery. The reader is invited along for the ride, a witness to events and fully apprised of what’s going on. Here, the reader functions as a voyeur, caught up in the action and subject to its rewards or consequences. The mystery story, on the other hand, proposes a puzzle with a crime at its center, but doesn’t rely on the ratiocinations of a sleuth to drive the plot toward its conclusions. Instead, the reader serves in that role, observing, analyzing, and drawing inferences from the tantalizing questions the writer has proposed.

The detective story is governed by a special set of laws, many of which were laid out by S. S. Van Dine in an essay on the subject written in 1928. Not all of the strictures still apply, but many of the rules of the game are as critical today as they were back then. For starters, a detective story has to have a detective and, by definition, the detective must detect. The reader must be made privy to all of the information the detective uncovers in the course of an investigation. Of primary importance is the necessity for fair play. The clues have to be plainly stated though the detective’s intellectual leaps needn’t be entirely spelled out. The culprit has to be a visible entity in the body of the tale. In other words, the killer can’t be someone who pops out of nowhere in the last paragraph.

Generally speaking, the killer can’t be a maniac or a stone-cold crazoid operating without a rational plan. The point of a mystery is to figure out whodunit and the who has to be a visible player, though the means and methods might not be obvious. The killer can’t be a professional hit man whose sole motivation is financial and who therefore has no relationship with the victim at all. The crime must have its roots in the past or present reality of the victim.

In a first-person narrative, the detective cannot also be cast as the killer because this would undermine the fundamental trust between the writer and the reader. The I who tells the story is presumed to be revealing all, not reporting objective events while neatly sidestepping his own complicity. The solution to the puzzle and the explanation for the crime have to be natural and logical. No ghosts, no Ouija boards, and no Divine Intervention. There are other, lesser axioms and if you’re curious, you can look them up on the Internet the same way I did. The principles in play are what make the detective story challenging. The best practitioners are masters of their craft and experts at sleight of hand, performing their literary magic tricks with a grace and delicacy that make the illusions seem real.

For me, the mystery short story is appealing for two reasons. One, I can utilize ideas that are clever, but too quirky or slight to support the extended trajectory of the novel. And two, I can complete a manuscript in two weeks as opposed to the longer gestation and delivery time required of a novel. The short story allows me to shift gears. Like an invitation to go outside and play, the shorter form offers a refreshing change of pace.

The Kinsey Millhone stories, which constitute the first section of this book, appeared in various magazines and crime anthologies over a five-year period that began in 1986. The single exception, The Lying Game, I wrote in response to an invitation from Lands’ End to submit a short story for the fortieth-anniversary catalogue. As a rule, I don’t write to order, and I can’t obligingly create a short story in response to even the kindest of requests. In this instance, Roz Chast and Garrison Keillor had agreed to contribute. Aside from the fact that I’m a huge fan of both humorists, there was something about the combination of writerly personalities and styles that appealed to my Dark Side. I went straight to a Lands’ End catalogue and leafed through, looking for an item of clothing that had some magic attached. I got as far as Outerwear, and when I read the description of the Squall Parka I knew I’d found my inspiration. In 1991, these stories, with the exception of The Lying Game, were brought together in a collection called Kinsey and Me, which was privately published by my husband, Steven Humphrey, through his company, Bench Press. The print run consisted of three hundred hardcover copies, which I numbered and signed, and twenty-six hand-bound copies that I lettered and signed. Some of these were sold and some were given as gifts to family and friends.

THE STORIES IN the second section of the book I wrote in the ten years following my mother’s death. At the remove of some fifty years, I still find myself reluctant to lift the veil on a period of my life that was chaotic and confused. Looking back, I can see that I was rudderless and floundering, that in attempting to save myself, I hurt others. For this, I am deeply apologetic. I wish now that I’d been more giving, more gracious, less self-absorbed, and certainly less irresponsible than I was. Maturity would have been a big help, but that didn’t come until later. Astoundingly, out of these same struggles I’ve been gifted with three incredible children, a husband whom I adore, and four granddaughters, whose energy and goodness fill my world with light. I’ve also been given friends who’ve encouraged me to this telling with more generosity and understanding than I’ve sometimes accorded myself.

I wish life could be edited as deftly as prose. It would be nice to go back and write a better story, correcting weaknesses and follies in the light of what I now know. What I’ve noticed though is that any attempt to trim out the dark matter takes away some of the good that was also buried in the muck. The past is a package deal and I don’t believe there’s a way to tell some of the truth without telling most. Wisdom comes at a price, and I have paid dearly for mine.

part one

kinsey

introduction

KINSEY MILLHONE ENTERED my life, like an apparition, sometime in 1977. I was living in Columbus, Ohio, at the time, writing movies for television while my husband attended Ohio State, working on his Ph.D. She arrived by degrees, insinuating herself with all the cunning of a stray cat who knew long before I did that she was here to stay. The name came first. The Kinsey I spotted in a copy of The Hollywood Reporter in the little column announcing births. A couple in Hollywood had named their infant daughter Kinsey and the name leapt out at me. Millhone was probably the product of a finger stroll through the telephone book or a random matching process, wherein I tried various syllables and rhythms until I found one that suited me.

I should note that the novels are set in the 1980s because of the decision I made at the time to have Kinsey age one year for every two and a half books. In A is for Alibi, she’s thirty-two years old. Thirty years later, in V is for Vengeance, she’s thirty-eight. My only other choice was to have her age one year for every book, which would mean that if I kept her in real time, she’d be middle-aged by now and less likely to live with such reckless abandon. Since her life proceeds at such a measured pace, I am, myself, caught in a time warp. One obvious consequence of this same decision is that many of the technological advancements in the forensic sciences and most certainly innovations in communications are nowhere in evidence. No Internet, no cell phones, little DNA testing. This means she’s forced to do her sleuthing the old-fashioned way, which better suits her personal style and the needs of the narrative.

I originally decided to write about a hard-boiled private eye because those are the books I was raised on. My father, C. W. Grafton, was a municipal bond attorney all his life, but he also wrote and published three mystery novels: The Rat Began to Gnaw the Rope, The Rope Began to Hang the Butcher, and Beyond a Reasonable Doubt. Because of him, I developed a real passion for the genre. I elected to write about a female protagonist at the outset because I’m female (hot news, huh?) and I figured it was my one area of expertise. When I started work on A is for Alibi, I wasn’t even sure what a private investigator did. In the course of writing that first book, I began the long (and continuing) task of educating myself. I read books on forensics, toxicology, burglary and theft, homicide, arson, anatomy, and poisonous plants, among many others. My personal library has grown since I began writing about Kinsey and I now have quite a storehouse of information at my fingertips.

The cases I write about are invented, though some owe their inspiration to tidbits gleaned from the crime section of my local newspaper, which I clip from almost daily. I like looking at the dark side of human nature, trying to understand what makes people kill each other instead of going into therapy. In my soul, I’m a real law-and-order type and I don’t want people to get away with murder. In a mystery novel there is justice and I like that a lot.

Kinsey is my alter ego—the person I might have been had I not married young and had children. The ’68 VW she drove (until G is for Gumshoe) was a car I owned some years ago. In H is for Homicide, she acquires the 1974 VW that sat in my driveway until I donated it as a raffle item for a local theater group. The lucky ticket holder won the car for her ten-dollar purchase. It was pale blue with only one minor ding in the left rear fender. I didn’t mind Kinsey using the car, but with her driving record, I refused to put her on my insurance policy.

What’s stimulating about her presence in my life is that since she can know only what I know, I have to do a great deal of research and this allows me, in essence, to lead two lives—hers and mine. Because of her, I’ve taken a women’s self-defense class and a class in criminal law. I’ve also made the acquaintance of doctors, lawyers, P.I.’s, cops, coroners, and all manner of experts. I own both of her handguns and, in fact, I learned to shoot so that I’d know what it feels like. I own the all-purpose dress she refers to in the books. Like Kinsey, I’ve been married and divorced twice (though I’m currently married to husband number three and intend to remain so for life). The process of writing informs both her life and mine.

While our biographies are different, our sensibilities are the same. As I’ve said on previous occasions, I think of us as one soul in two bodies and she got the good one. The particulars of her history usually come to me in the moment of writing. Often I feel she’s peering over my shoulder, whispering, nudging me, and making bawdy remarks. The humor comes from her, and the acid observations—also whatever tenderness seeps into the page. She is a marvel for which I take only partial credit, though she probably claims all the credit for me. It amuses me that I invented someone who has gone on to support me. It amuses her, I’m sure, that she will live in this world long after I am gone. I trust that you will enjoy her companionship as I have.

Sue Grafton

between the sheets

I SQUINTED AT THE woman sitting across the desk from me. I could have sworn she’d just told me there was a dead man in her daughter’s bed, which seemed like a strange thing to say, accompanied, as it was, by a pleasant smile and carefully modulated tone. Maybe I’d misunderstood.

It was nine o’clock in the morning, some ordinary day of the week. I was, I confess, hungover—a rare occurrence in my life. I do not drink often or much, but the night before I’d been at a birthday party for my landlord, Henry Pitts, who’d just turned eighty-two. Apparently the celebration had gotten out of hand because here I was, feeling fuzzy-headed and faintly nauseated, trying to look like an especially smart and capable private investigator, which is what I am when I’m in good form.

My name is Kinsey Millhone. I’m thirty-two years old, divorced, a licensed P.I., running my own small agency in a town ninety-five miles north of Los Angeles. The woman had told me her name was Emily Culpepper and that much made sense. She was very small, one of those women who at any age will be thought cute, God forbid. She had short dark hair and a sweet face and she looked like a perfect suburban housewife. She was wearing a pale blue blouse with a Peter Pan collar, a heather-colored Shetland sweater with grosgrain ribbon down the front, a heather tweed skirt, hose, and Capezios with a dainty heel. I guessed her to be roughly my age.

I reached for my legal pad and a pencil as though prepared to take important notes. Excuse me, Mrs. Culpepper, but could I ask you to repeat that?

The pleasant smile became fixed. She leaned forward. Are you recording this? she said with alarm. I mean, can this be used against me in court?

I’m just trying to understand what you’re talking about, I replied. "I thought you just told me there was a dead man in your daughter’s bed. Is that correct?"

She nodded solemnly, her eyes huge.

I wrote down, Dead man in daughter’s bed, but I wasn’t really sure what to ask next. So many questions crowd about when someone says something like that. Do you know the man?

Oh, yes. It’s Gerald, she said.

I noted the name. Your husband?

My lover, she said. I’m divorced.

And where is your daughter at this point?

She’s with him. My husband. But she’s probably on her way home. He really isn’t supposed to take her on weekdays. It says so in my decree, but he’s been out of town and I thought it was all right. Just this once.

I’m sure it is, I said, hoping to reassure her on this one small point. And when did you notice—I checked my notes—Gerald?

This morning at about six. Well, closer to ten of, actually.

What kind of dead is he?

What?

I’m wondering if you noticed the cause of death.

Oh. Yes, I did. He was shot.

I waited for her to go on, but she didn’t. Where?

She pointed to her heart.

I made another brief note. This was like pulling teeth. And you’re sure he was dead?

I’m not positive, she replied uneasily. But he was cold. And stiff. And he didn’t breathe at all.

That should cover it, I said. What about the weapon?

A gun.

You saw it?

It was right on the bed beside him.

Do you happen to know the make? I thought the technicalities would throw her, but she perked right up.

Well, it’s a little High Standard two-shot derringer, a .22, with dual barrels and double action, so it’s safety-engineered. I mean, it can’t fire accidentally, even if it’s dropped. And let’s see. It’s polished nickel with black grips and it’s just about that wide, she said, holding her thumb and index finger about an inch apart.

I was staring at her. The gun is yours?

Of course. I just bought it last week. That’s why I was so upset when I realized he’d been shot with it. And right in Althea’s bed. She’s only four, but she’s big for her age. She takes after my ex-husband’s side of the family.

I really didn’t think we’d exhausted the matter of Gerald quite yet. Why did you buy a gun?

It was on sale. Half off.

Is that what you told the police? She paled and I didn’t like this new expression on her face. You did call the police, didn’t you? I mean, when you discovered that Gerald was dead?

"Actually, I didn’t. I know I should have, but I didn’t think anyone