G is for Gumshoe (30 page)

“You may be the only man I ever met who'd concede that without a fight.”

“I can't wait to see how you do this.”

“You and me both.” I rang the bell. The owner took his sweet time about answering. I really hadn't even formulated
what I meant to say to him. I could hardly pretend to be doing a marketing survey.

He opened the door, a heavyset man in his seventies, diffuse light shining softly on his balding pate. It was strange how different he looked to me. Yesterday, his elongated forehead had lent him a babylike air of innocence. Today, the furrowed brow suggested a man who had much to worry him. I had to make a conscious effort not to stare at the mole on his cheek. “Yes?”

“I'm Kinsey Millhone. Do you remember me from yesterday?”

His mouth pulled together sourly. “With all the gun battles going on, it'd be hard to forget.” His gaze shifted. “I don't remember this gent.”

I tilted a nod at Dietz. “This is my partner, Robert Dietz.”

Dietz reached past me and shook hands with Bronfen. “Nice to meet you, sir. Sorry about all the uproar.” He put his left hand behind his ear. “I don't believe I caught your name.”

“Pat Bronfen. If you're still looking for that old woman, I'm afraid I can't help. I said I'd keep an eye out, but that's the best I can do.” He moved as though to close the door.

I held a finger up. “Actually, this is about something else.” I took the birth certificate from my handbag and held it out to him. He declined to take it, but he scanned the face of it. His expression shifted warily when he realized what it was. “How'd you get this?”

The inspiration came to me in a flash. “From Irene Bronfen. She was adopted by a couple in Seattle, but she's instituted a search for her birth parents.”

He squinted at me, but said nothing.

“I take it you're the Patrick Bronfen mentioned on her birth certificate?”

He hesitated. “What of it?”

“Can you tell me where I might find Mrs. Bronfen?”

“No, ma'am. That woman left me more than forty years ago, and took Irene with her,” he said, with irritation. “I never knew what happened to the child, let alone what became of Sheila. I didn't even know she put the child up for adoption. Nobody told me the first thing about it. That's against the law, isn't it? If I wasn't even notified? You can't sign someone's child away without so much as a by-your-leave.”

“I'm not really sure about the legalities,” I said. “Irene hired me to see what I could find out about you and your ex-wife.”

“She's not my ex-wife. I'm still married to the woman in the eyes of the law. I couldn't divorce her if I didn't know where she was.” He gestured impatiently, but he was running out of steam and I could see his mood shift. “That wasn't Irene, sitting on my front porch steps yesterday, was it?”

“Actually, it was.”

He shook his head. “I can't believe it. I remember her when she was this high. Now she'd have to be forty-seven years old.” He stared down at the porch, brow knitting parallel stitches between his eyes. “My own baby girl and I didn't recognize her. I always thought I'd be able to pick her out of a crowd.”

“She wasn't well. You really never got a good look at her,” I said.

He looked up at me wistfully. “Did she know who I was?”

“I'm sure she didn't. I didn't realize it myself until a little while ago. The certificate says Sumner. It took us a while to realize the address was still good.”

“I'm surprised she didn't recognize the house. She was almost four when Sheila took her. Used to sit right there on the steps, playing with her dollies.” He shoved his hands in his pockets.

It was occurring to me that Irene's asthma attack might well have been generated by an unconscious recognition of the place. “Maybe some of the memories will come back to her once she knows about you,” I said.

His eyes had come back to mine with curiosity. “How'd you track me down?”

“Through the adoption agency,” I said. “They had her birth certificate on file.”

He shook his head. “Well, I hope you'll tell her how much I'd like to see her. I'd given up any expectation of it after all these years. I don't suppose you'd give me her address and telephone number.”

“Not without her permission,” I said. “In the meantime, I'm still interested in finding Mrs. Bronfen. Do you have any suggestions about where I might start to look?”

“No, ma'am. After she left, I tried everything I could think of—police, private investigators. I put notices in the newspapers all up and down the coast. I never heard a word.”

“Do you remember when she left?”

“Not to the day. It would have been the fall of nineteen thirty-nine. September, I believe.”

“Do you have any reason to think she might be dead?”

He thought about that briefly. “Well, no. But then I don't have any reason to think she's still alive either.”

I took a small spiral-bound notebook from my handbag and leafed through a page or two. I was actually consulting an old grocery list, which Dietz studied with interest, looking over my shoulder. He gave me a bland look. I said, “The adoption agency mentions someone named Anne Bronfen. Would that be your sister? The files weren't clear about the connection. I gathered she was listed as next-of-kin when the adoption forms were filled out.”

“Well now, I did have a sister named Anne, but she died in nineteen forty . . . three or four months after Sheila left.”

I stared at him. “Are you sure of that?”

“She's buried out at Mt. Calvary. Big family plot on the hillside just as you go in the gate. She was only forty years old, a terrible thing.”

“What happened to her?”

“Died of childbed fever. You don't see much of that anymore, but it sometimes took women in those days. She married late in life. Some fellow named Chapman from over near Tucson. Had three little boys one right after the other, and died shortly after she was delivered of her third. I paid to bring her back. I couldn't believe she'd want to be buried out in that godforsaken Arizona countryside. It's too ugly and too dry.”

“Is there any possibility she might have heard from Sheila in those few months?”

He shook his head. “Not that she ever told me. She was living in Tucson at the time Sheila ran off. I suppose Sheila might have gone to her, but I never heard of it. Now,
how about you answer me one. What happened with that old woman who wandered off from the nursing home? You never said if she turned up or not.”

“Actually she did, about eleven o'clock last night. The police picked her up right out here in the street. She died in the emergency room shortly afterward.”

“Died? Well, I'm sorry to hear that.”

We went through our good-bye exercises, making appropriate noises.

Walking back to the car, Dietz and I didn't say a word. He unlocked the door and let me in. Once he eased in on his side, we sat in silence. He looked over at me. “What do you think?”

I stared back at the house. “I don't believe he was telling the truth.”

He started the car. “Me neither. Why don't we check out the gravesite he was talking about?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

They were all there. It was eerie to see them—Charlotte, Emily, and Anne—their gravestones lined up in date order, first to last. The markers were plain; information limited to the bare bones, as it were. Their parents, the elder Bronfens, were buried side by side: Maude and Herbert, bracketed on the left by two daughters who had apparently died young. Adjoining those plots, there was an empty space I assumed was meant for Patrick when the time came. On the other side were the three I knew of: Charlotte, born 1894, died in 1917; Emily, born 1897, died in 1926; and Anne, who was born in 1900 and died in 1940.

I stared off down the hill. Mt. Calvary was a series of rolling green pastures, bordered by a forest of evergreens and eucalyptus trees. Most of the gravestones were laid flat in the ground, but I could see other sections like this one, where the monuments were upright, most dating back to the late nineteenth century. The heat of the afternoon
sun was beginning to wane. It wouldn't be dark for hours yet, but a chill would settle in as it did every day. A bird sang a flat note to me from somewhere in the trees.

I shook my head, trying to make the information compute.

Dietz had the good sense to keep his mouth shut, but his look said “What?” as clearly as if he'd spoken.

“It just makes no sense. If Sheila Bronfen and Agnes Grey are the same person, then why don't their ages line up right? Agnes couldn't have been seventy when she died. She was eighty-plus. I know she was.”

“So the two aren't the same. So what? You came up with a theory and it didn't prove out.”

“Maybe,” I said.

“Maybe, my ass. Give it up, Millhone. You can't manipulate the facts to fit your hypothesis. Start with what you know and give the truth a chance to emerge. Don't force a conclusion just to satisfy your own ego.”

“I'm not forcing anything.”

“Yes, you are. You hate to be wrong—”

“I do not!”

“Yes, you do. Don't bullshit me—”

“That has nothing to do with it! If the two aren't the same, so be it. But then, who was Agnes Grey and how'd she end up with Irene Bronfen?”

“Agnes might have been a cousin or a family friend. She might have been the
maid
. . .”

“All right, great. Let's say it was the maid who ran off with the little girl. How come he didn't tell us that? Why pretend it was his wife?
He's
convinced Sheila took the child, or else he's lying through his teeth, right?”

“Come on. You're grasping at straws.”

I sank down on my heels, pulling idly at the grass. My frustration was mounting. I'd felt so close to unraveling the knot. I let out a puff of air. I'd been secretly convinced Agnes Grey and Anne Bronfen were one and the same. I wanted Bronfen to be lying about Anne's death, but it looked like he was telling the truth—the turd. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Dietz sneak a look at his watch.

“Goddamn it. Don't do that,” I said. “I hate being pushed.” I bit back my irritation. “What time is it?” I said, relenting.

“Nearly four. I don't mean to rush you, but we gotta get a move on.”

“The Ocean View isn't far.”

He clammed up and stared off down the hill, probably stuffing down a little irritation of his own. He was impatient, a man of action, more interested in Mark Messinger than he was in Agnes Grey. He bent down, picked up a dirt clod, and tossed it down the hill. He watched it as if it might skip across the grass like a pebble on water. He shoved his hands in his pockets. “I'll wait for you in the car,” he said shortly and started off down the hill.

I watched him for a moment.

“Oh hell,” I murmured to myself and followed him. I felt like a teenager, without a car of my own. Dietz insisted on my being with him almost constantly, so I was forced to trail around after him, begging rides, getting stuck where I didn't want to be, unable to pursue the leads that interested me. I doubled my pace, catching up with him at the road. “Hey, Dietz? Could you drop me off at the house? I could borrow Henry's car and let you talk to Rochelle on your own.”

He let me in on my side. “No.”

I stared after him with outrage. “No?” I had to wait till he came around. “What do you mean, ‘No'?”

“I'm not going to have you running around by yourself. It's not safe.”

“Would you
quit
that? I've got things to do.”

He didn't answer. It was like I hadn't said a word. He drove out of the cemetery and left on Cabana Boulevard, heading toward the row of motels just across from the wharf. I stared out the window, thinking darkly of escape.

“And don't do anything dumb,” he said.

I didn't say what flashed through my head, but it was short and to the point.

The Ocean View is one of those nondescript one-story motels a block off the wide boulevard that parallels the beach. It was not yet tourist season and the rates were still down, red neon
VACANCY
signs alight all up and down the street. The Ocean View didn't really have a view of anything except the back side of the motel across the alley. The basic cinderblock construction had been wrapped in what resembled aging stucco, but the red tiles on the roof had the uniform shape and coloring that suggested recent manufacture.

Dietz pulled into the temporary space in front of the office, left the engine running, and went in. I sat and stared at the car keys dangling from the ignition. Was this a test of my character, which everyone knows is bad? Was Dietz
inviting
me to steal the Porsche? I was curious about the exact date Anne Bronfen had died and I was itching to check it out. I had to have a car. This was one. Therefore . . .

I glanced at the office door in time to see Dietz emerge. He got in, slammed the door, and put the car in reverse. “Number sixteen, around the back,” he said. He smiled at me crookedly as he shifted into first. “I'm surprised you didn't take off. I left you the keys.”

I let that one pass. I always come up with witty rejoinders when it's too late to score points.

We parked in the slot meant for room 18, the only space available along the rear. Dietz knocked. Idly, I felt for the gun in my handbag, reassured by its weight. The door opened. He was blocking my view of her and I had too much class to hop up and down on tiptoe for an early peek.

“Rochelle? I'm Robert Dietz. This is Kinsey Millhone.”

“Hello. Come on in.”

I caught my first glimpse of Rochelle Messinger as we stepped through the door into her motel room.