Free P is for Peril by Sue Grafton Page A

of her head and a rolling of her eyes. “Dow and I met in Vegas at the home of mutual friends. The first time I saw him, I knew I’d marry him one day.”
    â€œWasn’t he married?”
    â€œWell, yes. I mean, technically speaking, but not happily, ” she said, as though Dow’s marital angst justified her poaching on Fiona’s turf. “You’ve met Fiona. She’s only six months younger than him, but she looks like she’s a hundred. She drinks. She smokes two packs a day. She’s also hooked on Valium, which I doubt she mentioned when she was hiring you. Dow was sixty-nine last spring, but you’d never guess by looking. Have you seen a picture of him?”
    â€œThere was one in the paper.”
    â€œOh, that was terrible. I have a better one. Hang on.”
    She left the deck and moved into the great room, returning moments later with a framed color photo. She sat down on her chair again and passed the photograph to me. I studied Dow Purcell’s face. The picture, taken on the golf course, had been cropped so that the others in his foursome were scarcely visible. His hair was white, trimmed close, and his face was lean. He looked tanned and fit, wearing a white golf shirt, pale chinos, and a leather golf glove on his right hand. I couldn’t see the head of the club he was holding upright in front of him. “Where was this taken?”
    â€œLas Vegas. The same trip. That was in the fall of 1982. We were married a year later when his final divorce papers came through.”
    I handed the photo back. “Does he gamble?”
    She held the framed photograph and studied it herself. “Not him. He was speaking at a symposium on geriatric medicine. He loved Vegas for the golf, which he played all year long. He was a five handicap, really very good.”
    I wondered at the sudden use of the past tense but decided not to call attention to the shift. “Do you play?”
    â€œSome, but I’m terrible. I play to keep him company when he’s got no one else. It’s nice when we travel because it gives us something to do.” She leaned forward and set the picture on the table, studying it briefly before she turned back to me. “What happens now?”
    â€œI’ll talk to anyone who seems relevant and try to figure out what’s going on.”
    â€œThere’s your mommy,” a man said. He stood just inside the door, holding Griffith, who was dressed for bed in flannel jammies with enclosed rubber-soled feet and a diaper tailgate in back. His face was a perfect oval, his cheeks fat, his mouth a small pink bud. His fair hair was still damp, sharply parted on one side and combed away from his face. Blond curls were already forming where a few strands had dried. Mutely, he held his arms out and Crystal reached for him. She fit him along her hip, looking at him closely while she spoke in a high-pitched voice, “Griffie, this is Kinsey. Can you say ‘Hi’?”
    This elicited no response from the child.
    She took one of his hands and waved it in my direction, saying, “Hewwoh. I weady to doh feepy. I dotta doh beddy-bye now. Nightie-night.”
    â€œNight-night, Griffith,” I said, voice high, trying to get into the spirit of the thing. This was worse than talking to a dog because at least there you really didn’t anticipate a high-pitched voice in response. I wondered if we were going to conduct the rest of the conversation talking like Elmer Fudd.
    I glanced at Rand. “Hi. You’re Rand? Kinsey Millhone.”
    â€œOh, I’m sorry. I should have introduced you.”
    Rand said, “Nice to meet you.” He appeared to be in his early forties, dark-haired, very thin, jeans, white T-shirt. I could still see damp splotches on his front from the toddler’s bath. Like Crystal, he was barefoot, apparently impervious to cold.
    I said, “I better go and let you get the little one to