W is for Wasted

By the time I’d dressed and eaten my cereal, I was feeling better. Talking through the problem with Henry had helped me put it in perspective. I was making things too complicated. The trip to Bakersfield was a necessary element in my responsibilities as executor of Dace’s estate. It was a mistake to overthink the task. I had no clue what kind of reception I’d get. The best tack was to go with an open heart and deal with whatever came to pass. Looking back, I can’t believe I was able to say this to myself with a straight face.

My clothes were still warm from the dryer as I packed my duffel. I was eager to hit the road, but I had matters to tend to first. When the Santa Teresa County Clerk-Recorder’s Office opened at 8:00, Burke Benjamin and I were the only two people in line. I presented myself, paperwork in hand, paid the fees, filed the petition for probate, and submitted the original of Dace’s will. I could have strung out the process, waiting to file until I returned from Bakersfield, but I knew I’d reached the point of no return and I liked the sense that forward motion was inevitable. The clerk assigned a case number and gave me a court date that fell in the middle of December, which meant I had ample time to take care of the busywork. Burke made sure I had certified copies of all the necessary documents. At her suggestion, I picked up forms to fill out for the notice I’d need to have published in the Santa Teresa Dispatch. Burke said she’d cover anything that came up in my absence.

I made a quick stop at the office to pick up the mail that had come in the day before. I sat down at my desk and took care of a detail or two. Mostly, I tidied up so if I ran off the road and died, my survivors would think my desk was always neat. At 9:00, I put in a call to Mr. Sharonson at Wynington-Blake Mortuary, asking him to retrieve R. T. Dace’s body from the coroner’s office and move him to the funeral home. I could tell Mr. Sharonson was on the verge of rolling out condolences, but I pretended I had another call coming in on my one-line phone and thus made short work of it.

Before I hit the road, I stopped at the house to let Henry know I was on my way. He was out somewhere, but he’d left a hinged wicker picnic basket on my doorstep. I lifted the flap and saw that he’d packed me a sandwich, an apple, some potato chips, and six chocolate chip cookies. He’d also tucked in a map of Bakersfield. Ed, the cat, had contributed a parting gift as well. He’d caught and killed a mole, graciously leaving me the head, which he’d licked clean of fur right down to the bone. I was on the road by 9:30.

The die, as they say, was cast.

13

PETE WOLINSKY

June 1988, Four Months Earlier

Friday morning, June 17, a lengthy typewritten report arrived in the mail, postmarked Reno, Nevada. The report itself was dated June 15, 1988, and covered the surveillance on Mary Lee Bryce during her stay at the conference hotel over the Memorial Day weekend. The bill attached was for three thousand dollars plus change. The cash expenditures and credit card charges were neatly itemized with all the relevant receipts attached. Pete ran the total himself and found it to be correct. The PI hadn’t fudged by a penny, which Pete found hard to believe.

Pete hadn’t wanted to do the legwork himself because he didn’t have the money to fly to Reno. He’d canceled the second set of round-trip plane tickets he’d paid for, though he realized he’d forgotten to turn them in for his refund, which the travel agent assured him would be forthcoming. He had no intention of shelling out any of the twenty-five hundred bucks Willard had paid. Once the cash was safely tucked away, Pete contacted Con Dolan, now retired from the STPD and always up for a chat. He mentioned needing to sub out a job and Dolan had said he’d get back to him with a contact name shortly. Once Dolan passed along the contact numbers, Pete made the call and laid out his problem. While the fellow didn’t seem wild about the work, he agreed to do it, quoting what Pete considered an exorbitant fee. Pete asked the PI to include an invoice when the work was done and he submitted his report. As this was a matter between two professionals, a verbal agreement was sufficient.

Pete laid the report on his desk, pressing the pages flat, and then leaned close enough for the typeface to come into focus. His eyesight was getting worse. The last time he’d seen an optometrist, he was told he might be helped by corrective surgery, but the procedure sounded risky to him and the expense made the option unlikely. He followed the lines of print with his finger so he wouldn’t lose his place.

The report came as a surprise. There was no indication whatever that Mary Lee Bryce was spending time with Dr. Linton Reed for romantic purposes or any other kind. Apparently, they attended most of the same symposia and were both present for many of the papers being presented. She was in the audience for the one given by Dr. Reed, but she didn’t appear to hang on his every word. The two never sat together and barely even spoke. They shared no meals, didn’t meet for drinks, and their rooms were not only on different floors, but at opposite ends of the hotel. When their paths did cross, they maintained the appearance of civility, but that was about it. The Nevada PI had even snapped photos in which Mary Lee Bryce and Dr. Reed were both in the same frame, their body language attesting to their mutual disinterest if not mutual disdain. This didn’t constitute proof of any kind, but it was telling.