W is for Wasted (Kinsey Millhone Mystery)

twisted the handle on the mechanical doorbell. The resultant response mimicked an alarm clock going off. Ruthie Wolinsky opened the door. I hadn’t seen her for many years, but she looked much the same—tall, very slim, with long thinning hair brushed away from her face. She wore a long-sleeve white lace blouse and a long denim skirt with boots. She was easily sixty years old, and while the headband might have looked incongruous on anyone else, it was perfect on her. Her hair color had shifted from mild brown to gray with much of the original shade still in evidence. Her brows were pale over mild green eyes. Soft lines defined her elongated face with its high forehead. When she saw me, recognition flickered, but it had been far too long for her to recall my name.
    “Kinsey Millhone,” I said. “Pete and I were professional acquaintances years ago.”
    “I remember you,” she said as her gaze shifted to Dietz.
    “This is my colleague, Robert Dietz.”
    Her gaze returned to mine. “You know Pete was shot to death in August.”
    “I heard about that and I’m sorry.” Already, I admired the straightforward manner in which she conveyed the information. No euphemisms; no attempt to soften the facts.
    “Is there a problem?” she asked.
    Dietz said, “I’m a Nevada PI. I did some work for Pete last May—a four-day surveillance in a Reno hotel. There’s a balance outstanding on the account.”
    “You’ll have to get in line with everyone else. Pete died without a penny to his name. His creditors are still swarming out of the woodwork.”
    “We’re hoping to pursue another approach. One that won’t involve you,” I said.
    She stared for a moment, making up her mind, and then held open the wooden screen door. “You’re welcome to come in. I’m not liable for his debts, but I don’t mind listening to what you have to say.”
    Dietz and I stepped into the foyer. There was a living room to our left, and she led the way to a small seating area. Dietz and I sat side by side on an upholstered settee that probably didn’t get much use. I suspected she occupied cozier rooms at the back of the house.
    “How are you doing?” I asked. “It must be difficult.”
    “I’m getting along well enough, though every other day, a new problem seems to crop up.”
    “Such as what?”
    “People like you arriving at my door,” she said. Her smile was slight and carried no rebuke. “I’ve stopped opening his mail. There’s no point in knowing about bills when there’s nothing I can do.”
    “What are the police telling you?”
    “Not much. They were interested at first. Now other cases have taken precedence.”
    “No suspect?”
    She shook her head. “They think he was killed with his own gun, which was missing from the scene. He took his Glock and his Smith and Wesson with him everywhere. Especially if he went out at night, he wouldn’t have been without one or the other. Usually he carried both.”
    “Both of his guns are gone?”
    “Just the Glock. His pocket pistol was returned to me. They found that in the trunk of his car. They believe there was a second gun involved, also missing. A Lieutenant Phillips is handling the case. I’m sure he could tell you more.”
    “You have no idea why he was out that night?”
    “He was an insomniac, so he was out many nights, roaming the streets. There was nothing unusual about that night, at least as far as I know.”
    “No business dealings that might have gone sour?”
    “He mentioned a job coming up and he was optimistic about his prospects. I have no idea what came of it.”
    “What about friends? Was there anyone he might have confided in?”
    “You knew Pete. He was a loner. He didn’t have friends or confidants.”
    Dietz said, “Were you aware he was in financial straits?”
    “I suspected as much, though his affairs are in much worse shape than I thought. He’d let his life insurance lapse. He had nothing in savings, his checking account was in overdraft, and his credit cards were maxed out. I knew he had problems, but I had no idea of the magnitude. When we got married, we swore we’d be honest with one another, but his pride sometimes got in the way. The house is paid for, but both our names are on the deed. I haven’t talked to an attorney but I’m hoping I won’t have to sell or take out a mortgage to satisfy his creditors.”
    “Did he leave a will?”
    “I haven’t found one so far. That was the sort of thing he postponed. In his