W is for Wasted (Kinsey Millhone Mystery)

and then he died and that’s the end of it.”
    “What about his family? Any kids?”
    “He burned that bridge a year ago. He was on the outs with his ex-wife and estranged from his kids. I don’t know the whole of it, but I gather his kids as good as slammed the door in his face. He claimed he did everything in his power to make things right, but they weren’t buying it.”
    “What was the issue?”
    Dandy’s smile was benign. “Being drunk’s the issue. What else you got? He gave up on his kids because they gave up on him. That’s the kind of pain for which there’s no relief.”
    “It must have been hard on him.”
    “He learned his lesson that round. He wanted to be clean and sober before he contacted his kinfolk, which is why he carried your name in his pocket for months. He needed a go-between, someone to smooth the way for him. After what happened with his kids, he was through with surprises, I can tell you that.”
    “Meaning what?”
    “The way he told it, his kids had no clue he’d come knocking at the door. He’d called and told ’em he wanted to make amends, but I guess they never thought they’d actually see him again and good riddance from their perspective. I believe he’d had a fair amount to drink by the time he got there. I fussed at him good when he told me how he’d gone about it. Said, bro, it’s not cool. It’s not cool at all. When there’s bad blood, you don’t do that—show up drunk and think your kids are going to welcome you with open arms. Doesn’t work that way.”
    “Family’s tough. It’s like walking through a minefield, hoping you won’t get blown to bits,” I said. “I wonder what he was in prison for.”
    “He never said. Something bad must have gone down.”
    “I’m sorry he didn’t call me.”
    “He might have been too sick. With him back on the booze, he was probably ashamed of himself. He disappeared for a month last summer and then he came back.”
    “Disappeared to where?”
    “Los Angeles, but I don’t know what he did there. Give a fellow his space is my attitude.”
    I tilted back in my swivel chair and propped my foot on the edge of the desk. “Depressing, isn’t it?”
    “Not every life turns out.”
    “Which I should know by now,” I said. “The coroner’s investigator says all Terrence had on him were the clothes on his back and the sleeping bag he died in. Didn’t he own anything else?”
    “’Course he did. Had a shopping cart where he kept his cookstove, his books, and a custom-made tent. All gone by the time we got to the beach on the morning he died. He also had a fancy backpack with an aluminum frame. Somebody walked off with everything.”
    “That’s too bad. What kind of books?”
    “These were textbooks mostly. He loved anything to do with plants. Trees, shrubs, container gardening, propagation. He knew everything there was to know about California oaks. Drop of a hat, he’d talk your ear off. It was hard to shut him up once he got started.”
    “Was he a teacher?”
    “No, but he sure knew a lot. He said before he went to prison, he’d been working on a landscaping degree. He was a tree trimmer by trade, which was how he supported his family, but he wanted to be a landscape architect. Nights and weekends, he took classes.”
    “Must have been a bright guy.”
    “Very. He was a sweet man, too.” Dandy shifted in his chair. “Something else. Pearl didn’t want me to tell you this, but I don’t see why not. She thinks he had money. Lots of it.”
    “Really. Do you agree?”
    “Yes, ma’am. I’m not sure where it came from, but he didn’t live check-to-check like the rest of us. He kept a roll of bills in his pocket this big around.” He made a sizable circle with his thumb and index finger.
    “But that makes no sense. If he had money, why was he living on the streets? Why not rent a room?”
    “He didn’t care to spend his money that way. You might feel safe sleeping in your own bed, but to him, it was a nightmare. Furnished room was just like a cell to him. Too hot, too small, too noisy. Camping out feels like freedom. Even I know that and I never been in jail. Except a time or two . . .” he added, just to keep the record straight. “Point is, what he could afford wasn’t relevant.”
    “So where do you think the money came from?”
    “Beats me. He might have gone to prison for embezzlement. He might have robbed a bank. He didn’t seem like the sort who’d do either one, but what