W Is for Wasted

remarried. I believe she’s still in Bakersfield, but I have no idea where.”
    “Would there be any way I might speak with Lolly?”
    There was a pause. “I’m sorry. I don’t believe I caught your name.”
    “Kinsey Millhone. Terrence Dace died this past week. He’s the—”
    “I know who Terrence is, dear. Everyone in town knows him. If you don’t mind my asking, what’s this have to do with Lolly?”
    “It gets complicated, but basically I’m distantly related to Mr. Dace and I’ve been talking with some of the surviving family members. A question has come up about his whereabouts the night Karen Coffey was kidnaped and I thought Lorelei . . . Lolly . . . might help us out.”
    “Just one moment.”
    I heard her clunk the handset down on a tabletop. There was a long interval of silence. Eventually she picked up again.
    “I just went to check on her. She hasn’t been well.”
    “I’m sorry to hear that. I drove up from Santa Teresa yesterday and I should head back before long. I was hoping to speak to her sometime soon. Are you her caregiver?”
    “I’m her cousin, Alice.”
    “I’ll keep my visit as brief as possible. I only need a few minutes of her time.”
    “Ordinarily I wouldn’t do this, Miss . . .”
    “Millhone.”
    She lowered her voice. “No one in the family’s been to visit Lolly in the past five years. She’s eighty-six years old and she’s depressed. Frankly, I think a visit would lift her spirits regardless of the subject.”
    “Was that who you were talking to just now?”
    “Yes, it was. She seems to like the idea or I wouldn’t have permitted you to pursue the subject. What time were you thinking?”
    “Shortly. Actually, right now.”
    Her silence made me think she was going to turn me down, but she said, “I suppose that would do.”
    “Thanks. I really appreciate your help. I’m at the Holiday Inn near the Convention Center downtown. I’m looking at a Ralston Street address, but I don’t know where that is.”
    “We’re on the east side of the Union Cemetery. Ralston runs two blocks between South Owens Street and MLK Boulevard.”
    “Uh, could you give me directions?”
    “Of course. We’re only ten blocks away.”
    I made a note of her instructions, not even bothering to check the map because it wasn’t that complicated. I returned the handset to its cradle and the phone rang again. “Hello?”
    A woman said, “May I speak to Kinsey Millhone?”
    “This is she.”
    “This is Mamie. Ethan’s wife. I’m glad I caught you. I was afraid you’d be gone by now. How are you doing?”
    “I’m fine. How about yourself?”
    “I’m well,” she said.
    There was half a beat of quiet, which I didn’t want to fill with chat.
    Smoothly, she said, “I know you and Ethan had a long talk yesterday and we’re confused about where you come into the picture. You told him Terrence was your favorite uncle, but Evelyn says he didn’t have any nieces or nephews.”
    “Ethan misunderstood. My father was
Terrence’s
favorite uncle. I have photographs of the two of them taken years ago.”
    “Your father,” she said blankly.
    “Randy Millhone. His mother—my paternal grandmother—was Rebecca Dace.”
    “I can’t say that means much.”
    “My father was born in Bakersfield. His family and the Daces were close once upon a time. Does the name Millhone ring a bell?”
    “I’d have to ask Evelyn. It’s not a name anyone’s mentioned to me. You said something about photographs, but I’m not sure what those would tell us. I suppose Evelyn could take a look and see if she recognizes anyone.”
    “Unfortunately, the photos are still in Terrence’s safe deposit box, which I won’t have access to until after the probate hearing. I wish I could be more specific about the family connections.”
    “So do I,” she said. “I mean, I’m not saying there’s anything fishy going on, but it would be helpful if you had proof of your identity. Otherwise, it seems odd you show up out of a clear blue sky and announce you’re inheriting. Can you document any of this?”
    “I gave Ethan a copy of his father’s will.”
    “I’m talking about you. How do we know you’re who you say you are?”
    “I can show you my driver’s license and a photostat of my private investigator’s license. Turn the question around and tell me how you’d prove who you are. It’s easier said than done.”
    “I suppose.”
    “Is there something in particular that