Everand Logo

Welcome to Everand!

  • Discover millions of ebooks, audiobooks, and so much more with a free trial

    Only $11.99/month after trial. Cancel anytime.

    "N" is for Noose: A Kinsey Millhone Novel
    "N" is for Noose: A Kinsey Millhone Novel
    "N" is for Noose: A Kinsey Millhone Novel
    Ebook340 pages6 hours

    "N" is for Noose: A Kinsey Millhone Novel

    By Sue Grafton

    3.5/5

    ()

    Read preview

    About this ebook

    "SMART AND SASSY" (New York Times) P.I. Kinsey Millhone is at it again in "N" is for Noose—another thrilling adventure from the #1 New York Times bestselling author Sue Grafton

    Kinsey Millhone should have done something else--she should have turned the car in the direction of home. Instead, she was about to put herself in the gravest jeopardy of her career.

    Tom Newquist had been a detective in the Nota Lake sheriff's office--a tough, honest cop respected by everyone. When he died suddenly, the townsfolk were saddened but not surprised: Just shy of sixty-five, Newquist worked too hard, smoked too much, and exercised too little. That plus an appetite for junk food made him a poster boy for an American Heart Association campaign. Newquist's widow didn't doubt the coroner's report. But what Selma couldn't accept was not knowing what had so bothered Tom in the last six weeks of his life. What was it that had made him prowl restlessly at night, that had him brooding constantly? Selma Newquist wanted closure, and the only way she'd get it was if she found out what it was that had so bedeviled her husband. Kinsey should have dumped the case. It was vague and hopeless, like looking for a needle in a haystack. Instead, she set up shop in Nota Lake, where she found that looking for a needle in a haystack can draw blood. Very likely, her own."N" Is for Noose: a novel in which Kinsey Millhone becomes the target and an entire town seems in for the kill.


    "A" Is for Alibi
    "B" Is for Burglar
    "C" Is for Corpse
    "D" Is for Deadbeat
    "E" Is for Evidence
    "F" Is for Fugitive
    "G" Is for Gumshoe
    "H" Is for Homicide
    "I" Is for Innocent
    "J" Is for Judgment
    "K" Is for Killer
    "L" is for Lawless
    "M" Is for Malice
    "N" Is for Noose
    "O" Is for Outlaw
    "P" Is for Peril
    "Q" Is for Quarry
    "R" Is for Ricochet
    "S" Is for Silence
    "T" Is for Trespass
    "U" Is for Undertow
    "V" Is for Vengeance
    "W" Is for Wasted
    "X"

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherMacmillan Publishers
    Release dateApr 1, 2010
    ISBN9781429913430
    "N" is for Noose: A Kinsey Millhone Novel
    Author

    Sue Grafton

    Sue Grafton was one of the most popular female writers, both in the UK and in the US. Born in Kentucky in 1940, she began her career as a TV scriptwriter before Kinsey Millhone and the 'alphabet' series took off. Two of the novels B is for Burglar and C is for Corpse won the first Anthony Awards for Best Novel. Sue lived and wrote in Montecito, California and Louisville, Kentucky.

    Read more from Sue Grafton

    Related to "N" is for Noose

    Titles in the series (16)

    View More
    View More

    Related ebooks

    Mystery For You

    View More
    View More

    Related podcast episodes

    Related articles

    • Article

      Coming home

      Oct 13, 2022

      Coming home
      16 min read

    • Article

      Kalahari CLOSET

      Jun 15, 2022

      Kalahari CLOSET
      4 min read

    • Article

      Crossing the Border

      Sep 19, 2019

      Crossing the Border
      7 min read

    • Article

      Matters Of The Heart

      Jan 17, 2022

      Matters Of The Heart
      5 min read

    • Article

      Surrender

      Aug 17, 2022

      IT WAS the late nineties. A kitchen floor upstairs in a place we rented on the corner of 53rd and San Pablo in Oakland. Days spent not giving up control, white-knuckling it, coming up with as many ideas, as many ways as I could to go visit my brother

      3 min read

    • Article

      Reefer Rant

      Apr 7, 2020

      Reefer Rant
      4 min read

    • Article

      Road Rage

      Dec 25, 2020

      Road Rage
      4 min read

    • Article

      Life At 10 Mph

      Sep 29, 2020

      Life At 10 Mph
      4 min read

    • Article

      The Sound Of Silence

      Sep 19, 2023

      The Sound Of Silence
      11 min read

    • Article

      Sheltering In Motion

      Aug 4, 2020

      Sheltering In Motion
      7 min read

    • Article

      Eldorado, Illinois

      Aug 1, 2019

      Eldorado, Illinois
      10 min read

    • Article

      Letters

      May 1, 2019

      Letters
      4 min read

    • Article

      Past The Edges Of Town

      Jan 27, 2022

      Past The Edges Of Town
      10 min read

    • Article

      Averted Vision

      Sep 1, 2022

      Averted Vision
      25 min read

    • Article

      Reports From Near And Far

      Nov 25, 2021

      susanne paola antonetta MY HOMETOWN of Bellingham, Washington, is a last corner of the continental United States, a final chew of land before the long drink of the Pacific. We’re bound to the west by water, to the east by mountain, and twenty miles t

      17 min read

    • Article

      A Letter from New York

      Dec 10, 2019

      A Letter from New York
      10 min read

    • Article

      Two Years Of Solitude

      Dec 31, 2021

      Two Years Of Solitude
      12 min read

    • Article

      An Open Palm

      Apr 14, 2022

      An Open Palm
      10 min read

    • Article

      Bullets, Beans, And Binkies

      Dec 22, 2020

      Bullets, Beans, And Binkies
      8 min read

    Related categories

    Reviews for "N" is for Noose

    3.5/5

    631 ratings24 reviews

    What did you think?

    Tap to rate

    Review must be at least 10 words

    • 3/5
      OMG this book has even less redeemable characters than M is for Malice. Even though I wasn’t thrilled with any of the characters it did have two things going for it that I enjoyed better than M is for Malice. One is a really intriguing case and a cold case – I was immediately interested in the stories and how Kinsey was going to connect them. Two is when Kinsey is not in Santa Teresa. I love watching her deal with strangers and strange locations because it allows the author to really showcase Kinsey’s skills as an investigator. Not only is Kinsey in a strange location but in a very hostile work environment where no one likes her or her client. Overall a better book to me than the last one.
    • 5/5
      As always, a great read. Never a dull moment. Her books could be read in one seating if one had the time. I never tire of Kinsey Millhone, the main character in Sue Grafton's books. She is an independent young woman, self-employed, doing what she loves to do and is good at it. As a private investigator, she is a minority in her field. If you enjoy suspense, this is book and series for you
    • 3/5
      I've read every one of Grafton's books (in sequence, even) and I have to agree with the consensus that this isn't one of her best. Why? The small town setting, where everyone's either a cop or a waitress seemed phoney. And I didn't see the point in her running home to Santa Teresa -- it seemed like a device to drag in her local cast of characters in for a couple of chapters, and they were pretty wooden old props in this volume, weren't they? I hope that this book is an aberration and that the next one will get back on the right track, but Grafton might be excused if it's becoming harder to breathe life into her characters -- it's happened to many a mystery writer.
    • 1/5
      Meh, another disappointing book in the series. I keep expecting Millhone to actually live up to the "badass" she's forever claiming to be. Sometimes she passes muster but most of the time the character comes off as a flub. After all the scrapes she's been in she's decided not to carry a weapon?.. and the like. Not to mention the bizarrely lazy ending to this plot. I get that the abusive prick of the story was pretty much revealed in his perverse predilections when Millhone talked to the two daughters leading to her realization in the moment of who had actually been victimized/who the killer was but the psychology of the victim/killer was hardly acknowledged. Millhone often just seems like such a flat character to me. There's a bit of a shining moment here and there but for the most part I find her lacking any great spark.
    • 4/5
      I had read this before but it was a long time ago so thought I'd give it another go. Pleased I did, this was the usual excellent read from Sue Grafton.Kinsey bites off more than she can chew when she agrees, at the bequest of his wife, to look into the reasons a recently deceased law enforcement officer may have had something serious on his mind in the period before his death. On the surface, all seems to be in order with no obvious reason for the dead officer to have been troubled. However, not all is as it seems and Kinsey finds herself talking to a community who are tight-lipped where their own are concerned. Kinsey is attacked, ostricised and threatened before the book reaches it's final, surprising, conclusion.
    • 1/5
      Boring! Slow! Makes we wonder if I want to spend time on "O". Nothing happens until the last 10 pages of the book. Very disappointed.
    • 4/5
      This is my first time to listen or read anything by Sue Grafton. The reader of the audio tapes was Judy Kaye, she did a wonderful job changing her voice expertly for the different ages and sexes in this story. I enjoyed the first part of the story not so much for the mystery but for the character of Kinsey Milhoun. Twice divorced, she seemed to have a sort of burnt out feeling about life and men, and work. Her job was to find out why Sheriff Tom Newquist was acting so upset and unlike himself just before he had a heart attack in his car that killed him. The author built up the character of Tom very well and and he seems a great guy who even though he was messy at home was very organized when working his cases. The pace of the story was slow at the beginning but I didn't mind it because it was spent on creating the characters who were very interesting. Later on, a piece of information to the puzzle came and Kinsey experiences a threat to her life. Then the pace broke into a rapid speed and it was difficult to stop listening.I would enjoy reading more by this author. I like the simple and direct talk through out the story and the interesting ending.
    • 4/5
      Much better than the last in the series. Or at least I didn't get bored completely reading it, and didn't guess the culprit until Grafton wanted me to guess. No tricks, ala Christie, either. Whether it was quite believable...well I don't read murder mysteries for nonfiction!! Sorry, I don't believe in "spoiler alerts" so I won't discuss the plot. Except that in "M" Millhone said she no longer carried a gun, and in "N".... Well, I guess "carrying" and "owning" are two different things....
    • 4/5
      This was probably my favorite in the Kinsey Millhone series so far. The storyline and action kept it moving. The beginning was slow, but it picked up quickly. The characters were interesting and the situations were different. I was intrigued by the mystery and was surprised by the ending. The motive was predictable, but it was still a good read.
    • 2/5
      I listened to the audio/CD (unabridged) version of the book in the car while commuting. The reader was fine but the story was pretty lame. I hadn't read a Grafton in some years - left off around K or L - but I don't remember the stories being this boring. The plot was lame, characters completely unmemorable. But I've been trying to get into audio books for a while, I'll definitely try another Grafton eventually, but I'd like to try a variety of readers and genres.
    • 1/5
      Worse book I ever read. I had to read it for a book club, but have no history with the characters. Maybe I would have enjoyed it more if I had. I had the bad guy figured out as soon as he was introduced. Not fun.
    • 3/5
      On her way home from helping her sometimes lover Dietz recover form his knee surgery, Kinsey stops in Nota Lake to take on an assignment that Dietz is not well enough to do. On meeting the client, Selma Newquist, the assignment seems vague in that Selma wishes Kinsey to find out what was stressing her husband when he died of a heart attack. Tom Newquist was highly thought of and soon Kinsey detects most members of the local sheriffs office are not too happy with her investigating what Tom as up to during the weeks before his death. Then she learns that Tom's stress seem to start when the bodies of two men are discovered in isolated areas and both seem to have committed suicide using the same bizarre method of throwing a rock attached to the hanging rope off a cliff. Kinsy learns that the two men knew one another and had connections to Nota Lake.This is a fast paced mystery with many twists and turns that puts Kinsey in major danger.
    • 4/5
      Kinsey is back once again, taking a case on the recommendation of a friend, and not a good thing. This time around, her sometimes lover Deitz, refers her to and old client of his, since he is recovering from knee surgery. Kinsey finds herself drawn into a small remote town, that closes ranks when Kinsey comes to investigate the death of a beloved police officer. Not my favorite of Ms. Grafton's books so far, but definetly some very interesting twists in this one.
    • 4/5
      When N is for Noose begins, Kinsey is just leaving Dietz at his home, having helped him recover from his knee surgery. She is driving up to a small town in the mountains to talk to a potential client referred to her by Dietz. The client’s husband died recently and while it appears to be a natural death of a heart attack, she wants to know what was bothering him the last six weeks of his life. The description of behavior in a small town when an outsider starts asking questions may be a bit more extreme than what I think it realistic but not too far off the mark. The atmosphere gets very creepy very quickly as Kinsey digs deeper into the case. People want her to stop and they make that clear.The ending is satisfying and I actually didn’t see it coming as quickly as I did with some of the earlier Kinsey mysteries. This one is much more of a page-turner than the last few have been!
    • 3/5
      Excellent sense of place, interesting characterizations, poorly done mystery.
    • 3/5
      Kinsey is hired by a vain and difficult widow. Her cop husband died of a heart attack and she is convinced that he was investigating something big before his death. He had a reputation of refusing to let things go; pursuing cases long after they'd been solved if he smelled something fishy. After investigating in the tiny town for awhile Kinsey realizes that people are are avoiding or shunning her. She can't even get gas for her car because someone has been spreading rumors about her past. The plot moves slowly and isn't too thrilling. The end is good and wraps things up nicely, but the book feels thin, much of it acting as filler. BOTTOM LINE: Not one of Grafton's best mysteries. Each one seems to be very hit or miss, but my expectations are always low.
    • 3/5
      This time Kinsey seemed even more set on getting herself killed. Personnally if I had as many different people try to kill me as she has, I would not be so trusting of all these people who've proven their willingness to kill. Up to this book I think this was the worst of them. Kinsey has blinders on to so many people she's more like a high school girl than a seasoned PI.I rarely find myself wondering who-dun-it with these they are fairly easy and straight forward but I still enjoy reading most of them anyway.
    • 2/5
      It was an exciting read and I would have rated it higher except for some plot devices that seem hard to believe: Here is a woman who has been a detective for a while now, who has been shot and has shot suspects. Yet she always seems to forget her gun so she can get paced in more danger and make the story more "exciting." There are other examples of stupid actions that seem to belie her experience and intelligence. It's like the character of the first novel has lost ground.
    • 3/5
      Closure. Kinsey is hired to investigate the last few weeks of a dead man's life, in order that the widopw can know what was troubling him so. Set in a closeknit mountain comunity town, Kinsey has difficulties perseuding anyone to say anything bad about the desceased. Her troubles grow when strangers start threatening her, but Kinsey never backs down, though the widow ends up wishing she'd never hired her.Just about subplot free for a change!
    • 4/5
      BOTTOM-LINE:Solid entry, different location than most of the stories.PLOT OR PREMISE:Kinsey Milhone takes a case in a small town. Dead is a cop, apparently of a heart attack. But his wife, unloved by the community and perhaps deservedly so, knows that something had been bothering her husband before he died, and now she wants to know what, for her own piece of mind. So she hires Kinsey to find out what was going on, but not everyone shares the wife's desire to know. Kinsey finds out relatively quickly that the cop had been investigating a year-old murder case, that originally looked like a suicide by hanging (hence the title). However, the method of suicide exactly matched another case, so he knew it wasn't suicide -- hence an investigation that had been going nowhere. Worse still, the only suspects were in the small town, and most of them were friends. Kinsey searches, finds the original path of inquiry and starts digging. In the process she gets beat up, warned off, almost fired, belittled by her client, and pretty much treated badly by everyone in the town when they find out she isn't the innocent little camper people mistook her for at the beginning..WHAT I LIKED:The story is pretty linear, although Grafton takes her own sweet time bringing Kinsey to see it. There's a short intro to some problems with Rosey back home, obviously something to come up again in a later book, but most of it is just Kinsey alone in the small town getting nowhere. Once she cottons on to the real path, the investigation is pretty straight-forward, but she doesn't see the result until it is almost too late. There's some really weird stuff at the end to do with some drugged-out hallucinations, and it makes for an interesting incapacitation plotline..WHAT I DIDN'T LIKE:Grafton takes a little too long to get to the investigation, almost like the story started out as a short story, with all the stuff at the start added to expand the length. Although the tightness of the ending makes the story move along, it all wrapped up too quickly..DISCLOSURE:I received no compensation, not even a free copy, in exchange for this review. I am not personal friends with the author, nor do I follow her on social media.
    • 4/5
      Another good installment in the Kinsey Millhone/Alphabet series and a perfect change of pace for me after having spent the past 4 weeks listening to War and Peace. This one pretty much picks up just two months after where [M is for Malice] left off. While my prime enjoyment for these stories comes from being able to 'travel back in time' to the 1980/90's with a spunky female private investigator to visit, this one had a good level of suspense built in. While this was one of those rare times where I was able to figure out the culprit before the reveal, Grafton was still able to keep my interest as Kinsey worked her way through the details to the conclusion. Overall, a good solid mystery and a great reading palette cleanser for me.
    • 3/5
      Not a bad installment in the series. I somewhat had it figured out at the end, though.
    • 4/5
      Kinsey is hired by a widow to find out what was stressing out her late husband in the months before he died of a heart attack. Having just finished nursing her sometime lover and bodyguard, Dietz, through a knee operation, Kinsey is grappling with her own sense of independence, so when things turn ugly and she becomes a target of someone who clearly does not want this investigation to continue, she must face some tough decisions....quit and go home? Or push on in spite of her growing fears? Life is never dull or predictable in Kinsey's world.
    • 5/5
      DISCLAIMER... Kinsey Millhone is my favorite character ever and I couldn't find fault with a Sue Grafton book even if the alternative was a root canal. Having said that, it should come as no surprise that I loved 'N'. I read 'M' in a pre-published form so it's been nearly two years since I've had a chance to visit with Kinsey - way too long. She picks up a client who's husband is quite dead by natural causes (heart attack). But, the wife wants to know what was bothering him before he died. See, what I mean? The premise is weak and there is even one huge leap of faith which I, ordinarily, would not forgive. But, I can't help it. I'll love every one of these right through 'Z'.

    Book preview

    "N" is for Noose - Sue Grafton

    1

    Sometimes I think about how odd it would be to catch a glimpse of the future, a quick view of events lying in store for us at some undisclosed date. Suppose we could peer through a tiny peephole in Time and chance upon a flash of what was coming up in the years ahead? Some moments we saw would make no sense at all and some, I suspect, would frighten us beyond endurance. If we knew what was looming, we’d avoid certain choices, select option B instead of A at the fork in the road: the job, the marriage, the move to a new state, childbirth, the first drink, the elective medical procedure, that long-anticipated ski trip that seemed like such fun until the dark rumble of the avalanche. If we understood the consequences of any given action, we could exercise discretion, thus restructuring our fate. Time, of course, only runs in one direction, and it seems to do so in an orderly progression. Here in the blank and stony present, we’re shielded from the knowledge of the dangers that await us, protected from future horrors through blind innocence.

    Take the case in point. I was winding my way through the mountains in a cut-rate rental car, heading south on 395 toward the town of Nota Lake, California, where I was going to interview a potential client. The roadway was dry and the view was unobstructed, weather conditions clear. The client’s business was unremarkable, at least as far as I could see. I had no idea there was any jeopardy waiting or I’d have done something else.

    I’d left Dietz in Carson City, where I’d spent the last two weeks playing nurse/companion while he recovered from surgery. He’d been scheduled for a knee replacement and I’d volunteered to drive him back to Nevada in his snazzy little red Porsche. I make no claims to nurturing, but I’m a practical person and the nine-hour journey seemed the obvious solution to the problem of how to get his car back to his home state. I’m a no-nonsense driver and he knew he could count on me to get us to Carson City without any unnecessary side trips and no irrelevant conversation. He’d been staying in my apartment for the two previous months and since our separation was approaching, we tended to avoid discussing anything personal.

    For the record, my last name is Millhone, first name Kinsey. I’m female, twice divorced, seven weeks shy of thirty-six, and reasonably fit. I’m a licensed private detective, currently residing in Santa Teresa, California, to which I’m attached like a tetherball on a very short cord. Occasionally, business will swing me out to other parts of the country, but I’m basically a small-town shamus and likely to remain so for life.

    Dietz’s surgery, which was scheduled for the first Monday in March, proceeded uneventfully, so we can skip that part. Afterward, I returned to his condominium and toured the premises with interest. I’d been startled by the place when I first laid eyes on it, as it was more lavish and much better appointed than my poor digs back in Santa Teresa. Dietz was a nomad and I’d never pictured his having much in the way of material possessions. While I was closeted in a converted single-car garage (recently remodeled to accommodate a sleeping loft and a second bathroom upstairs), Dietz maintained a three-bedroom penthouse that probably encompassed three thousand square feet of living space, including a roof patio and garden with an honest-to-god greenhouse. Granted, the seven-story building was located in a commercial district, but the views were astounding and the privacy profound.

    I’d been too polite to pry while he was standing right there beside me, but once he was safely ensconced in the orthopedic ward at Carson/Tahoe Hospital, I felt comfortable scrutinizing everything in my immediate range, which necessitated dragging a chair around and standing on it in some cases. I checked closets and files and boxes and papers and drawers, pockets and suitcases, feeling equal parts relief and disappointment that he had nothing in particular to hide. I mean, what’s the point of snooping if you can’t uncover something good? I did have the chance to study a photograph of his ex-wife, Naomi, who was certainly a lot prettier than he’d ever indicated. Aside from that, his finances appeared to be in order, his medicine cabinet contained no sinister pharmaceutical revelations, and his private correspondence consisted almost entirely of assorted misspelled letters from his two college-age sons. Lest you think I’m intrusive, I can assure you Dietz had searched my apartment just as thoroughly during the time he was in residence. I know this because I’d left a few booby traps, one of which he’d missed when he was picking open my locked desk drawers. His license might have lapsed, but (most of) his operating skills were still current. Neither of us had ever mentioned his invasion of my privacy, but I vowed I’d do likewise when the opportunity arose. Between working detectives, this is known as professional courtesy. You toss my place and I’ll toss yours.

    He was out of the hospital by Friday morning of that week. The ensuing recovery involved a lot of sitting around with his knee wrapped in bandages as thick as a bolster. We watched trash television, played gin rummy, and worked a jigsaw puzzle with a picture depicting a roiling nest of earthworms so lifelike I nearly went off my feed. The first three days I did all the cooking, which is to say I made sandwiches, alternating between my famous peanut-butter-and-pickle extravaganza and my much beloved sliced hot-hard-boiled-egg confection, with tons of Hellmann’s mayonnaise and salt. After that, Dietz seemed eager to get back into the kitchen and our menus expanded to include pizza, take-out Chinese, and Campbell’s soup—tomato or asparagus, depending on our mood.

    By the end of two weeks Dietz could pretty well fend for himself. His stitches were out and he was hobbling around with a cane between bouts of physical therapy. He had a long way to go, but he could drive to his sessions and otherwise seemed able to tend to his own needs. By then, I thought it entirely possible I’d go mad from trailing after him. It was time to hit the road before our togetherness began to chafe. I enjoyed being with him, but I knew my limitations. I kept my farewells perfunctory; lots of airy okay-fine-thanks-a-lot-I’ll-see-you-laters. It was my way of minimizing the painful lump in my throat, staving off the embarrassing boo-hoos I thought were best left unexpressed. Don’t ask me to reconcile the misery I felt with the nearly giddy sense of relief. Nobody ever said emotions made any sense.

    So there I was, barreling down the highway in search of employment and not at all fussy about what kind of work I’d take. I wanted distraction. I wanted money, escape, anything to keep my mind off the subject of Robert Dietz. I’m not good at good-byes. I’ve suffered way too many in my day and I don’t like the sensation. On the other hand, I’m not that good at relationships. Get close to someone and next thing you know, you’ve given them the power to wound, betray, irritate, abandon, or bore you senseless. My general policy is to keep my distance, thus avoiding a lot of unruly emotion. In psychiatric circles, there are names for people like me.

    I flipped on the car radio, picking up a scratchy station from Los Angeles, three hundred miles to the south. Gradually, I began to tune in to the surrounding landscape. Highway 395 cuts south out of Carson City, through Minden and Gardnerville. Just north of Topaz, I had crossed the state line into eastern California. The backbone of the state is the towering Sierra Nevada Range, the uptilted edge of a huge fault block, gouged out later by a series of glaciers. To my left was Mono Lake, shrinking at the rate of two feet a year, increasingly saline, supporting little in the way of marine life beyond brine shrimp and the attendant feasting of the birds. Somewhere to my right, through a dark green forest of Jeffrey pines, was Yosemite National Park, with its towering peaks and rugged canyons, lakes, and thundering waterfalls. Meadows, powdered now in light snow, were once the bottom of a Pleistocene lake. Later in the spring, these same meadows would be dense with wildflowers. In the higher ranges, the winter snowpack hadn’t yet melted, but the passes were open. It was the kind of scenery described as breathtaking by those who are easily winded. I’m not a big fan of the outdoors, but even I was sufficiently impressed to murmur wow speeding past a scenic vista point at seventy miles an hour.

    The prospective client I was traveling to meet was a woman named Selma Newquist, whose husband, I was told, had died sometime within the last few weeks. Dietz had done work for this woman in the past, helping her extricate herself from an unsavory first marriage. I didn’t get all the details, but he alluded to the fact that the financial goods he’d gotten on the husband had given Selma enough leverage to free herself from the relationship. There’d been a subsequent marriage and it was this second husband whose death had apparently generated questions his wife wanted answered. She’d called to hire Dietz, but since he was temporarily out of commission, he suggested me. Under ordinary circumstances, I doubted Mrs. Newquist would have considered a P.I. from the far side of the state, but my trip home was imminent and I was heading in her direction. As it turned out, my connection to Santa Teresa was more pertinent than it first appeared. Dietz had vouched for my integrity and, by the same token, he’d assured me that she’d be conscientious about payment for services rendered. It made sense to stop long enough to hear what the woman had to say. If she didn’t want to hire me, all I’d be out was a thirty-minute break in the journey.

    I reached Nota Lake (population 2,356, elevation 4,312) in slightly more than three hours. The town didn’t look like much, though the setting was spectacular. Mountains towered on three sides, snow still painting the peaks in thick white against a sky heaped with clouds. On the shady side of the road, I could see leftover patches of snow, ice boulders wedged up against the leafless trees. The air smelled of pine, with an underlying scent that was faintly sweet. The chill vapor I breathed was like sticking my face down in a half-empty gallon of vanilla ice cream, drinking in the sugary perfume. The lake itself was no more than two miles long and a mile across. The surface was glassy, reflecting granite spires and the smattering of white firs and incense cedars that grew on the slopes. I stopped at a service station and picked up a one-page map of the town, which was shaped like a smudge on the eastern edge of Nota Lake.

    The prime businesses seemed to be clustered along the main street in a five-block radius. I did a cursory driving tour, counting ten gas stations and twenty-two motels. Nota Lake offered low-end accommodations for the ski crowd at Mammoth Lakes. The town also boasted an equal number of fast-food restaurants, including Burger King, Carl’s Jr., Jack in the Box, Kentucky Fried Chicken, Pizza Hut, a Waffle House, an International House of Pancakes, a House of Donuts, a Sizzler, a Subway, a Taco Bell, and my personal favorite, McDonald’s. Additional restaurants of the sit-down variety were divided equally between Mexican, Bar-B-Que, and Family dining, which meant lots of screaming toddlers and no hard liquor on the premises.

    The address I’d been given was on the outskirts of town, two blocks off the main highway in a cluster of houses that looked like they’d been built by the same developer. The streets in the area were named for various Indian tribes; Shawnee, Iroquois, Cherokee, Modoc, Crow, Chippewa. Selma Newquist lived on a cul-de-sac called Pawnee Way, the house a replica of its neighbors: frame siding, a shake roof, with a screened-in porch on one end and a two-car garage on the other. I parked in the driveway beside a dark Ford sedan. I locked the car from habit, climbed the two porch steps, and rang the bell—ding dong—like the local Avon representative. I waited several minutes and then tried again.

    The woman who came to the door was in her late forties, with a small compact body, brown eyes, and short dark tousled hair. She was wearing a red-blue-and-yellow plaid blouse over a yellow pleated skirt.

    Hi, I’m Kinsey Millhone. Are you Selma?

    No, I’m not. I’m her sister-in-law, Phyllis. My husband, Macon, was Tom’s younger brother. We live two doors down. Can I help you?

    I’m supposed to meet with Selma. I should have called first. Is she here?

    Oh, sorry. I remember now. She’s lying down at the moment, but she told me she thought you’d be stopping by. You’re that friend of the detective she called in Carson City.

    Exactly, I said. How’s she doing?

    Selma has her bad days and I’m afraid this is one. Tom passed away six weeks ago today and she called me in tears. I came over as quick as I could. She was shaking and upset. Poor thing looks like she hasn’t slept in days. I gave her a Valium.

    I can come back later if you think that’s best.

    No, no. I’m sure she’s awake and I know she wants to see you. Why don’t you come on in?

    Thanks.

    I followed Phyllis across the entrance and down a carpeted hallway to the master bedroom. In passing, I allowed myself a quick glance into doorways on either side of the hall, garnering an impression of wildly overdecorated rooms. In the living room, the drapes and upholstery fabrics were coordinated to match a pink-and-green wallpaper that depicted floral bouquets, connected by loops of pink ribbon. On the coffee table, there was a lavish arrangement of pink silk flowers. The cut-pile wall-to-wall carpeting was pale green and had the strong chemical scent that suggested it had been only recently laid. In the dining room, the furniture was formal, lots of dark glossy wood with what looked like one too many pieces for the available space. There were storm windows in place everywhere and a white film of condensation had gathered between the panes. The smell of cigarette smoke and coffee formed a musky domestic incense.

    Phyllis knocked on the door. Selma, hon? It’s Phyllis.

    I heard a muffled response and Phyllis opened the door a crack, peering around the frame. You’ve got company. Are you decent? It’s this lady detective from Carson City.

    I started to correct her and then thought better of it. I wasn’t from Carson City and I certainly wasn’t a lady, but then what difference did it make? Through the opening I caught a brief impression of the woman in the bed; a pile of platinum blond hair framed by the uprights on a four-poster.

    Apparently, I’d been invited in, because Phyllis stepped back, murmuring to me as I passed. I have to get on home, but you’re welcome to call me if you need anything.

    I nodded my thanks as I moved into the bedroom and closed the door behind me. The curtains were closed and the light was subdued. Throw pillows, like boulders, had tumbled onto the carpet. There was a surplus of ruffles, bold multicolored prints covering walls, windows, and puffy custom bedding. The motif seemed to be roses exploding on impact.

    I said, Sorry to disturb you, but Phyllis said it would be okay. I’m Kinsey Millhone.

    Selma Newquist, in a faded flannel nightie, pulled herself into a sitting position and straightened the covers, reminding me of an invalid ready to accept a bedtray. I estimated her age on the high side of fifty, judging by the backs of her hands, which were freckled with liver spots and ropy with veins. Her skin tones suggested dark coloring, but her hair was a confection of white-blond curls, like a cloud of cotton candy. At the moment, the entire cone was listing sideways and looked sticky with hair spray. She’d drawn in her eyebrows with a red-brown pencil, but any eyeliner or eye shadow had long since vanished. Through the streaks in her pancake makeup, I could see the blotchy complexion that suggested too much sun exposure. She reached for her cigarettes, groping on the bed table until she had both the cigarette pack and lighter. Her hand trembled slightly as she lit her cigarette. Why don’t you come over here, she said. She gestured toward a chair. Push that off of there and sit down where I can see you better.

    I moved her quilted robe from the chair and placed it on the bed, pulling the chair in close before I took a seat.

    She stared at me, puffy-eyed, a thin stream of smoke escaping as she spoke. I’m sorry you had to see me this way. Ordinarily I’m up and about at this hour, but this has been a hard day.

    I understand, I said. Smoke began to settle over me like the fine spray from someone’s sneeze.

    Did Phyllis offer you coffee?

    Please don’t trouble. She’s on her way back to her place and I’m fine anyway. I don’t want to take any more time than I have to.

    She stared at me vaguely. Doesn’t matter, she said. I don’t know if you’ve ever lost anyone close, but there are days when you feel like you’re coming down with the flu. Your whole body aches and your head feels so stuffy you can’t think properly. I’m glad to have company. You learn to appreciate any distraction. You can’t avoid your feelings, but it helps to have momentary relief. She tended, in speaking, to keep a hand up against her mouth, apparently self-conscious about the discoloration on her two front teeth, which I could now see were markedly gray. Perhaps she’d fallen as a child or taken medication as an infant that tinted the surface with dark. How do you know Robert Dietz? she asked.

    I hired him myself a couple of years ago to handle my personal security. Someone threatened my life and Dietz ended up working for me as a bodyguard.

    How’s his knee doing? I was sorry to hear he was laid up.

    He’ll be fine. He’s tough. He’s already up and around.

    Did he tell you about Tom?

    Only that you were recently widowed. That’s as much as I know.

    I’ll fill you in then, though I’m really not sure where to start. You may think I’m crazy, but I assure you I’m not. She took a puff of her cigarette and sighed a mouthful of smoke. I expected tears in the telling, but the story emerged in a Valium-induced calm. Tom had a heart attack. He was out on the road … about seven miles out of town. This was ten o’clock at night. He must have had sufficient warning to pull over to the side. A CHP officer—a friend of ours, James Tennyson—recognized Tom’s truck with the hazard lights on and stopped to see if he needed help. Tom was slumped at the wheel. I’d been to a meeting at church and came home to find two patrol cars sitting in my drive. You knew Tom was a detective with the county sheriff’s?

    I wasn’t aware of that.

    I used to worry he’d be killed in the line of duty. I never imagined he’d go like he did. She paused, drawing on her cigarette, using smoke as a form of punctuation.

    It must have been difficult.

    It was awful, she said. Up went the hand again, resting against her mouth as the tears began to well in her eyes. I still can’t think about it. I mean, as far as I know, he never had any symptoms. Or let’s put it this way: If he did, he never told me. He did have high blood pressure and the doctor’d been on him to quit smoking and start exercising. You know how men are. He waved it all aside and went right on doing as he pleased. She set the cigarette aside so she could blow her nose. Why do people always peek in their hankies to see what the honking noseblow has just netted them?

    How old was he?

    Close to retirement. Sixty-three, she said. But he never took good care of himself. I guess the only time he was ever in shape was in the army and right after, when he went through the academy and was hired on as a deputy. After that, it was all caffeine and junk food during work hours, bourbon when he got home. He wasn’t an alcoholic—don’t get me wrong—but he did like to have a cocktail at the end of the day. Lately, he wasn’t sleeping well. He’d prowl around the house. I’d hear him up at two, three, five in the morning, doing god knows what. His weight had begun to drop in the last few months. The man hardly ate, just smoked and drank coffee and stared out the window at the snow. There were times when I thought he was going to snap, but that might have been my imagination. He really never said a word.

    Sounds like he was under some kind of strain.

    Exactly. That was my thought. Tom was clearly stressed, but I don’t know why and it’s driving me nuts. She picked up her cigarette and took a deep drag and then tapped the ash off in a ceramic ashtray shaped like a hand. Anyway, that’s why I called Dietz. I feel I’m entitled to know.

    I don’t want to sound rude, but does it really make any difference? Whatever it was, it’s too late to change, isn’t it?

    She glanced away from me briefly. I’ve thought of that myself. Sometimes I think I never really knew him at all. We got along well enough and he always provided, but he wasn’t the kind of man who felt he should account for himself. His last couple of weeks, he’d be gone sometimes for hours and come back without a word. I didn’t ask where he went. I could have, I guess, but there was something about him … he would bristle if I pressed him, so I learned to back off. I don’t think I should have to wonder for the rest of my life. I don’t even know where he was going that night. He told me he was staying home, but something must have come up.

    He didn’t leave you a note?

    Nothing. She placed her cigarette on the ashtray and reached for a compact concealed under her pillow. She opened the lid and checked her face in the mirror. She touched at her front teeth as though to remove a fleck. I look dreadful, she said.

    Don’t worry about it. You look fine.

    Her smile was tentative. I guess there’s no point in being vain. With Tom gone, nobody cares, including me if you want to know the truth.

    Can I ask you a question?

    Please.

    I don’t mean to pry, but were you happily married?

    A little burble of embarrassed laughter escaped as she closed the compact and tucked it back in its hiding place. I certainly was. I don’t know about him. He wasn’t one to complain. He more or less took life as it came. I was married before … to someone physically abusive. I have a boy from that marriage. His name is Brant.

    Ah. And how old is he?

    Twenty-five. Brant was ten when I met Tom, so essentially Tom raised him.

    And where is he?

    Here in Nota Lake. He works for the fire department as a paramedic. He’s been staying with me since the funeral though he has a place of his own in town, she said. I told him I was thinking about hiring someone. It’s pointless in his opinion, but I’m sure he’ll do whatever he can to help. Her nose reddened briefly, but she seemed to gain control of herself.

    You and Tom were married for what, fourteen years?

    Coming up on twelve. After my divorce, I didn’t want to rush into anything. We were fine for most of it, but recently things began to change for the worse. I mean, he did what he was supposed to, but his heart wasn’t in it. Lately, I felt he was secretive. I don’t know, so … tight-lipped or something. Why was he out on the highway that night? I mean, what was he doing? What was so precious that he couldn’t tell me?

    Could it have been a case he was working on?

    It could have been, I suppose. She thought about the possibility while she stubbed out her cigarette. I mean, it might have been job-related. Tom seldom said a word about work. Other men—some of the deputies—would swap stories in social situations, but not him. He took his job very seriously, almost to a fault.

    Someone in the department must have taken over his workload. Have you talked to them?

    You say ‘department’ like it was some kind of big-city place. Nota Lake’s the county seat, but that still isn’t saying much. There were only two investigators, Tom and his partner, Rafer. I did talk to him—not that I got anything to speak of. He was nice. Rafer’s always nice enough on the surface, she said, but for all of the chitchat, he managed to say very little.

    I studied her for a moment, running the conversation through my bullshit meter to see what would register. Nothing struck me as off but I was having trouble understanding what she wanted. Do you think there’s something suspicious about Tom’s death?

    She seemed startled by the question. Not at all, she said, but he was brooding about something and I want to know what it was. I know it sounds vague, but it upsets me to think he was withholding something when it clearly bothered him so much. I was a good wife to him and I won’t be kept in the dark now he’s gone.

    What about his personal effects? Have you been through his things?

    "The coroner returned the items he had on him when he died, but they were just what you’d expect. His watch, his wallet, the change in his pocket, and his wedding

    Enjoying the preview?
    Page 1 of 1