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    U is for Undertow: A Kinsey Millhone Novel
    U is for Undertow: A Kinsey Millhone Novel
    U is for Undertow: A Kinsey Millhone Novel
    Ebook476 pages7 hours

    U is for Undertow: A Kinsey Millhone Novel

    By Sue Grafton

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    Sue Grafton takes the mystery genre to new heights with this twisting, complex #1 New York Times bestseller that draws private investigator Kinsey Millhone into a case shrouded in the sins of the past.

    Looking solemn, Michael Sutton arrives in Kinsey Millhone's office with a story to tell. When he was six, he says, he wandered into the woods and saw two men digging a hole. They claimed they were pirates, looking for buried treasure. Now, all these years later, the long-forgotten events have come back to him—and he has pieced them together with news reports from the time, becoming convinced that he witnesses the burial of a kidnapped child.

    Kinsey has nearly nothing to go on. Sutton doesn't even know where he was that day—and, she soon discovers, he has a history of what might generously be called an active imagination. Despite her doubts, Kinsey sets out to track down the so-called burial site. And what's found there pulls her into a hidden current of deceit stretching back more than twenty years...
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherPenguin Publishing Group
    Release dateDec 1, 2009
    ISBN9781101151617
    Author

    Sue Grafton

    #1 New York Times bestselling author Sue Grafton (1940-2017) entered the mystery field in 1982 with the publication of 'A' Is for Alibi, which introduced female hard-boiled private investigator, Kinsey Millhone, operating out of the fictional town of Santa Teresa, (aka Santa Barbara) California, and launched the bestselling Kinsey Millhone Alphabet Mysteries. In addition to her books, she published several Kinsey Millhone short stories, and with her husband, Steven Humphrey, wrote numerous movies for television, including “A Killer in the Family” (starring Robert Mitchum), “Love on the Run” (starring Alec Baldwin and Stephanie Zimbalist) and two Agatha Christie adaptations, “Sparkling Cyanide” and “Caribbean Mystery,” which starred Helen Hayes. Grafton is published in 28 countries and in 26 languages.

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    Reviews for U is for Undertow

    4/5

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    • 4/5
      I had a harder time getting into this one, but everything clicked around page 100. By the end I felt like there were a few unanswered questions, but still a good one.
    • 4/5
      It occurred to me today that I've been reading these books for 28 years. That's kind of amazing to me. There are very few authors that I read in my early teens and am still reading now in my early forties.

      I just really like Kinsey Millhone. Neither she nor Sue Grafton have let me down in all those years. Looking forward to the next installment and starting to feel a bit anxious about there only being four more books left.

      Hmmm, what will I read for the next 30 years??? LOL
    • 4/5
      Digital audiobook performed by Judy Kaye.


      Book # 21 in the mystery series starring private investigator and former cop, Kinsey Millhone. This time she gets involved in a cold case when a man comes to her with a memory from when he was only five or six years old of two “pirates burying treasure.” He thinks it may be related to a case of an abducted child who was never solved. Meanwhile, Kinsey is, herself, digging into her own murky past and uncovering some things she was never privy to.

      Grafton sure could write a compelling mystery! The plot moves forward at a steady pace, not so fast to as exhaust the reader, but fast enough to keep the pages turning. She includes a couple of wonderful side characters, chiefly Henry (Kinsey’s elderly landlord), and Rosie (owner and cook of a local bar/eatery). Grafton purposely set the series in a time before cell phones and the internet, so Kinsey needs to use the old-fashioned (by today’s standards) resources of reverse directories and pay phones. Not to mention a lot of leg work.

      Because this is a cold case, the plot moves back and forth between Kinsey’s current investigation and events that occurred some twenty-five years previously, and switches between different characters’ points of view. I thought the final confrontation wrapped up a tad too quickly, but it was a satisfying ending nonetheless.

      I really like this series, but I haven’t been reading them in order. I think I need to go back to earlier books and correct that. While the stories can stand on their own, and Grafton wrote them with little time elapsing from A to Y, there are some revelations about Kinsey and her background that might be best revealed in order.

      Judy Kaye does a fine job of narrating the audiobook. I really like the way she interprets Kinsey, Henry and Rosie.
    • 4/5
      Although it makes me sad that I'm getting to the end of this series, I have to say it's been an enjoyable ride. I first read "A is for Alibi" when it initially came out, and I think along the way I've missed only a couple. I think that over time Grafton has moved into more complex plots and storytelling styles, but she has never lost Kinsey's voice. This plot is twisty and satisfying, although the final encounter seems to happen a bit quickly when it comes. Still a must-read for Grafton fans.
    • 4/5
      I had stopped reading the Kinsey Millhone series back around "J" or "K" and it was high time I returned! Kinsey, like her author and like many of her readers, has matured--although more slowly than the rest of us. Far more of Kinsey's background has been slowly unraveled over the intervening books and it was a pleasure to learn more about her childhood, youth, and family. Unlike some mysteries, the identities of the persons involved are revealed to us bit by bit but we still don't see how all the pieces fit together until the end, creating a delightful atmosphere of suspense. In addition, I was reminded that Sue Grafton, like Elizabeth George and others, is not just writing a whodunnit or a howdunnit, but is exploring themes that relate to the human condition. I won't say what characteristics and situations are at play in this volume, but read it yourself to find out!
    • 3/5
      Reading candy... Still think I could be Kinsey Millhone.
    • 3/5
      Umm, not too bad, not too good--the alternating time frames and viewpoints were a bit off putting. Unsolved kidnapping "solved" almost by accident. Kind of thin. Padded out by more of Kinsey's family drama.
    • 4/5
      It has been awhile since I read a Kinsey Millhone story, and I really liked this one. Usually I don't like books that skip back and forth between 2 time periods, but it didn't bother me this time. It was easy to keep track of when each event was taking place. The characters were interesting. I especially enjoyed the hippies, traveling around in their bus. I am happy with just reading a good mystery, but for people who like to get more backstory on Kinsey, there was some of that too. I am looking forward to reading the next book in the series.
    • 3/5
      BOTTOM-LINE:
      Nice ending, but the story feels like retread
      .
      PLOT OR PREMISE:
      Kinsey's client thinks he remembers seeing two men digging a hole back when he was six years old, just days after a child's kidnapping that subsequently ended tragically. Maybe it was the kidnappers?
      .
      WHAT I LIKED:
      The flashback story harkens back to a hippie-style couple living in a van in the driveway of his parents' house, which was mildly interesting at first. The introduction of a reporter named Alvarez is good for future stories too. But the only really good part is filling in some of Aunt Ginny's history, with old letters and a PI that was hired to look into Ginny's parenting ability.
      .
      WHAT I DIDN'T LIKE:
      The flashback storyline removes almost any mystery or tension from the story. You know who the bad guys are way before Kinsey, and the storyline with the reporter holds some initial promise but ultimately goes nowhere. Just a lot of wasted time and space.
      .
      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.
    • 3/5
      I like this series, but was disappointed that this one had some gratuitous junk.
    • 5/5
      This series is always a great palate cleanser for me. The audiobooks are excellent and each new mystery gives us a little more info on Kinsey’s background. A random memory of “pirates” leads a man to hire Kinsey to try and solve a cold case of a kidnapped little girl. The hippie couple were obnoxious, but it was interesting to switch to different points of view and time periods in the story. I loved learning more about the aunt who raised Kinsey.
    • 5/5
      Every time I finish a Grafton novel, I feel it has been her best and cannot be topped. Then she writes one that does.

      In this book, she is approached by a young man who thinks he saw two men bury the body of a kidnapped child when he was six years old. While she is skeptical, she starts to look into it and when they find the burial site pretty quickly, it looks like this fellow isn't crazy until the body found is of a dog.

      You know Kinsey will not give up. Meanwhile one of the kidnappers is having major personal problems which we follow in a parallel narrative. This novel was difficult to put down.
    • 4/5
      Grafton has written one of the best of her alphabet mysteries, with no clunky plot tricks. Instead it is a believable story told with revealing flashbacks and the right amount of suspense.
    • 4/5
      Really enjoyed this Kinsey M. Liked the stories on the different characters and then how they all came together. I also thought Grafton did a good job going back and forth in time and creating suspense as the the story line developed. One of the more enjoyable of this series for me.
    • 4/5
      Not Grafton's best read, IMO but still a decent bit of escapism. I like the idea of Michael Sutton - Kinsey's client - having a checkered past when it comes to reliability of information. This provides a nice level of complexity to the story. Grafton is now very comfortable with shifting timelines and narrators and while the "whodunit" crops up rather early in the story, it is the details like the "why" that are slowly revealed to the reader. I like how Rosie continues to provide a bit of comic relief to the stories and Kinsey's landlord Henry continues to be a reliable sounding board for the times when Kinsey finds the clues are just not adding up.
    • 3/5
      This is one of my favorite books out of the Alphabet Series, hands down. Which isn't as big of a deal as it might have been, I don't harbor an enormous amount of fondness for this series (pretty much just enough to finish it out). However, I didn't feel like Millhone was as shallowly written as before and I think Grafton incorporated the mystery, Millhone's personal situation, and fleshing out the characters (both good and bad) with more aplomb than in prior books. I also found it very interesting for Grafton to include something that was so prevalent in the 80's, such as false memories coaxed out by therapists who really didn't seem to care about the damage they were wreaking for victims or for those that had not been victimized but couldn't cope emotionally or mentally with the false memories their "sessions" created. I think she did a good job of writing about something that was/is extremely controversial and the damage it can inflict on a family and on individual lives.

    • 4/5
      Kinsey investigates a mystery from 1967, the disappearance of a little girl.
    • 3/5
      An understated mystery that meanders through several false starts on solving the mystery presented when an adult man remembers seeing two men digging in the woods when he was 6 years old and realizes that it was around that same time a young girl was kidnapped and never seen again.
    • 3/5
      The next in the alphabet series by Ms. Grafton. Kinsey Malone is on a cold case of kidnapping and murder. The usual fare with enough intrigue to keep it interesting and Kinsey’s narration to keep it flowing. In this book we finally find out more about Kinsey’s family which was interesting, but I felt it was at the expense of missing other characters such as Henry and Rosie. Reading this book I had the sense that with 5 letters of the alphabet to go Kinsey is mellowing and Ms. Grafton is edging her constant readers to the conclusion.
    • 4/5
      Entertaining story and much better effort than the last few alphabet mysteries. I still find it confusing that Grafton gets more and more behind in terms of date (this book takes place in 1988) but I enjoyed the addition to Kinsey's family story.
    • 4/5
      A young man comes to Kinsey Millhone with a story of a repressed memory, recently flushed out, of having seen two men burying something in the woods. It happened twenty years ago, when he was six, and several days after a well-publicized kidnapping of a four year-old girl. As Kinsey investigates, she learns that he may not be the most reliable witness.

      As with all her other books, I couldn't put this down once I started. However, I found the ending unsatisfying. One major plot twist was never explained, and the ending seemed abrupt.
    • 5/5
      Once again, Sue Grafton has written a book that I can heartily recommend to those who love a good mystery. She writes detectives like it is nothing to her but a walk in the park, and U is for Undertow is one of the alphabet series which you MUST read. The plot starts to get thick when a 27 yr old unemployed college drop out named Michael Sutton comes in to hire Kinsey Millhone. Sutton professes to know about a kidnapping that happened two decades ago, of a 4 yr old girl. Sutton believes he knows where the burial spot is and wants Kinsey's help in locating the grave and finding the killers.

      Not able to tell all of the truth, is he fabricating his story or is there meat on it? Moving effortlessly between the 80' and the 60s, Kinsey pursues witnesses whose points of view clash and change over time. Twisting, complex, surprise-filled events fill all of Grafton's books and this is no different. Everything connects, of course, at the end, and we even find out what happened to the child and the ransom money. To find out for yourself and with me giving no tips, call your local bookstore and order this wonderful novel. You won't be disappointed now, or with any of Sue Grafton's books.
    • 3/5
      When you want an easy read, Grafton is the place to go. I had to get past some weird sentence structure and comma placement in the beginning, but she's a good enough storyteller I stopped caring about it after a while. And occasionally she throws in some great imagery, just for entertainment's sake. I wouldn't teach her in a lit class, but I'd recommend her for an enjoyable read.


      Petrea Burchard
      Camelot & Vine
    • 3/5
      This is the 21st book of Grafton's Kinsey Millhone series and it was a mixed bag. The strengths of the book were in the multiple narrators and voices that were a welcome addition to Millhone's perspective, and as a set of character studies. "Undertow" examined what lies unexpected and under the surface of appearances, in much the way that rip currents will carry unwary swimmers where they do not expect to go. The appearances of the community in which two little girls were kidnapped in 1967, and in Millhone's family in responding to the death of her parents were deceptive, and the book is an entertaining exploration of how appearance and memory can deceive.

      Another fun aspect of the book was the anachronisms involved. The primary story is set in 1988 and the flashbacks to the crime in 1967. The story contains some anachronisms which are fun to spot, and certainly make you think about how technology has changed from both time periods.

      However, the book was very sloppily plotted, and this was the primary weakness of the book. The book hinges on a memory that a man has of two men burying a child-sized object when he was a boy, but Grafton goes out of her way to discredit those memories with proof that the man was in Disneyland with his family at the time that he supposedly spotted the two men burying the body. In the end, the man's memories were vindicated, however, there is no explanation of the conflict whatsoever. Indeed, we get no indication of how the vindication of this man's memories affected his relationships with his family.Additionally, although we can speculate that the child's body or the marked bills the men had received for ransom when they abducted another little girl were what the men were burying when the boy came upon them (then disinterred after the boy spotted them and buried in a safer location), we never really get a good explanation of why they buried the dog in that spot.

      This was the usual entertaining Grafton novel, but not one of the strongest in the series.
    • 4/5
      Simple reading....
    • 5/5
      U is for Undertow revisits the technique used in S is for Silence, namely, mixing Kinsey's current day narration with the narrative of the past. This is a technique that works well for Grafton.

      Kinsey is hired by a young man who's memory has been sparked by an article he reads in the paper about an old kidnapping. He doesn't have much to go on but thinks he might have seen something at the time. With almost nothing to go on, he wants her to help him figure out if what he saw is relevant. Kinsey once again shows us the ins and outs of a good detective's work. I find that aspect quite interesting. The clues are almost non-existent and yet she manages to make something coherent out of them.

      The other thread running through the story is her almost-reunion with her family. She finds out more in this book about the relationship between her mother and her grandmother than in any previous book. The way it is being played out is quite interesting to me.

      What I have found in the last several books, probably starting with Q is for Quarry, is that I am feeling more emotionally attached to the characters than I was in the previous books. Not just Kinsey, Henry and Rosie but the characters of whatever mystery she is investigating. I don't know if that's because when you are this far into a series, it all feels so real or if Ms. Grafton just keeps getting better at what she's doing. I just know that particularly since Q I've been living in Kinsey's world.
    • 4/5
      Probably my favorite of all 21 books. Maybe it was the cold case aspect the multiple view points, the plot itself or just all of the above.

      Though it was clearly know early on who the kidnappers were it did not diminish the over all plot
    • 4/5
      Who’d a thunk it? 21 installments into a series and, far from being a return to a comfort zone, Sue Grafton’s latest effort is something of a departure from the routine. As the book opens private investigator Kinsey Millhone is asked to do a day’s work by a young man, Michael Sutton. When he was six years old he saw two men burying something in the woods and, due to a recent newspaper article, he now believes they may have been burying the body of Mary Claire Fitzhugh, a four-year-old child who was kidnapped in 1967 and has never been seen since. Kinsey soon learns that it’s not as clear-cut as Michael thought but, as always, she doggedly nuts out all the facts and builds her case.

      With respect to the doggedness of Kinsey the book is as familiar as an old cardigan but the surprising element for me was that Kinsey’s is only one of several stories that unfold in this book. In addition there’s a thread that takes place in the 1960’s featuring people who may, or may not, have had something to do with the kidnapping of the young child. The person who features most strongly in that thread is a woman called Deborah Unrah whose grown son returns home greatly changed by the flower power movement and drug culture of the 1960’s. There’s also a parallel thread to Kinsey’s in 1988 featuring a middle-aged man called Walker McNally who is a rather repugnant alcoholic. These two characters, and several others who orbit around them both, are deeply and perceptively depicted as their colliding stories are told.

      In some ways the ending of the book is fairly predictable but this book isn’t the same kind of procedural as its predecessors and relies less on that kind of suspense for its drama and conflict. Instead I was gripped by Grafton’s exploration of a single concept across all the disparate threads. All of the stories, even Kinsey’s own, relate in some way to the notion of family and the myriad ways that concept can manifest in society. This book is really about why things happen rather than what happened and it’s this that is something of a departure for this series.

      Grafton is one of the few authors whose books I have read in order roughly at the time they were published and due to familiarity breeding a little contempt I have tended, of late, not to look forward to them with the same anticipation that I once did. However this outing shows that Grafton still has her story telling abilities well to the fore and she is not afraid to take the risk of trying something new. Apart from discovering anew that 69-year-old Grafton is still at the top of her game I’ve also been reminded that some authors stay on the best seller lists because they are good, not merely because they have great publicity machines.

      I would highly recommend the book to both Grafton’s fans, who will have just enough of the familiar to satiate their needs (though not enough Henry for most I admit), and those who have never read Grafton before because this, more than most of her other alphabet tales, is a standalone book of the highest quality. All of the niggly things about the series (such as Kinsey’s failure to age and the ever-increasing gap between the technology available to Kinsey and that available to the rest of us) really take a back seat in this installment because here stories with undercurrents are all that matter.

      I can also recommend to audio book fans the added treat of listening to Judy Kaye’s excellent narration which really did make the long-ish book simply fly by.
    • 3/5
      In Grafton’s mystery novel, Michael Sutton seeks out Kinsey Millhone with a story from his childhood about witnessing two men burying something and believing they were pirates. With nearly nothing to go on, Kinsey sets out to track down the burial site only to find herself digging into a deceit that stretches back twenty years.

      Complex and psychologically potent.
    • 3/5
      Love Kinsey. Can't remember enough to distinguish one book from another in the alphabet series. Some are better than others. All are enjoyable.

    Book preview

    U is for Undertow - Sue Grafton

    001

    ALSO BY SUE GRAFTON

    Kinsey Millhone mysteries

    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

    001

    G. P. Putnam’s Sons

    Publishers Since 1838

    An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

    375 Hudson Street

    New York, New York 10014

    Copyright © 2009 by Sue Grafton

    Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

    First Marian Wood/G. P. Putnam’s Sons hardcover edition / December 2009

    Berkley mass-market edition / December 2010

    First G. P. Putnam’s Sons premium edition / March 2016

    Ebook ISBN 9781101151617

    Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

    Grafton, Sue.

    U is for undertow / Sue Grafton.

    p. cm.

    ISBN 978-0-399-15597-0

    1. Millhone, Kinsey (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Women private investigators—California—Fiction. 3. Girls—Crimes against—Fiction. I. Title.

    PS3557.R13U

    813’.54—dc22

    This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

    penguin.com

    Version_4

    For Larry Welch, who left us,

    steering a course for ports unknown,

    and for Pam, who sails on,

    navigating her journey over high seas.

    Safe passage to you both.

    ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

    The author wishes to acknowledge the invaluable assistance of the following people: Steven Humphrey; Sam Eaton, Eaton and Jones, Attorneys at Law; John Mackall, Attorney at Law, Seed Mackall LLP; Bill Turner, Detective Sergeant (retired), Santa Barbara County Sheriff’s Department; Deborah Linden, Chief of Police, San Luis Obispo; Mary Ellen Tiffany, Vice President Business Development, Montecito Bank & Trust; Penny Braniff and Krys Jackson, Hope Ranch Park Homes Association; Special Agent Leane Blevins, Federal Bureau of Investigation, Ventura field office; Lisa Lowseth, DVM; Amy Taylor, Veterinary Technician, Cat Doctors; Susan Burke, Librarian, Laguna Blanca School; Diane Miller, Assistant Dean, Helen Bader School of Social Welfare, University of Wisconsin, Milwaukee; Kevin Frantz; Sally Giloth; Tracy Kanowsky; Suzanne Perkins; Steve Tipton; Kim Showalter; Jamie Clark; Susan Gulbransen; Joanna Barnes; and Sue Parks; along with a special thank-you to Margie and Keith Kirkendall, Patricia L. Erbe, M.D., and Jeffrey Grill, M.D., for the use of their names.

    Table of Contents

    Title Page

    Copyright Page

    Dedication

    Acknowledgements

    Chapter 1 - Wednesday afternoon, April 6, 1988

    Chapter 2

    Chapter 3 - DEBORAH UNRUH

    Chapter 4 - Thursday morning, April 7, 1988

    Chapter 5

    Chapter 6 - DEBORAH UNRUH

    Chapter 7 - Thursday afternoon, April 7, 1988

    Chapter 8

    Chapter 9 - WALKER MCNALLY

    Chapter 10 - Friday, April 8, 1988

    Chapter 11

    Chapter 12 - WALKER MCNALLY

    Chapter 13 - Monday, April 11, 1988

    Chapter 14

    Chapter 15 - JON CORSO

    Chapter 16 - Wednesday, April 13, 1988

    Chapter 17

    Chapter 18 - JON CORSO

    Chapter 19 - Wednesday afternoon, April 13, 1988

    Chapter 20

    Chapter 21 - DEBORAH UNRUH

    Chapter 22 - Thursday night, April 14, 1988

    Chapter 23 - Friday afternoon, April 15, 1988

    Chapter 24 - WALKER MCNALLY

    Chapter 25 - Monday, April 18, 1988

    Chapter 26

    Chapter 27 - JON CORSO

    Chapter 28 - Wednesday afternoon, April 20, 1988

    Chapter 29 - WALKER MCNALLY

    Chapter 30 - Wednesday evening, April 20, 1988

    Chapter 31 - JON CORSO

    Chapter 32 - Thursday, April 21, 1988

    Chapter 33 - Thursday, April 21, 1988

    EPILOGUE

    1

    Wednesday afternoon, April 6, 1988

    What fascinates me about life is that now and then the past rises up and declares itself. Afterward, the sequence of events seems inevitable, but only because cause and effect have been aligned in advance. It’s like a pattern of dominoes arranged upright on a tabletop. With the flick of your finger, the first tile topples into the second, which in turn tips into the third, setting in motion a tumbling that goes on and on, each tile knocking over its neighbor until all of them fall down. Sometimes the impetus is pure chance, though I discount the notion of accidents. Fate stitches together elements that seem unrelated on the surface. It’s only when the truth emerges you see how the bones are joined and everything connects.

    Here’s the odd part. In my ten years as a private eye, this was the first case I ever managed to resolve without crossing paths with the bad guys. Except at the end, of course.

    004

    My name is Kinsey Millhone. I’m a private detective, female, age thirty-seven, with my thirty-eighth birthday coming up in a month. Having been married and divorced twice, I’m now happily single and expect to remain so for life. I have no children thus far and I don’t anticipate bearing any. Not only are my eggs getting old, but my biological clock wound down a long time ago. I suppose there’s always room for one of life’s little surprises, but that’s not the way to bet.

    I work solo out of a rented bungalow in Santa Teresa, California, a town of roughly 85,000 souls who generate sufficient crime to occupy the Santa Teresa Police Department, the County Sheriff’s Department, the California Highway Patrol, and the twenty-five or so local private investigators like me. Movies and television shows would have you believe a PI’s job is dangerous, but nothing could be farther from the truth . . . except, of course, on the rare occasions when someone tries to kill me. Then I’m ever so happy my health insurance premiums are paid up. Threat of death aside, the job is largely research, requiring intuition, tenacity, and ingenuity. Most of my clients reach me by referral and their business ranges from background checks to process serving, with countless other matters in between. My office is off the beaten path and I seldom have a client appear unannounced, so when I heard a tapping at the door to my outer office, I got up and peered around the corner to see who it was.

    Through the glass I saw a young man pointing at the knob. I’d apparently turned the dead bolt to the locked position when I’d come back from lunch. I let him in, saying, Sorry about that. I must have locked up after myself without being aware of it.

    You’re Ms. Millhone?

    Yes.

    Michael Sutton, he said, extending his hand. Do you have time to talk?

    We shook hands. Sure. Can I offer you a cup of coffee?

    No, thanks. I’m fine.

    I ushered him into my office while I registered his appearance in a series of quick takes. Slim. Lank brown hair with a sheen to it, worn long on top and cut short over his ears. Solemn brown eyes, complexion as clear as a baby’s. There was a prep school air about him: deck shoes without socks, sharply creased chinos, and a short-sleeve white dress shirt he wore with a tie. He had the body of a boy: narrow shoulders, narrow hips, and long, smooth arms. He looked young enough to be carded if he tried to buy booze. I couldn’t imagine what sort of problem he’d have that would require my services.

    I returned to my swivel chair and he settled in the chair on the other side of the desk. I glanced at my calendar, wondering if I’d set up an appointment and promptly forgotten it.

    He noticed the visual reference and said, Detective Phillips at the police department gave me your name and address. I should have called first, but your office was close by. I hope this isn’t an inconvenience.

    Not at all, I said. My first name’s Kinsey, which you’re welcome to use. You prefer Michael or Mike?

    Most people call me Sutton. In my kindergarten class, there were two other Michaels so the teacher used our last names to distinguish us. Boorman, Sutton, and Trautwein—like a law firm. We’re still friends.

    Where was this?

    Climp.

    I said, Ah. I should have guessed as much. Climping Academy is the private school in Horton Ravine, K through 12. Tuition starts at twelve grand for the little tykes and rises incrementally through the upper grades. I don’t know where it tops out, but you could probably pick up a respectable college education for the same price. All the students enrolled there referred to it as Climp, as though the proper appellation was just, like, sooo beside the point. Watching him, I wondered if my blue-collar roots were as obvious to him as his upper-class status was to me.

    We exchanged pleasantries while I waited for him to unload. The advantage of a prearranged appointment is that I begin the first meeting with at least some idea what a prospective client has in mind. People skittish about revealing their personal problems to a stranger often find it easier to do by phone. With this kid, I figured we’d have to dance around some before he got down to his business, whatever it was.

    He asked how long I’d been a private investigator. This is a question I’m sometimes asked at cocktail parties (on the rare occasion when I’m invited to one). It’s the sort of blah-blah-blah conversational gambit I don’t much care for. I gave him a rundown of my employment history. I skipped over the two lackluster semesters at the local junior college and started with my graduation from the police academy. I then covered the two years I’d worked for the Santa Teresa PD before I realized how ill suited I was to a life in uniform. I proceeded with a brief account of my subsequent apprenticeship with a local agency, run by Ben Byrd and Morley Shine, two private investigators, who’d trained me in preparation for licensing. I’d had my ups and downs over the years, but I spared him the details since he’d only inquired as a stalling technique. What about you? Are you a California native?

    Yes, ma’am. I grew up in Horton Ravine. My family lived on Via Ynez until I went off to college. I lived a couple of other places, but now I’m back.

    You still have family here?

    His hesitation was one of those nearly imperceptible blips that indicates internal editing. My parents are gone. I have two older brothers, both married with two kids each, and an older sister who’s divorced. We’re not on good terms. We haven’t been for years.

    I let that pass without comment, being better acquainted with family estrangement than I cared to admit. How do you know Cheney Phillips?

    I don’t. I went into the police department, asking to speak to a detective, and he happened to be free. When I told him my situation, he said you might be able to help.

    Well, let’s hope so, I said. Cheney’s a good guy. I’ve known him for years. I shut my mouth then and let a silence descend, a stratagem with remarkable powers to make the other guy talk.

    Sutton touched the knot in his tie. I know you’re busy, so I’ll get to the point. I hope you’ll bear with me. The story might sound weird.

    Weird stories are the best kind, so fire away, I said.

    He looked at the floor as he spoke, making eye contact now and then to see if I was following. I don’t know if you saw this, but a couple of weeks ago, there was an article in the newspaper about famous kidnappings: Marion Parker, the twelve-year-old girl who was abducted in 1927; the Lindbergh baby in ’thirty-two; another kid, named Etan Patz. Ordinarily, I don’t read things like that, but what caught my attention was the case here in town . . .

    You’re talking about Mary Claire Fitzhugh—1967.

    You remember her?

    Sure. I’d just graduated from high school. Little four-year-old girl taken from her parents’ home in Horton Ravine. The Fitzhughs agreed to pay the ransom, but the money was never picked up and the child was never seen again.

    Exactly. The thing is, when I saw the name Mary Claire Fitzhugh, I had this flash—something I hadn’t thought about for years. He clasped his hands together and squeezed them between his knees. When I was a little kid, I was playing in the woods and I came across these two guys digging a hole. I remember seeing a bundle on the ground a few feet away. At the time, I didn’t understand what I was looking at, but now I believe it was Mary Claire’s body and they were burying her.

    I said, You actually saw the child?

    He shook his head. She was wrapped in a blanket, so I couldn’t see her face or anything else.

    I studied him with interest. What makes you think it was Mary Claire? That’s a big leap.

    Because I went back and checked the old newspaper accounts and the dates line up.

    What dates?

    Oh, sorry. I should have mentioned this before. She was kidnapped on July 19, which was a Wednesday. I saw the guys on Friday, July 21, 1967 . . . my birthday, the year I turned six. That’s how I made the association. I think she was already dead by then and they were getting rid of the body.

    And this was where?

    Horton Ravine. I don’t know the exact location. My mother had errands to run that day so she dropped me off at some kid’s house. I don’t remember his name. I guess his mom had agreed to look after me while she was gone. Turns out the other kid woke up with a fever and sore throat. Chicken pox was going around and his mom didn’t want me exposed in case that’s what it was, so she made him stay in his room while I hung around downstairs. I got bored and asked if I could go outside. She said I could as long as I didn’t leave the property. I remember finding this tree with branches that hung down to make a little room, so I played there for a while, pretending I was a bandit in a cool hideout. I heard voices and when I peeped through the leaves, I saw the two guys walk by with shovels and stuff and I followed them.

    What time of day?

    Must have been late morning because after I came in again, the kid’s mother fed me lunch—a plain lettuce and tomato sandwich, no bacon, and it was made with Miracle Whip. Our family didn’t eat Miracle Whip. My mother wouldn’t have it in the house. She said it was disgusting compared to real homemade mayonnaise.

    "Your mother made mayonnaise?"

    The cook did.

    Ah.

    Anyway, Mom always said it was rude to complain, so I ate what I could and left the rest on my plate. The kid’s mom hadn’t even cut the crusts off the bread.

    There’s a shock, I said. I’m impressed your memory’s so clear.

    Not clear enough or I wouldn’t be here. I’m pretty sure the two guys I saw were the ones who abducted Mary Claire, but I have no idea where I was. I know I’d never been to the house before and I never went there again.

    Any chance one of your siblings would remember who the kid was?

    I guess it’s possible. Unfortunately, we don’t get along. We haven’t spoken in years.

    So you said.

    Sorry. I don’t mean to repeat myself. The point is, I can’t call them up out of a clear blue sky. Even if I did, I doubt they’d talk to me.

    "But I could ask, couldn’t I? That would be the obvious first move if you’re serious about this."

    He shook his head. I don’t want them involved, especially my sister, Dee. She’s difficult. You don’t want to mess with her.

    All right. We’ll scratch that for now. Maybe the kid’s mother was being paid to babysit.

    That wasn’t my impression. More like she was doing Mom a favor.

    What about your classmates? Maybe she left you with one of the other moms, like a playdate.

    Sutton blinked twice. That’s a possibility I hadn’t thought of. I’ve kept in touch with the other two Michaels, Boorman and Trautwein, but that’s the extent of it. I didn’t like anybody else in my kindergarten class and they didn’t like me.

    "It doesn’t matter if you liked them or not. We’re trying to identify the boy."

    I don’t remember anyone else.

    It should be easy enough to come up with a list. You must have had class photos. You could go back to the school library and check the ’67 yearbook.

    I don’t want to go back to Climp. I hate the idea.

    It’s just a suggestion. So far, we’re brainstorming, I said. Tell me about the two guys. How old would you say?

    I’m not sure. Older than my brothers, who were ten and twelve at the time, but not as old as my dad.

    Did they see you?

    Not then. I decided to spy on them, but where they ended up was too far away and I couldn’t see what they were doing. I sneaked up on them, crawling through the bushes and crouching behind a big oak. It was hot and they were sweating so they’d taken off their shirts. I guess I wasn’t as quiet as I thought because one of them spotted me and they both jumped. They stopped what they were doing and asked what I wanted.

    You actually talked to them?

    Oh, sure. Absolutely. We had this whole conversation. I thought they were pirates and I was all excited about meeting them.

    Pirates?

    "My mother was reading me Peter Pan at bedtime, and I loved the illustrations. The pirates wore bandanas tied around their heads, which is what the two guys had done."

    Beards? Earrings? Eye patches?

    That netted me a smile, but not much of one. He shook his head. "It was the bandanas that reminded me of pirates. I told them I knew that because of Peter Pan."

    What’d you talk about?

    First, I asked ’em if they were pirates for real and they told me they were. The one guy talked more than the other and when I asked what they were doing, he said they were digging for buried treasure . . .

    As Sutton spoke, I could see him regressing to the little boy he’d been, earnest and easily impressed. He leaned forward in his chair. I asked if the treasure was gold doubloons, but they said they didn’t know because they hadn’t found it yet. I asked to see the treasure map and they said they couldn’t show me because they were sworn to secrecy. I’d seen the bundle on the ground, over by this tree, and when I asked about it, the first guy said it was a bedroll in case they got tired. I offered to help dig, but he told me the job was only for grown-ups and little kids weren’t allowed. And then the other one spoke up and asked where I lived. I told them I lived in a white house, but not on this street, that I was visiting. The first guy asked what my name was. I told him and the other one spoke up again and said he thought he heard someone calling me so I better go, which is what I did. The whole exchange couldn’t have taken more than three minutes.

    I don’t suppose either of them mentioned their names?

    No. I probably should have asked, but it didn’t occur to me.

    Your recall impresses me. Much of my life at that age is a total blank.

    "I hadn’t thought about the incident for years, but once the memory was triggered, I was right there again. Just like, boom."

    I reran the story in my mind, trying to digest the whole of it. Tell me again why you think there’s a connection to Mary Claire. That still seems like a stretch.

    I don’t know what else to say. Intuition, I guess.

    What about the kidnapping. How did that go down? I remember the broad strokes, but not the particulars.

    The whole thing was horrible. Those poor people. The ransom note said not to contact the police or the FBI, but Mr. Fitzhugh did it anyway. He thought it was the only way to save her, but he was wrong.

    The first contact was the note?

    Sutton nodded. Later they phoned and said he had one day to get the money together or else. Mr. Fitzhugh had already called the police and they were the ones who contacted the FBI. The special agent in charge convinced him they’d have a better chance of nabbing the guys if he and his wife appeared to cooperate, so they advised him to do as he was told . . .

    Twenty-five thousand dollars, wasn’t it? Somehow the number sticks in my head.

    Exactly. The kidnappers wanted it in small bills, packed in a gym bag. They called again and told him where he was supposed to leave the money. He stalled. They must have thought there was a trap on the line because they cut the call short.

    So he dropped off the ransom money and the kidnappers didn’t show.

    Right. After a day passed, it was clear the FBI had bungled it. They still thought they had a chance, but Mr. Fitzhugh said to hell with them and took matters into his own hands. He notified the newspapers and the radio and TV stations. After the story broke, Mary Claire was all anybody talked about—my parents and everyone else.

    What day was it by then?

    Sunday. Like I said before, she was kidnapped on Wednesday and I saw them on Friday. The paper didn’t carry the story until Sunday.

    Why didn’t you speak up?

    "I did. I’d already done that. When my mother came to get me, I told her about the pirates. I felt guilty. Like I’d done something wrong."

    How so?

    I don’t know how to pin it down. I believed what they said about digging for treasure. When you’re six, things like that make perfect sense, but on some level I was anxious and I wanted reassurance. Instead, Mom got mad. She said I wasn’t supposed to talk to strangers and she made me promise I’d never do it again. When we got home, she sent me straight to my room. On Sunday we heard the news about Mary Claire.

    And your mother didn’t see the relevance?

    I guess not. She never mentioned it and I was too scared to bring it up again. She’d already punished me once. I kept my mouth shut so she wouldn’t punish me again.

    But it worried you.

    For a while, sure. After that, I put the incident out of my mind. Then I saw Mary Claire’s name and it all came back.

    Did you ever see either guy again?

    I don’t think so. Maybe one of them. I’m not sure.

    And where would that have been?

    I don’t remember. I might have made a mistake.

    I picked up a pencil and made a mark on the yellow pad lying on my desk. When you explained this to Cheney, what was his response?

    His shoulder went up in a half-shrug. He said he’d check the old case notes, but he couldn’t do much more because the information I’d given him was too vague. That’s when he mentioned you.

    Sounds like he was passing the buck.

    Actually, what he said was you were like a little terrier when it came to flushing out rats.

    Sucking up, I said. Mentally, I was rolling my eyes because Cheney wasn’t far off the mark. I liked picking at problems and this was a doozy. What about the house itself? Think you’d recognize it if you saw it again?

    I doubt it. Right after I read the article, I drove around the old neighborhood, and even the areas I knew well had changed. Trees were gone, shrubs were overgrown, new houses had gone up. Of course, I didn’t cover the whole of Horton Ravine, but I’m not sure it would have made any difference since I don’t have a clear image. I think I’d recognize the place in the woods. The house is a blur.

    So twenty-one years later, you’re clueless and hoping I can figure out where you were.

    Yes, ma’am.

    You want me to find an unmarked grave, basically a hole.

    Can you do it?

    I don’t know. I’ve never tried before.

    I studied him, chasing the idea around to see where it might go. It’s an interesting proposition. I’ll give you that.

    I rocked in my swivel chair, listening to the squeak, while I sifted through the story, wondering what I’d missed. There was something more going on, but I couldn’t imagine what. Finally, I said, What’s your stake in the situation? I know it bothers you, but why to this extent?

    I don’t know. I mean, the article talked about how the kidnapping ruined Mrs. Fitzhugh’s life. She and her husband divorced and he ended up leaving town. She still has no idea what happened to her little girl. She doesn’t even know for sure she’s dead. If I can help, it seems like the right thing to do.

    It’s going to cost you, I said.

    I figured as much.

    What sort of work do you do?

    Nothing right now. I lost my job so I’m on unemployment.

    What was the job?

    I sold advertising for KSPL.

    KSPL was the local AM station I sometimes tuned in on my car radio when I was tooling around town. How long were you there?

    About a year, maybe a little less.

    What’s it mean when you say you ‘lost’ your job? Were you laid off, downsized, fired, what?

    He hesitated. The last one.

    Fired.

    He nodded.

    I waited and when it was clear he had no intention of continuing, I gave him a nudge. Uh, Sutton, I’d consider it a courtesy if you’d be a bit more forthcoming. Would you care to fill me in?

    He rubbed his palms on his pants. I said I had a BA from Stanford, but it wasn’t really true. I was enrolled and attended classes for a couple of years, but I didn’t graduate.

    So you lied on the application?

    Look, I know I made a mistake . . .

    That would cover it, I said.

    But I can’t do anything about it now. What’s done is done and I just have to move on.

    I’d heard a host of criminals make the same remark, like boosting cars, robbing banks, and killing folks could be brushed aside, a minor stumble on the path of life. Have you given any thought to how you’re going to pay me out of your unemployment benefits? We’re talking about five hundred bucks a day, plus expenses. Assuming I agree to help, which I haven’t.

    I have some money set aside. I thought I’d write a check for one day’s work and we’d see how it goes from there.

    "A check?"

    A flush tinted his cheeks. I guess that’s not such a hot idea.

    You got that right. What’s plan B?

    If you’re going to be here for a while, I could make a quick run to the bank and bring you cash.

    I considered the notion. The prime item on my Thursday To Do list was to make a bank deposit and pay bills. I had two reports to write and a few calls to make, but I could shift those to Friday. The job itself might end in folly, but at least when he mentioned the right thing to do, he didn’t turn around and ask me to work for free. I wasn’t convinced he was right about what he’d seen, but Cheney must have considered the story credible or he wouldn’t have sent him over to me.

    Okay. One day, but that’s it. And only if you pay me cash in advance. I’ll be here until five o’clock. That should give you plenty of time.

    Great. That’s great.

    I don’t know how great it is, but it’s the best I can do. When you get back, if I happen to be out, you can stick the money through the mail slot. In the meantime, give me a contact number so I’ll know how to reach you.

    I handed him my yellow pad and watched while he scribbled down his address and telephone number. In return I handed him my business card with my office number and address.

    He said, I really appreciate this. I don’t know what I’d have done if you hadn’t agreed.

    I’ll probably regret it, but what the hell? It’s only one day, I said. If I’d been listening closely, I’d have caught the sound of the gods having a great big old tee-hee at my expense.

    I said, You’re sure you don’t want to make the trip up to Climp? It would save you a few bucks.

    I don’t want to. They probably wouldn’t talk to me in any event.

    I see. I studied him. You want to tell me what’s going on here? You can’t talk to your siblings and now you can’t talk to your prep school pals?

    I already told you I didn’t have pals. It has more to do with the administration.

    How come?

    There were some difficulties. I had a problem.

    Like what, you were expelled? I love stories about flunking and expulsions. With my history of screwups, those are like fairy tales.

    It’s not something I want to get into. It has nothing to do with this. A stubborn note had crept into his voice. You go up there. They’ll let you see yearbooks as easily as me.

    I doubt it. Educational institutions hate handing over information about their students. Especially with the words ‘private investigator’ thrown into the mix.

    Don’t tell ’em you’re a PI. Think of something else.

    I didn’t even attend Climping Academy so why would I want to see a yearbook? It makes no sense.

    He shook his head. I won’t do it. I have my reasons.

    Which you’re not about to share.

    Right.

    Okay, fine. It’s no skin off my nose. If that’s how you want to spend your five hundred bucks, I can live with it. I love driving through Horton Ravine.

    I got up, and as we shook hands again, I realized what was bothering me. One more question.

    What’s that?

    The article came out two weeks ago. Why’d you wait so long before you went to the police?

    He hesitated. I was nervous. All I have is a hunch. I didn’t want the police to write me off as a crank.

    Nuh-uh. That’s not all of it. What else?

    He was silent for a moment, color rising in his cheeks again. What if the guys find out I remembered them? I might have been the only witness and I told them my name. If they’re the ones who killed Mary Claire, why wouldn’t they kill me?

    2

    While Sutton and I were chatting, the mail had been delivered. Walking him to the door, I paused to collect the scattering of envelopes the postman had pushed through the slot. Once he’d gone off to the bank, I moved into my office, sorting and separating the stack as I sat down at my desk. Junk, bill, another bill, junk, junk, bill. I came to a square vellum envelope with my name and address written in calligraphy: Ms. Kinsey Millhone, with lots of down strokes and flourishes, very lah-di-dah. The postmark was Lompoc, California, and the return address was printed in the center of the back flap. Even without the sender’s name in evidence, I knew it was a Kinsey family member, one of numerous kin whose existence I’d first learned about four years before. Until that strange turn of events, I’d prided myself on my loner status. There was a benefit to my being an orphan in the world, explaining as it did (at least to my way of thinking) my difficulties in forming close bonds with others of my species.

    Looking at the envelope, I could guess what was coming up—a christening, a wedding, or a cocktail party—some formal affair heralded by expensive embossing on heavy card stock. Whatever the occasion, I was either being informed of, or invited to, an event I didn’t give a rat’s ass about. At times, I’m a sentimental little thing, but this wasn’t one. I tossed the envelope on my desk, then thought better of it, and threw it in the wastebasket, which was already brimming with trash.

    I picked up the phone and punched in the number for Cheney Phillips at the STPD. When he picked up, I said, Guess who?

    Hey, Kinsey. What’s up?

    I just had a chat with Michael Sutton and thought I better touch base with you before I did anything else. What’s the deal with him?

    Beats me. That story sounded just screwy enough to be true. What was your impression?

    I’m not sure. I’m willing to believe he saw two guys digging a hole. What I’m skeptical about is the relevance to Mary Claire Fitzhugh. He says the dates line up because he went back and checked his recollections against the articles in the paper, but that doesn’t prove anything. Even if the two events happened at the same time, that doesn’t mean they’re related.

    Agreed, but his recollections were so specific he pretty much talked me into it.

    Me, too. At least in part, I said. Did you have a chance to look at the old files?

    Can’t be done. I talked to the chief and he says the case notes are sealed. Once the FBI stepped in, they put everything under lock and key.

    Even after all this time? It’s been twenty years.

    Twenty-one to be precise, and the answer is, definitely. You know how it goes. The case is federal and the file’s still active. If the details are leaked then any clown off his meds can walk into the department and claim responsibility.

    I caught a familiar racket out on the street. Hang on a sec.

    I put my hand over the mouthpiece and listened, picking up the hydraulic grinding, wheeze, and hiss of a garbage truck approaching from down the block. Shit! Garbage day. The week before, I’d forgotten to take out my trash and my wastebaskets were maxed out.

    I gotta go. I’ll call you later.

    Vaya con Dios.

    I hung up in haste and headed down the hall to the kitchenette, where I grabbed a plastic bag from a carton under the sink. I did a quick round of the wastebaskets—kitchen, bathroom, and office—shaking trash into the plastic bag until it sagged from the weight. I scurried out the back door, tossed the bag in my trash bin, and rolled it down the walkway on one side of the bungalow. By the time I reached the street, the garbage truck was idling at the curb and I just managed to catch the guy before he hopped back on. He paused long enough to add my contribution to the day’s haul. As the truck pulled away, I blew him a kiss and was rewarded with a wave.

    I returned to my desk, congratulating myself on a job well done. Nothing makes a room look messier than a wastebasket full of trash. As I settled in my swivel chair, I glanced down and spotted the vellum envelope, which had apparently missed the plastic bag and now lay on the floor. I leaned over, picked it up, and stared at it. What was going on? Instead of happily winging its way to the county dump, the damn thing was back. I’m not superstitious by nature, but the envelope, coupled with Michael Sutton’s reference to his family estrangement, had set an old train of thought in motion.

    I knew how treacherous and frail family bonds could be. My mother had been the eldest of five daughters born to my grandparents Burton Kinsey and Cornelia Straith LaGrand, known since as Grand. My parents had been jettisoned from the bosom of the family when my mother met my father and eloped with him four months later. She was eighteen at the time and came from money, albeit of the small-town sort. My father, Randy Millhone, was thirty-three years old and a mail carrier. In retrospect, it’s difficult to say which was worse in Grand’s eyes, his advanced age or his occupation. Apparently, she viewed civil servants right up there with career criminals as undesirable mates for her precious firstborn girl. Rita Cynthia Kinsey first clapped eyes on my father at her coming-out party, where my father was filling in as a waiter for a friend who owned the catering company. Their marriage created a rift in the family that had never healed. My Aunt Gin was the only one of her four sisters who sided with her, and she ended up raising me after my parents were killed in a car wreck when I was five.

    You’d think I’d have been pleased to discover the existence of close kin. Instead, I was pissed off, convinced they’d known about me for years and hadn’t cared enough to seek me out. I was thirty-four when the first family overtures were made, and I counted their twenty-nine years’ silence as evidence of crass indifference for which I blamed Grand. I really didn’t have a quarrel with my aunts and cousins. I’d tossed them into the pit with Grand because it was simpler that way. I’ll admit it wasn’t fair, but I took a certain righteous satisfaction in my wholesale condemnation. For the past two or three years, I’d made a halfhearted attempt to modify my attitude, but it hadn’t really worked. I’m a Taurus. I’m stubborn by nature and I had my heels dug in. I shoved the invitation in my shoulder bag. I’d deal with it later.

    Sutton returned after twenty minutes with five crisp one-hundred-dollar bills, for which I wrote him a receipt. Once he was gone again, I locked the cash in my office safe. Since I’d be devoting Thursday to Sutton’s business, I sat down and did a rough draft of one of the client reports on my To Do list, figuring I might

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