F is for Fugitive by Sue Grafton Page B

fix you up.” He dropped eight quarters into my palm.
    â€œThanks.”
    He moved back out to the service bay and I pocketed the change. At least I knew now who Tap Granger was. I paid for the gas and headed up two blocks to the motel.
    As it turned out, I didn’t talk to Royce at all that afternoon. He’d retired early, leaving word with Ann that he’d see me in the morning. I spoke briefly with her mother, filling her in on Bailey’s current state, and thenwent on upstairs. I’d picked up a bottle of white wine on my way through San Luis and I stashed it in the small refrigerator in my room. I hadn’t unpacked, and my duffel was tucked in the closet where I’d left it. I tend, on the road, to leave everything in a suitcase, digging out my toothbrush, shampoo, and clean clothing as the need arises. The room remains bare and unnaturally tidy, which appeals to a streak of monasticism in me. This room was spacious, the designated bedroom area separated from the living/dining/kitchenette by a partition. Factoring in the bathroom and a closet, it was bigger than my (former) apartment back home.
    I rooted through the kitchen drawers until I came up with a corkscrew, and then I poured myself a glass of wine and took it out on the balcony. The water was turning a luminous blue as the light faded from the sky, and the dark lavender of the coastline was a vivid contrast. The sunset was a light show of deep pink and salmon shades, gradually sinking, as if by a dimmer switch, through magenta into indigo.
    There was a tap at my door at six. I’d been typing for twenty minutes, though the information I’d collected, at this point, was scant. I screwed the lid on the white-out and went to the door.
    Ann was standing in the corridor. “I wondered what time you wanted supper.”
    â€œAnytime’s fine with me. When do you usually eat?”
    â€œActually, we can suit ourselves. I fed Mother early. Her meal schedule’s pretty strict, and Pop won’t eat until later, if he eats at all. I’m doing pan-fried sole forus, which is a last-minute thing. I hope you don’t object to fish.”
    â€œNot at all. Sounds great. You want to join me in a glass of white wine first?”
    She hesitated. “I’d like that,” she said. “How’s Bailey doing? Is he okay?”
    â€œWell, he’s not happy, but there’s not much he can do. You haven’t seen him yet?”
    â€œI’ll go tomorrow, if I can get in.”
    â€œCheck with Clemson. He can probably set it up. It shouldn’t be hard. Arraignment’s at eight-thirty.”
    â€œI think I’ll have to pass on that. Mother has a doctor’s appointment at nine and I couldn’t get back in time anyway. Pop will want to go, if he’s feeling okay. Could he go with you?”
    â€œSure. No problem.”
    I poured a glass for her and refilled my own. She settled on the couch, while I sat a few feet away at the tiny kitchen table where my typewriter was set up. She seemed ill at ease, sipping at her wine with an odd cast to her mouth, as if she’d been asked to down a glass of liniment.
    â€œI take it you’re not crazy about Chardonnay,” I remarked.
    She smiled apologetically. “I don’t drink very often. Bailey’s the only one who ever developed a taste for it.”
    I thought I’d have to pump her for background information, but she surprised me by volunteering a quick family time line. The Fowlers, she said, had never been enthusiastic about alcohol. She claimed thiswas a function of her mother’s diabetes, but to me it seemed in perfect keeping with the dour fundamentalist mentality that pervaded the place.
    According to Ann, Royce had been born and raised in Tennessee and the dark strains of his Scots heritage had rendered him joyless, taciturn, and wary of excess. He’d been nineteen at the height of the Depression, migrating west on