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R
is For Ricochet by Sue Grafton Rating: •• (Mildly Recommended) |
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title or picture to buy from amazon.com |
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Rerun Fictional private detective Kinsey Millhone returns to sleuth again in Sue Grafton’s latest
in the alphabet series, R is For
Ricochet. While Kinsey comes across as tired and stale, a new character
to the series, Reba Lafferty, provides some fresh dialogue, plot development
and energy. That, and the recollection of good times past with Kinsey, may be
reason enough for fans to pick up a copy of R is For Ricochet.
Nonetheless, in reading this book, it felt far too often like I’d read this
before. Grafton may need something else to spur this series along when it
comes to the next letter or S will be for Swindle of anyone who buys a copy. Here’s
an excerpt, all of Chapter 3, pp.
22-31: Saturday
morning, I slept in until 8:00, showered, dressed, made a pot of coffee, and
sat at my kitchen counter, where I ate my ritual bowl of cereal. Having
washed both bowl and spoon, I returned to my stool and surveyed the place.
I’m inordinately tidy and I’d just done a thorough housecleaning earlier in
the week. My social calendar was unblemished and I knew I’d spend Saturday
and Sunday alone as I did most weekends. Usually this doesn’t bother me, but
today I felt an unsettling sensation. I was bored. I was so desperate for
something to do, I thought about returning to the office to set up the files
for another case I’d taken on. Unfortunately, my office bungalow is
depressing and I wasn’t motivated to spend another minute at my desk. Which
left me to do what? Damned if I knew. In a moment of panic, I realized I
didn’t even have a book to read. I was on the verge of leaving for the
bookstore to stock up on paperbacks when my telephone rang. “Hi, Kinsey. This is Vera. I’m glad I
caught you. You have a minute?” “Of course. I was on my way out, but
it’s nothing pressing,” I said. Vera Lipton had been a colleague of mine at
California Fidelity Insurance, where I spent six years investigating arson
and wrongful-death claims. She was the claims manager while I worked as an
independent contractor. She had since left the business, married a doctor,
and settled into life as a full-time mom. I’d seen her briefly in April with
her husband, a physician named Neil Hess. Also in tow was
a rowdy golden retriever pup, and her eighteen-month-old son, whose name I
forgot to ask. She was massively pregnant and due to deliver her second child
within days, judging by her belly. I said, “Tell me about the baby. You
looked ready to drop one the day I saw you at the beach.” “No kidding. I was sway-backed as a
mule. I had shooting pains in both legs, and the baby’s head pressing on my
bladder made me dribble in my pants. I went into labor that night and Meg was
born the next afternoon. Listen, the reason I called, we’d love to have you
over. We never see you these days.” “Sounds good to me. Give me a toot and
we’ll set something up.” There was a pause. “That’s what I’m
doing. I just invited you to conic over and have a drink with us. We’re
putting some people together for a barbecue this afternoon.” “Really? What time?” “Four o’clock. I know it’s short notice, but I’m hoping you’re free.” “As it happens, I am. What’s the
occasion?” Vera laughed. “No occasion. I just
thought it’d he nice. We’ve invited a few neighbors. Strictly casual and
low-key. If you have a pencil handy, I’ll give you the address. Why don’t
you plan to be here a little early and we can catch up.” I took down the information, not at all
convinced. Why would she call like this out of the blue? “Vera, are you sure
you’re not up to Something? I don’t mean to sound rude, but we chatted for
five minutes in April. Before that, there was a gap of four years. Don’t get me wrong. I’d be happy to see you. but it does seem odd.” “Mmm.” I said, “What,” not even bothering to make a question
of the word. “Okay, I’ll level with you. but you have to promise you won’t scream.” “I’m listening. but this is making my stomach hurt.” “Neil’s younger brother,
Owen, is in town for the weekend. We thought you should meet him. “What for?” “Kinsey. occasionally men and women are introduced to each
other, or haven’t you heard?” “Like a blind date.’ “It’s not a blind date. It’s drinks and a few snacks. There’ll be tolls of other people so it’s not
like you Ii be stuck with him one-on-one. We’ll sit on the back deck. Cheez Whiz and crackers. If you like him, that’s swell. If you don’t, no big
deal.” “The last time you fixed me up. it was with Neil,” I said. “My point exactly. Look how that turned
out.” I was silent for a moment. “What’s he like?” “Will, aside from the fact that he
walks with his knuckles barely grazing the floor, he seems to be okay. Look,
I’ll have him fill out an application. You can do a background check. Just be here at three-thirty. I’m wearing my only
pair of jeans that haven’t been split up the back.” She hung up
while 1 was saying. “But. . .“ I listened to the dial tone in a state
of despair. I could see now I was being penalized for shirking my job. I
should have gone in to work. The Universe keeps track of our sins and exacts
devious and repugnant punishments, like dates with unknown men. I went up
the spiral staircase and opened my closet so I could stare at my clothes.
Here’s what I saw: My black all-purpose dress—which is the only dress I own,
good for funerals and other somber occasions, not suitable for meeting guys,
unless they’re already dead. Three pairs of jeans, a denim vest, one short
skirt, and the new tweed blazer I bought when I had lunch with my cousin, Tasha, eighteen months before. Also, an olive-green
cocktail dress I’d forgotten about, given to me by a woman who was later
blown to bits. In addition, there were castoffs from Vera, including a pair
of black silk pants so long I had to roll ‘em up at
the waist. If I wore those, she’d ask to have them back, thus forcing me to
drive home essentially naked below the waist. Not that I thought harem pants
would be suitable for a barbecue. I knew better than that. Shrugging, I opted
for my usual jeans and turtleneck. At 3:30 promptly I was ringing Vera’s
doorbell. The address she’d given me
was on the upper east side of town, in a neighborhood of older homes. Theirs
was a ramshackle Victorian painted dark gray with white trim and an L-shaped
wooden porch complete with froufrou along the rail. The front door had a stained-glass rose in the center
that made Vera’s face look bright pink when she peered out at me. Behind her, the dog barked with excitement,
eager to jump up and slobber on someone new. She opened the door, holding the
dog by its collar to prevent its escape. She said,
“Don’t look so glum. You’ve been given a reprieve. I sent the
guys out to buy Pampers and beer,
so it’s just us for twenty minutes. Come on in.” Her hair was
cropped short and streaked with
blond. She still sported her glasses with wire frames and enormous pale blue
lenses. Vera’s the type of
woman who attracts admiring glances wherever she goes. Her figure was
substantial, though she’d already dropped much of the weight she gained with
Meg. She was barefoot, wearing tight jeans and an oversize tunic with short
sleeves and a complicated cut to the top. All the toddler and baby toting had
firmed her biceps. She held the door for me, angling her
body so the dog couldn’t lunge
at me just yet. He’d doubled in size since I’d seen him on the beach. He
didn’t seem like a mean mutt, but he was exuberant. She leaned close to his face, put a hand around
his muzzle, and said, “No!” in
a tone that had no particular effect. He seemed to like the attention and
licked her in the mouth the first chance he got. “This is Chase. Ignore him. He’ll
settle down in a bit.” I made an effort to ignore the dog
while he pranced around, barking happily, and then snagged the hem of my pant
leg and began to tug. He emitted a puppy growl, his feet braced on the hall
carpet so he could rip my jeans to shreds. I stood there, captive, and said, “Gee, this is fun. Vera. I’m so
glad I came.” She gave me a look, but let the sarcasm
pass. She snagged the dog by the collar and dragged him toward the kitchen
while I followed. The foyer ceiling was high with a set of stairs to the
right, the living room on the left. A short hall led straight to the kitchen
across the back. The passage was the usual land mine of wooden blocks, plastic
toy parts and abandoned doggie bones. She shoved Chase into a kennel the size
of a steamer trunk. This didn’t dismay the dog, but I felt guilty
nonetheless. He placed a baleful eye to one of the air vents in the kennel
and stared at me with hope. The kitchen was large and 1 could see a
wide deck accessible through a set of French doors. The cabinets were dark
cherry, the counters dark green marble, with a six-burner stove-top built
into a central island. Both the baby and Vera’s son, whom she introduced as
Peter, were already bathed and dressed for bed. Near the kitchen sink, a
woman in a pale blue uniform was piping a star of yellow filling into each of
a dozen hard-boiled egg halves. “This is Mavis,” Vera said. “She and
Dirk are helping, to save the wear and tear on me. I’ve got a babysitter on
her way.” I murmured greetings and Mavis smiled
in response, hardly pausing as she squeezed the filling from a pastry bag.
Parsley had been tucked around the platter. On the counter nearby there were
two baking sheets of canapes ready for the oven and
two other serving platters, one arranged with fresh cut vegetables and the
other an assortment of imported cheeses interspersed with grapes. So much for
Cheez Whiz—which I personally adored, being a
person of low tastes. This party had clearly been in the works for weeks. I
now suspected the designated blind date had come down with the flu and I’d
been elected to take her place. . . a B-list substitute. Dirk, in dress pants and a short white
jacket, was working near the walk-in pantry where he’d set up a temporary bar
with a variety of glasses, an ice bucket, and an impressive row of wine and
liquor bottles. “How many are you expecting?” “Twenty-five or
so. This is strictly last minute so a lot of people couldn’t make it.” “I’ll bet.” “I’m still off the booze because of Twinkletoes here.” The baby, Meg, was strapped in an
infant seat in the middle of the kitchen table, looking around with a vague
expression of satisfaction. Peter, aged twenty-one months, had been secured
in a high chair. His tray was littered with Cheerios and green peas that he
captured and ate when he wasn’t squishing them instead. Vera said, “That’s not his dinner. It’s
just to keep him occupied until the babysitter shows. Speaking of which,
Dirk can fix you a drink while I take Peter upstairs.” She removed the tray
from the high chair anti set it aside, then lifted the boy and set him on one
hip. “I’ll be hack shortly. If Meg cries, it’s probably because she wants to
be picked up.” Vera disappeared
clown the hall with Peter, heading for the stairs. Dirk said, “What can I get for you?” “Chardonnay’s
fine. I’d appreciate that.” I watched while he removed a bottle of
Chardonnay from an ice tub behind him. He poured me a glass and added a
cocktail napkin as he passed the wine across the makeshift bar. “Thanks.” Vera had set out Brie and thinly sliced
French bread, bowls of nuts and green olives. I ate one, being careful not to
crack my teeth on the pit. I was curious to tour the rest of the downstairs rooms,
but I didn’t dare leave Meg. I had no idea what a baby her age was capable of
doing while strapped in an infant seat. Could they hop in those things? One end of the kitchen had been
furnished with two sofas upholstered in a floral fabric, two coordinating
chairs, a coffee table, and a television set built into an entertainment
center that ran along the wall. Wineglass in hand, I circled the periphery,
idly studying the silver-framed photos of family and friends. I couldn’t help
wondering if one of the fellows pictured was Neil’s brother, Owen. I imagined
him, like Neil, on the short side and probably dark-haired as well. Behind me, Meg made a restless sound of
the sort that suggested more to follow at twice the volume. I tended to my
responsibilities, setting down my wineglass so 1 could free the child from
her infant seat. I picked her up, so unprepared for how light she was 1
nearly flung her through the air. Her hair was dark and fine, her eyes a
bright blue with lashes as delicate as feathers. She smelled like baby powder
and maybe something fresh and brown in her pants. Amazingly, after staring at
me briefly, she laid her face against my shoulder and began to gnaw on her
fist. She squirmed and the little oinking sounds
she made hinted at feeding urges I hoped wouldn’t erupt before her mother
returned. I jiggled her a bit and that seemed to satisfy her temporarily. I had now exhausted my vast fund of
infant-care tricks. I heard a manly trampling outside on
the wooden deck. Neil opened the back door bearing a grocery sack bulky with
disposable diapers. The guy who came in behind him carried two six-packs of
bottled beer. Neil and I exchanged greetings and then he turned to his
brother and said, “Kinsey Millhone. This is my
brother, Owen.” I said, “Hi.” The babe in my arms
precluded anything in the way of handshakes. He responded with hey-how-are-you—type
things, talking over his shoulder while he delivered the beer into Dirk’s
capable hands. Neil set the sack on a kitchen stool
and removed the package of disposable diapers. “Let me run these on up. You
want me to take her?” lie asked, indicating Meg. “This is fine,” I said, and
surprisingly, it was. After Neil left, I peered down at her and discovered
that she’d gone to asleep. “Oh, wow. I said, scarcely daring to breathe. I
couldn’t tell if the ticking I heard was my biological clock or the delayed
timing device on a bomb. Dirk was in the process of making a
margarita for Owen, ice clattering in the blender. With his attention
occupied I had an opportunity to study him. He was tall, compared with his
brother, over six feet while Neil topped out closer to my height at
five-feet-seven. His hair was sandy, lightly dusted with gray. He was lean,
an ectomorph, where Neil’s build was stocky. Blue
eyes, white lashes, a good-size nose. He glanced over at me and I dropped my
gaze discreetly to Meg. He wore chinos and a navy short-sleeved shirt that
revealed the light downy hair along his forearms. His teeth were good and his
smile seemed sincere. On a scale of 1 to 10—10 being Harrison Ford—I’d place
him at 8, or maybe even 8 plus plus. He moved to the counter where I was
standing and helped himself to a canape.
We chatted idly, exchanging the sort of uninspired questions and answers that
tend to pass between strangers. He told me he was visiting from Eventually, Neil and Vera came
downstairs. She took the baby and settled on the couch. Vera fiddled with her
shirt, popped a boob out, and began to breast-feed while Owen and I made a
point of looking somewhere else. Eventually several other couples arrived.
There were introductions all around
as each new twosome was incorporated. The kitchen was gradually taken up with guests, standing in
small groups, some spilling into the hallway and out onto the deck. When the babysitter
arrived, Vera took Meg upstairs and
returned wearing a different shirt. The noise level rose. Owen and I
were separated by the crowd,
which was all right with me as I’d run
out of things to say to him. I made an effort to he friendly, chitchatting with
any poor soul who caught my
eye. Everyone seemed nice enough, but social gatherings are exhausting to someone of my introverted
nature. I endured it as long as I could and then eased toward the foyer where
I’d left my shoulder bag. Good
manners dictated that I say thank you and goodbye to host and hostess, but
neither were in sight and I thought i(d be expedient to tiptoe away without calling
attention to my escape. As I closed
the front door and made my way down the wooden porch stairs, I
caught sight of Cheney Phillips coming up the walk in a deep red silk shirt,
cream dress pants, and highly polished Italian loafers. Cheney was a local cop, working vice last I heard. I
tended to run into him at a
dive called the Caliente Café—also known as
CC’s—off He said,
“Leaving so soon?” “Hey, how are
you? What are you doing here?” He tilted his
head. “I live next door.” I followed
his gaze to the house, another two-story Victorian
that appeared to be a twin of the one I’d just left. Not many cops can afford the tab on a Santa Teresa residence of that size and vintage. “I thought you lived in Perdido.” “I did. That’s where I grew up. My
uncle died, leaving me a great whack of dough so I decided to invest it in
real estate.” He was probably thirty-four, three years younger than I, with a
lean face and a mop of dark curly hair, five-eight or so, and slim. He’d told
me that his mother sold high—end real estate and his father was X. Phillips
who owned the Bank of X. Phillips in Perdido, a
town thirty miles to the south. He’d clearly been raised in an atmosphere of
privilege. “Nice house,’ I said. “Thanks. I’m still getting
settled or I’d offer you a tour. “Maybe another
time,” I said, wondering
about his wife. “What are you up to these days? “Nothing much. A little this and that.” “Why don’t you return to the party and have a drink with me? We should talk.” I said. “Can’t. I have to he someplace and I’m late as it is.” “Rain check?” “Of course.” I waved, walking
backward for a moment before I turned and headed to my car. Now why had I
said that? I could have staved
for a drink, but I couldn’t
face another minute in that
crowd. Too many people and too much
chitchat. I was home again by 6:15, relieved to be alone but feeling let down nonetheless. Given that
I hadn’t wanted to meet Vera’s brother—in—law
in the first place. I was disappointed—the
blind date had turned out to be a bland date. Nice guy. no sparks, which was probably
just as well. Sort of. It was
entirely possible the regrets were
attached to Cheney Phillips instead of Owen Hess, but I didn’t want to
deal with that. What was the point? I
could swear that I read this entire chapter in an earlier Grafton book. It
all seemed so familiar, and not in a good way. Kinsey fans will jump at
reading R
is for Ricochet. New readers may want to pick up elsewhere, or take a
pass. Reading this book reminded me of watching a favorite series on
television, even when the current episode is not particularly good. There’s
always next week, so I look forward to S is for Something. Steve
Hopkins, September 25, 2004 |
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ã 2004 Hopkins and Company, LLC The recommendation rating for
this book appeared in the October 2004
issue of Executive Times URL for this review: http://www.hopkinsandcompany.com/Books/R
is For Ricochet.htm For Reprint Permission,
Contact: Hopkins & Company, LLC • E-mail: books@hopkinsandcompany.com |
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