“I get that a lot. People tell me I look like the Marlboro Man.”
I laughed. “You do.”
He moved his rag across the tin of saddle soap, which he applied to the chair arm with a circular motion. “You have a name?”
“Oh, sorry. Kinsey Millhone. I’m a PI from Santa Teresa. Are you sure we haven’t met? I could swear I’ve run into you. Maybe a professional meeting?”
“I don’t do those. Do you socialize up here?”
“I hardly socialize anywhere.”
“Nor do I. So what can I do for you?”
“Does my name ring a bell?”
He took his time answering. “Possibly, though the context escapes me. Refresh my memory.”
“You worked for my grandmother once upon a time. Cornelia Kinsey.”
He moved from the side of the chair to the back, the leather looking almost wet as he rubbed in the saddle soap. “What makes you think I worked for her?”
“I have the invoices.”
“Mrs. Kinsey still alive?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss her business without her consent.”
“Admirable.”
“You said you’re a PI. You must find yourself in the same boat every now and then.”
“As a matter of fact, it happened in the last two weeks.”
“Then I don’t have to spell out the ethical implications. She paid for the information. It belongs to her.”
“Don’t you think the statute of limitations has run out where I’m concerned?”
“Depends on what you want to know.”
I opened the manila envelope and dumped the letters on his desk. “Know what these are?”
“Not from down here. You want to hold something up where I can see it?”
I picked up a handful of letters, which I fanned out and held in view. “Some of these were sent to my Aunt Gin and some to me. All of them were returned unopened. Well, except the first. It looks like Aunt Gin read that one before she put it back in the mail to Grand.”
“You steal them?”
“No, but I would have, given half a chance. A cousin of mine came across them when she was going through my grandfather’s files. I figured the letters are mine since they’re addressed to me.”
“You’d have to take that up with an attorney. I’m not well versed in the laws governing intellectual property,” he said. “What happened to Virginia Kinsey?”
“She died fifteen years ago.”
“Ah. Well, I’m sorry to hear.”
“I was the sole beneficiary of her estate, which means her letters are mine as well.”
“You won’t catch me arguing the point.”
“Did you know her?”
“I met her in the line of duty, so to speak.”
“You want to hear my theory?”
“I can’t prevent you from voicing an opinion.”
“In the two or three years after my parents’ death, my grandmother was hell-bent on gaining custody of me. It’s all in the letters. I’m guessing you were hired to investigate my Aunt Gin in hopes of impugning her parenting ability.”
Hale Brandenberg said nothing. His rag went around and around while he squinted in the manner of a man who’s accustomed to working with a cigarette in one corner of his mouth. His was a type I’d run across before. The rugged outdoor sort. His humor was dry and understated, and his persona had a comforting appeal.
“No comment?” I asked.
“Don’t think so. I understand your interest, but the same principle applies. You want the information, talk to your granny.”
“She’s in her nineties and losing it, from what I hear. I doubt she’d remember what you did for her.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m free to discuss it with you.”
“Mr. Brandenberg, in less than a month, I’ll be thirty-eight years old. I’m not up for adoption so I don’t see what difference it could possibly make if you confirmed what I’ve said.”
He smiled faintly. “The name’s Hale and you have a point. At your age, I’m sure the court would take your wishes into consideration before making a decision about placement.”
“That’s safely nonresponsive. What if I ask about process instead of content?”
“You can try.”
“What happened to the written reports? I’ve got invoices but nothing else.”
“There weren’t any.”