Kinsey and Me
Authors: Sue Grafton
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
U is for Undertow
V is for Vengeance
A MARIAN WOOD BOOK
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Copyright © 2013 by Sue Grafton
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ISBN 978-1-101-61431-0
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.
For Ivan, Marian, and Molly:
With admiration, appreciation, and affection
contents
preface
A
MYSTERY SHORT STORY
is a marvel of ingenuity. The writer works on a small canvas, word-painting with
the equivalent of a brush with three hairs. In the space of twenty or so manuscript
pages, the writer must establish the credentials and personality of the detective
(Kinsey Millhone in this case), as well as the time period and the physical setting.
Usually, there’s a murder or a missing person, whose disappearance is a matter of
concern. Lesser crimes, such as burglary, theft, embezzlement, or fraud, may provide
the spark for the story line, but as a rule, murder is the glue that holds the pieces
in place.
In short order, the writer has to lay out the nature of the crime and introduce two
or three viable suspects (or
persons of interest
as they’re referred to these days). With a few deft strokes, the writer must further
create suspense and generate a modicum of action while demonstrating how the detective
organizes the subsequent inquiry and arrives at a working theory, which is then tested
for accuracy. A touch of humor is a nice addition to the mix, lightening the mood
and allowing the reader momentary relief from the tensions implicit in the process.
In the end, the resolution must satisfy the conditions set forth at the beginning.
While the mystery novelist has room to develop subplots and peripheral characters,
as well as the leisure to flesh out the private life of the protagonist, in the short
story such indulgences are stripped away. The subtleties of the artfully disguised
clue and the placing of road signs pointing the reader in the wrong direction may
be present in the short story, but pared to a minimum.
The crime story, the mystery story, and the detective story are related forms that
differ in the following ways. A crime story dramatizes the planning, commission, or
aftermath of a crime without introducing any element of mystery. The reader is invited
along for the ride, a witness to events and fully apprised of what’s going on. Here,
the reader functions as a voyeur, caught up in the action and subject to its rewards
or consequences. The mystery story, on the other hand, proposes a puzzle with a crime
at its center, but doesn’t rely on the ratiocinations of a sleuth to drive the plot
toward its conclusions. Instead, the reader serves in that role, observing, analyzing,
and drawing inferences from the tantalizing questions the writer has proposed.
The detective story is governed by a special set of laws, many of which were laid
out by S. S. Van Dine in an essay on the subject written in 1928. Not all of the strictures
still apply, but many of the rules of the game are as critical today as they were
back then. For starters, a detective story has to have a detective and, by definition,
the detective must detect. The reader
must
be made privy to all of the information the detective uncovers in the course of an
investigation. Of primary importance is the necessity for fair play. The clues have
to be plainly stated though the detective’s intellectual leaps needn’t be entirely
spelled out. The culprit has to be a visible entity in the body of the tale. In other
words, the killer can’t be someone who pops out of nowhere in the last paragraph.
Generally speaking, the killer can’t be a maniac or a stone-cold crazoid operating
without a rational plan. The point of a mystery is to figure out
whodunit
and the “who” has to be a visible player, though the means and methods might not be
obvious. The killer can’t be a professional hit man whose sole motivation is financial
and who therefore has no relationship with the victim at all. The crime must have
its roots in the past or present reality of the victim.
In a first-person narrative, the detective cannot also be cast as the killer because
this would undermine the fundamental trust between the writer and the reader. The
“I” who tells the story is presumed to be revealing all, not reporting objective events
while neatly sidestepping his own complicity. The solution to the puzzle and the explanation
for the crime have to be natural and logical. No ghosts, no Ouija boards, and no Divine
Intervention. There are other, lesser axioms and if you’re curious, you can look them
up on the Internet the same way I did. The principles in play are what make the detective
story challenging. The best practitioners are masters of their craft and experts at
sleight of hand, performing their literary magic tricks with a grace and delicacy
that make the illusions seem real.
For me, the mystery short story is appealing for two reasons. One, I can utilize ideas
that are clever, but too quirky or slight to support the extended trajectory of the
novel. And two, I can complete a manuscript in two weeks as opposed to the longer
gestation and delivery time required of a novel. The short story allows me to shift
gears. Like an invitation to go outside and play, the shorter form offers a refreshing
change of pace.
The Kinsey Millhone stories, which constitute the first section of this book, appeared
in various magazines and crime anthologies over a five-year period that began in 1986.
The single exception, “The Lying Game,” I wrote in response to an invitation from
Lands’ End to submit a short story for the fortieth-anniversary catalogue. As a rule,
I don’t write to order, and I can’t obligingly create a short story in response to
even the kindest of requests. In this instance, Roz Chast and Garrison Keillor had
agreed to contribute. Aside from the fact that I’m a huge fan of both humorists, there
was something about the combination of writerly personalities and styles that appealed
to my Dark Side. I went straight to a Lands’ End catalogue and leafed through, looking
for an item of clothing that had some magic attached. I got as far as Outerwear, and
when I read the description of the Squall Parka I knew I’d found my inspiration. In
1991, these stories, with the exception of “The Lying Game,” were brought together
in a collection called
Kinsey and Me
, which was privately published by my husband, Steven Humphrey, through his company,
Bench Press. The print run consisted of three hundred hardcover copies, which I numbered
and signed, and twenty-six hand-bound copies that I lettered and signed. Some of these
were sold and some were given as gifts to family and friends.
T
HE STORIES IN
the second section of the book I wrote in the ten years following my mother’s death.
At the remove of some fifty years, I still find myself reluctant to lift the veil
on a period of my life that was chaotic and confused. Looking back, I can see that
I was rudderless and floundering, that in attempting to save myself, I hurt others.
For this, I am deeply apologetic. I wish now that I’d been more giving, more gracious,
less self-absorbed, and certainly less irresponsible than I was. Maturity would have
been a big help, but that didn’t come until later. Astoundingly, out of these same
struggles I’ve been gifted with three incredible children, a husband whom I adore,
and four granddaughters, whose energy and goodness fill my world with light. I’ve
also been given friends who’ve encouraged me to this telling with more generosity
and understanding than I’ve sometimes accorded myself.
I wish life could be edited as deftly as prose. It would be nice to go back and write
a better story, correcting weaknesses and follies in the light of what I now know.
What I’ve noticed though is that any attempt to trim out the dark matter takes away
some of the good that was also buried in the muck. The past is a package deal and
I don’t believe there’s a way to tell some of the truth without telling most. Wisdom
comes at a price, and I have paid dearly for mine.
