I let her lead the way into the living room, where Mrs. Fowler was now propped up in the full-sized hospital bed. She was gray-haired and heavy, her dark eyes magnified by thick glasses in heavy plastic frames. She was wearing a white cotton hospital gown that tied down the back. The neck was plain, with SAN LUIS OBISPO COUNTY HOSPITAL inked in block letters along the rim. It struck me as curious that she'd affect such garb when she could have worn a bed jacket or a gown and robe of her own. Illness as theater, perhaps. Her legs lay on top of the bedclothes like haunches of meat not yet trimmed of fat. Her pudgy feet were bare, and her toes were mottled gray.

I crossed to the bed, holding my hand toward hers. "Hi, how are you? I'm Kinsey Millhone," I said. We shook hands, if that's what you'd call it. Her fingers were as cold and rubbery as cooked rigatoni. "Your husband mentioned you weren't feeling well," I went on.

She put her handkerchief to her mouth and promptly burst into tears. "Oh, Kenny, I'm sorry. I can't help myself. I'm just all turned around with Bailey showing up. We thought he was dead and here he comes again. I've been sick for years, but this has just made it worse."

"I can understand your distress. It's Kinsey," I said.

"It's what?"

"My first name is Kinsey, my mother's maiden name. I thought you said 'Kenny' and I wasn't sure you heard it right."

"Oh Lord. I'm so sorry. My hearing's nearly gone and I can't brag about my eyes. Ann, honey, fetch a chair. I can't think where your manners went." She reached for a Kleenex and honked into it.

"This is fine," I said. "I've just driven up from Santa Teresa, so it feels good to be on my feet."

"Kinsey's the investigator Pop hired yesterday. "

"I know that," Mrs. Fowler said. She began to fuss with her cotton cover, plucking it this way and that, made restless by topics that didn't pertain to her. "I hoped to get myself all cleaned up, but Ann said she had errands. I hate to interfere with her any more than I have to, but there's just things I can't do with my arthritis so bad. Now, look at me. I'm a mess. I'm Ori, short for Oribelle. You must think I'm a sight."

"Not at all. You look fine." I tell lies all the time. One more couldn't hurt.

"I'm diabetic," she said, as though I'd asked. "Have been all my life, and what a toll it's took. I got tingling and numbness in my extremities, kidney problems, bad feet, and now I've developed arthritis on top of that." She held a hand out for my inspection. I expected knuckles as swollen as a prizefighter's, but they looked fine to me.

"I'm sorry to hear that. It must be rough." "Well, I've made up my mind I will not complain," she said. "If it's anything I despise, it's people who can't accept their lot."

Ann said, "Mother, you mentioned tea a little while ago. How about you, Kinsey? Will you have a cup?"

"I'm all right for now. Thanks." "None for me, hon," Ori said. "My taste for it passed, but you go ahead and fix some for yourself."

"I'll put the water on."

Ann excused herself and left the room. I stood there wishing I could do the same. What I could see of the apartment looked much like the office: gold high-low carpeting, Early American furniture, probably from Montgomery Ward. A painting of Jesus hung on the wall at the foot of the bed. He had his palms open, eyes lifted toward heaven- pained, no doubt, by Ori's home decorating taste. She caught my eye.

"Bailey gave me that pitcher. It's just the kind of boy he was."

"It's very nice," I replied, then quizzed her while I could. "How'd he get mixed up in a murder charge?"

"Well, it wasn't his fault. He fell in with bad company. He didn't do good in high school and after he got out, he couldn't find him a job. And then he ran into Tap Granger. I detested that no-account the minute I laid eyes on him, the two of 'em running around till all hours, getting into trouble. Royce was having fits."

"Bailey was dating Jean Timberlake by then?"

"I guess that's right," she said, apparently hazy on the details after so much time had passed. "She was a sweet girl, despite what everybody said about that mother of hers."

The telephone rang and she reached over to the bed table to pick it up. "Motel," she said. "Unh-hunh, that's right. This month or next? Just a minute, I'll check." She pulled the reservation book closer, removing a pencil from between the pages. I watched her flip forward into March, peering closely at the print. Her tone, as she conducted business, was completely matter-of-fact. Gone was the suggestion of infirmity that marked her ordinary speech. She licked the pencil point and made a note, discussing king-sized beds versus queen.

I took the opportunity to go in search of Ann. A doorway on the far wall led out into a hallway, with rooms opening off the central corridor in either direction. On the right, there was a staircase, leading to the floor above. I could hear water being run and then the taint tap of the teakettle on the burner in the kitchen to my left. It was hard to get a fix on the overall floor plan and I had to guess the apartment had been patched together from a number of motel rooms with the intervening walls punched out. The resulting town house was spacious, but jerry-built, with the traffic patterns of a maze. I peeked into the room across the hall. Dining room with a bath attached. There was access to the kitchen through what must have been an alcove for hanging clothes. I paused in the doorway. Ann was setting cups and saucers on an industrial-sized aluminum serving tray.

"Need any help?"

She shook her head. "Look around if you like. Daddy built the place himself when he and Mother first got married."

"Nice," I said.

"Well, it's not anymore, but it was perfect for them. Has she given you a key yet? You might want to take your bags up. I think she's putting you in room twenty-two upstairs. It's got an ocean view and a little kitchenette."

"Thanks. That's great. I'll take my bags up in a bit. I'm hoping to talk to the attorney this afternoon."

"I think Pop set up an appointment for you at one-forty-five. He'll probably want to tag along if he's feeling up to it. He tends to want to stage-manage. I hope that's all right."

"Actually, it's not. I'll want to go alone. Your parents seem defensive about Bailey, and I don't want to have to cope with that when I'm trying to get a rundown on the case."

"Yes. All right. I can see your point. I'll see if I can talk Pop out of it."

Water began to rumble in the bottom of the kettle. She took teabags from a red-and-white tin canister on the counter. The kitchen itself was old-fashioned. The linoleum was a pale gridwork of squares in beige and green, like an aerial view of hay and alfalfa fields. The gas stove was white with chrome trim, unused burners concealed by jointed panels that folded back. The sink was shallow, of white porcelain, supported by two stubby legs, the refrigerator small, round-shouldered, and yellowing with age, probably with a freezer compartment the size of a bread box.

The teakettle began to whistle. Ann turned the burner off and poured boiling water in a white teapot. "What do you take?"

"Plain is fine."

I followed her back into the living room, where Ori was struggling to get out of bed. She'd already swung her feet over the side, her gown hitching up to expose the crinkled white of her thighs.

"Mother, what are you doing?"

"I have to go sit on the pot again, and you were taking so long I didn't think I could wait."

"Why didn't you call? You know you're not supposed to get up without help. Honestly!" Ann set the tray down on a wooden serving cart and moved over to the bed to give her mother a hand. Ori descended ponderously, her wide knees trembling visibly as they took her weight. The two proceeded awkwardly into the other room.