Grafton’s P.I. takes a breather

Fans of Sue Grafton who try to guess future alphabet-influenced titles of her novels featuring private detective Kinsey Millhone probably missed the boat on No. 18, “R Is for Ricochet.” Even after reading it, one may wonder why the author selected that particular “R” word, since neither guns nor bullets are featured prominently.

“This is a story about romance -- love gone right, love gone wrong, and matters somewhere in between,” narrator Millhone tells us upfront. So it’s possible that the reference is to the 1953 pop ditty in which singer Teresa Brewer emphatically declared an aversion to “ricochet romance.” Calling the novel “R Is for Romance” would probably have sounded a bit too Nora Roberts-y.

Several seemingly more appropriate hard Rs are suggested by the novel’s main plot, in which reclusive, ailing multimillionaire Nord Lafferty hires the detective to collect his daughter Reba from the California Institute for Women, where she’s spent the last two years paying for the crime of embezzlement. Kinsey is to drive her safely home to his mansion in Montebello (a barely fictionalized Montecito) and then help ease her back onto the straight and narrow.

It’s a task made more daunting by the fact that Reba Lafferty is a rebel with a cause. She has served the sentence out of love for the real thief, her former boss, Alan Beckwith. That remorseless lout has not only remained married, contrary to promises made before and during her incarceration, but also has begun an affair with the woman he picked to replace her in his company. Reba wants revenge and, in spite of Kinsey’s best efforts, is relentless in her pursuit of it.

Actually, the alphabetic progression of Grafton’s titles, inappropriate or not, is about the only constant in the Millhone saga. Some authors prefer their sleuths to specialize (homicides, crimes against children, serial killers). Grafton has made her heroine an all-purpose investigator. A reader never knows whether Kinsey will be involved in an almost-classic whodunit (“A Is for Alibi”), an arson case (“E Is for Evidence”), a missing-person quest that turns personal (“J Is for Judgment”), a treasure hunt (“L Is for Lawless”) or, as in the last outing, “Q Is for Quarry,” the search for a solution to an 18-year-old murder based on an actual cold case from the files of the Santa Barbara Sheriff’s Office.

Here it’s as if the author purposely begins with a standard situation -- the detective calling on a wealthy but ill client (see Raymond Chandler’s “The Big Sleep”) -- and then gleefully sets about breaking every cardinal rule of the mystery novel. There is no murder until the last few pages. Clues and deduction are at a minimum. The crimes are discussed openly -- by Reba and by a police detective named Cheney Phillips, who, with the IRS, wants to get the goods on Beckwith’s money-laundering operation. There are no secret villains, no shocking turns of plot.

Even more surprising, it’s Reba who takes control of the case, with Kinsey acting as her reluctant Watson. “In the passing drama of life,” the detective explains, “I’m usually the heroine, but occasionally I’m simply a minor character in someone else’s play.” A straightforward, shock-free crime novel, in which the detective is oddly passive and nearly all of the villainy occurs off the page, may seem anathema to the mystery lover. But Grafton, ever the professional yarn-spinner, and a playful one at that, turns it into a refreshingly unique and satisfying entertainment.

There’s an appropriate amount of suspense (courtesy of a crime lord named Salustio) and an ever-present sense of place (primarily the fictitious Santa Teresa standing in for Santa Barbara). The prose is smooth and seemingly effortless, the descriptions crisp and concise. “The ancient woman who came to the door wore an old-fashioned black uniform with a white pinafore over it. Her opaque stockings were the color of doll flesh, her crepe-soled shoes emitting the faintest squeak as I followed her down the marble-tiled hall.”

There’s a special treat for fans of the series. With Reba off somewhere doing the heavy lifting, Kinsey is allowed more personal time than usual. Some of it she spends with her landlord, the charming octogenarian Henry Pitt, whose shipboard romance with a merry widow is running aground on shore, thanks to the interference of his two irritating older brothers.

The rest has her starting a romance of her own with Phillips (first seen in “K Is for Killer”). “I found myself ... fantasizing about what might come next,” she says. “Phillips had a laziness about him, a natural tempo half the speed of mine. I was beginning to see that operating in high gear was a means of protecting myself. Living at an accelerated pace allowed me to feel only half as much because there wasn’t time to feel more.”

Prior to being reintroduced to the slow-moving Phillips, Kinsey seemed emphatic about staying clear of romantic entanglements, explaining, “I’ve learned the hard way that love and work are a questionable mix.” Still, their passionate affinity seems destined to lead to more than a one-book affair. And with a writer as unpredictable as Grafton, who’s to say there won’t be a “W Is for Wedding” five novels down the line? Or perhaps “W” will be for “Widow” or, judging by the current title, “Wigwag” or “Wombat.” Or