The End of the Pier by Martha Grimes Page A

burrowing his way into their attention by addressing the woman as “Mrs. Butts” and discovering he’d been wrong.
    â€œGrizzell. That’s ‘Griz- zell ,’ mister, accent on the second syl- la -ble—not like them papers kept calling it, ‘Grizzel.’ Made it sound like “gristle.’ ” She had a whiplash voice and the same punishing eyes as the grammar school teacher who’d walked between the third-grade desks with a narrow birch rod.
    At least he’d got her attention for a moment. “Mrs. Grizzell. Sorry. I guess I just supposed you were Mr. Butts’s—relative.” He didn’t want to say “mother” in case she turned out to be not more than ten years older than Carl Butts. “Newspapers aren’t known for being accurate. But you’d think they could get a name spelled right, wouldn’t you?” Sam smiled his damnedest, realizing this was the mother-in-law, Loreen Grizzell Butts’s mother.
    She eased a bit in her rocking chair and nodded. “Think so. Now, what’s police coming back for? They got that Boy Chalmers that murdered my Loreen.” Her attention went back to the soap, where a discussion between a toffee-haired girl and a tearful woman had replaced the one between the doctors.
    Same talk, different people, thought Sam. “I’m real sorry about your daughter, Mrs. Grizzell. I’m sorry to intrude upon your grief, ma’am.”
    At that, she had to look up and look grieved, and pull the wadof handkerchief from her sleeve. But her eyes were still gorging on the soap.
    â€œCarl, offer the man a chair. What did you say your name was?” she asked, as Butts rose to drag over a folding chair with an orange vinyl back and seat. The color clashed with the pink petunia pattern on the slipcovered easy chair in which Butts sat. He grunted when Sam thanked him.
    â€œDeGheyn,” said Sam in answer to her question. “Sam.”
    Her eye strayed from him to the ceiling, the cobwebs there, and she repeated the name, mouthing it carefully. “De-Gin.”
    â€œWell, more ‘Da- Geen .’ Long e. Rhymes with ‘beguine,’ if you remember that old song.” Sam smiled.
    As if she didn’t quite trust his pronunciation, she asked, “Just how do you spell that name?”
    â€œD-E-G-H-E-Y-N.”
    That floored her; she stopped her rocking, then picked it up at a rather reckless speed, all the while shaking her head. “That ain’t no American name. What kind of name is that, anyways?” Her eyes narrowed.
    â€œDutch.” Sam smiled, offered his cigarettes around. She shook her head, but her son-in-law took one, his eyes still clamped to the swimming greeny-blue of the TV. They’d both forgotten he was a policeman, apparently. “It’s a funny spelling, all right. And even funnier, it’s really supposed to be pronounced without any g sound, and with a long i —‘Da- Hine .’ You’ll appreciate why I use the G.”
    She just shook and shook her head in wonder at the vagaries of oddly spelled names. “Hine? Hine? Well, I never did hear any name so peculiar that don’t sound like it’s spelt!” She shook her head in wonder. “Yes, I most certainly do appreciate you use the G. You American?” Her eyes narrowed.
    â€œBorn-and-bred U.S. of A. So was my mother and father. It was my great-great-great-grandfather that was Dutch.” Sam had no idea if this was true; the origins of his name were lost in theswirling mists of the Atlantic crossing. What he had discovered was that it was the name of a famous Dutch painter, but looking at the picture on the Butts wall of a twelve-point buck, gold antlers painted on black velvet, he thought he’d leave that detail out. Yet Mrs. Grizzell seemed satisfied by this, for she nodded and smacked her lips. Sam went on: “And I’ll tell you, it’s