E Is for Evidence (Kinsey Millhone Series #5)

( 99 )

Overview

No one writes a thriller like #1 New York Times bestselling author Sue Grafton. In E is for Evidence, PI Kinsey Millhone becomes the victim of a nasty frame-up…

E IS FOR EX

Being a twice-divorced, happily independent loner has worked like a charm for P.I. Kinsey Millhone—until holiday weekends like this one roll around. What she needs is a little diversion to ward off the blues. She gets her much-needed distraction with a case that places her ...

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Overview

No one writes a thriller like #1 New York Times bestselling author Sue Grafton. In E is for Evidence, PI Kinsey Millhone becomes the victim of a nasty frame-up…

E IS FOR EX

Being a twice-divorced, happily independent loner has worked like a charm for P.I. Kinsey Millhone—until holiday weekends like this one roll around. What she needs is a little diversion to ward off the blues. She gets her much-needed distraction with a case that places her career on the line. And if that isn’t enough to keep her busy, her ex-husband, who walked out on her eight years ago, pops back on the radar...

E IS FOR ENEMY
It all begins with a $5,000 deposit made into Kinsey’s bank account. Problem is she’s not the one who deposited the money. But when she’s accused of being on the take in an industrial arson case, Kinsey realizes someone is framing her…

E IS FOR EVIDENCE
Now Kinsey’s working for herself. But with new evidence—and corpses—surfacing around her, she’s going to have to act quickly to clear her name before she loses her career, her reputation—and quite possibly her life…

 

When Kinsey is accused of being on the take, she has everything to lose--her license, her livelihood, and her good name. And so, being her own client, she sets out to unravel the frame-up--and discovers that her future is tied to an explosive secret a family has protected for years!

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Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly - Publisher's Weekly
While private detective and former cop Kinsey Millhone (``D'' Is for Deadbeat) is investigating a possible case of industrial arson involving a company owned by the family of a former schoolmate, someone tries to make it look as if she's on the take. A mysterious $5000 appears in her bank account. She sets out to clear herself, while two or possibly more cases of murder occur, including one by bombing. A Christmas spent alone and the reappearance of her second ex-husband, Daniel, who had deserted her, add to Kinsey's depression. Grafton has an accurate, wicked eye for California lifestyle and wise-cracking Kinsey is an appealing, nonhackneyed female detective. Particularly illuminating are the descriptions of document searches, which make up much of real detective work today. This fifth entry in the series, however, is not quite up to the standards of its predecessors because the motivation for the crimes seems weak. That caveat notwithstanding, readers will be glad that further letters of the alphabet await Grafton's imagination. (May)
Vincent Patrick
The best detective ficiton I've read in years...the plot is just fine and does just what a plot should do in a good detective novel: it keeps us turning pages and serves as a vehicle for the really interesting stuff, an unveiling of the character's foibles by the worldly-wise but uncorrupt private eye, and this is where Sue Grafton shines. She has endowed Kinsey with that most important attribute of a fictional private eye, a distinct voice...her observations on the surrounding society are right on the money without being condescending...Lord, how I like this Kinsey Millhone. May her practice flourish. -- The New York Times Book Review
From the Publisher
"Exceptionally entertaining…an offbeat sense of humor and a feisty sense of justice."

San Francisco Chronicle

"Millhone is an engaging detective-for-hire…P.I. Kinsey Millhone and her creator…are arguably the best of [the] distaff invaders of the hitherto sacrosanct turf of gumshoes."

The Buffalo News

"Once a fan reads one of Grafton's alphabetically titled detective novels, he or she will not rest until all the others are found."—Los Angeles Herald Examiner

"Millhone is a refreshingly strong and resourceful female private eye."—Library Journal

"Tough but compassionate…There is no one better than Kinsey Millhone."—Best Sellers

"A woman we feel we know, a tough cookie with a soft center, a gregarious loner."—Newsweek

"Lord, how I like this Kinsey Millhone…The best detective fiction I have read in years."—The New York Times Book Review

"Smart, tough, and thorough…Kinsey Millhone is a pleasure."—The Bloomsbury Review

"Kinsey is one of the most persuasive of the new female operatives…She's refreshingly free of gender clichés. Grafton, who is a very witty writer, has also given her sleuth a nice sense of humor—and a set of Wonder Woman sheets to prove it."—Boston Herald

"What grandpa used to call a class act."—Stanley Ellin

"Smart, sexual, likable and a very modern operator."—Dorothy Salisbury Davis

"Kinsey's got brains and a sense of humor."—Kirkus Reviews

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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9781250020277
  • Publisher: St. Martin's Press
  • Publication date: 12/11/2012
  • Series: Kinsey Millhone Series , #5
  • Pages: 320
  • Sales rank: 167,668
  • Product dimensions: 5.68 (w) x 8.06 (h) x 0.86 (d)

Meet the Author

SUE GRAFTON is The New York Times #1 bestselling author for the alphabet series. She has been working on this series since 1982 and intends to complete the series in 2015.

Biography

Sue Grafton is published in 28 countries and 26 languages -- including Estonian, Bulgarian, and Indonesian. She's an international bestseller with a readership in the millions. She's a writer who believes in the form that she has chosen to mine: "The mystery novel offers a world in which justice is served. Maybe not in a court of law," she has said, "but people do get their just desserts." And like Raymond Chandler and Ross Macdonald, Robert Parker and the John D. MacDonald—the best of her breed—she has earned new respect for that form. Her readers appreciate her buoyant style, her eye for detail, her deft hand with character, her acute social observances, and her abundant storytelling talents.

But who is the real Sue Grafton? Many of her readers think she is simply a version of her character and alter ego Kinsey Millhone. Here are Kinsey's own words in the early pages of N Is for Noose:

"So there I was barreling down the highway in search of employment and not at all fussy about what kind of work I'd take. I wanted distraction. I wanted some money, escape, anything to keep my mind off the subject of Robert Deitz. I'm not good at good-byes. I've suffered way too many in my day and I don't like the sensation. On the other hand, I'm not that good at relationships. Get close to someone and the next thing you know, you've given them the power to wound, betray, irritate, abandon you, or bore you senseless. My general policy is to keep my distance, thus avoiding a lot of unruly emotion. In psychiatric circles, there are names for people like me."

Those are sentiments that hit home for Grafton's readers. And she has said that Kinsey is herself, only younger, smarter, and thinner. But are they an apt description of Kinsey's creator? Well, she's been married to Steve Humphrey for more than twenty years. She has three kids and two grandkids. She loves cats, gardens, and good cuisine—not quite the nature-hating, fast-food loving Millhone. So: readers and reviewers beware. Never assume the author is the character in the book. Sue, who has a home in Montecito, California ("Santa Theresa") and another in Louisville, the city in which she was born and raised, is only in her imagination Kinsey Millhone -- but what a splendid imagination it is.

Biography from author website

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    1. Hometown:
      Montecito, California and Louisville, Kentucky
    1. Date of Birth:
      April 24, 1940
    2. Place of Birth:
      Louisville, Kentucky
    1. Education:
      B.A. in English, University of Louisville, 1961
    2. Website:

Read an Excerpt

Chapter One

It was Monday, December 27, and I was sitting in my office, trying to get a fix on the mood I was in, which was bad, bad, bad, comprised of equal parts irritation and uneasiness. The irritation was generated by a bank notice I’d just received, one of those windowed numbers with a yellow carbon showing through. At first, I assumed I was overdrawn, but what I pulled out was a slip, dated Friday, December 24, showing a five-thousand-dollar deposit to my checking account.

"What the hell is this?" I said.

The account number was correct, but the deposit wasn’t mine. In my experience, banks are the least helpful institutions on earth, and the notion of having to stop what I was doing to straighten out an error was nearly more than I could bear. I tossed the notice aside, trying to reclaim my concentration. I was getting ready to write up the preliminary report on an insurance case I’d been asked to look into, and Darcy, the secretary at California Fidelity, had just buzzed to say that Mac wanted the file on his desk right away. Mentally, I’d come up with a tart suggestion about what she could do with herself, but I’d kept my mouth shut, showing (I thought) admirable restraint.

I turned back to my portable Smith-Corona, inserting the proper form for a property-insurance-loss register. My nimble fingers were poised to type while I reviewed my notes. That’s where I was stuck. Something was off and I couldn’t figure out what it was. I glanced at the bank notice again.

Almost with an eye toward the comic relief, I called the bank, hoping the diversion would help me focus on what was bothering me about the situation at Wood/Warren, a local company manufacturing hydrogen furnaces for industrial use. They’d had a fire out there on December 19 that had destroyed a warehouse.

"Mrs. Brunswick, Customer Service. May I help you?"

"Well, I hope so," I said. "I just received a notice saying I put five thousand dollars in my checking account last Friday and I didn’t do that. Is there any way you can straighten it out?"

"May I have your name and account number, please?"

"Kinsey Millhone," I said, supplying my account number in slow, measured tones.

She put me on hold briefly while she called up the records on her computer terminal. Meanwhile, I listened to the bank’s rendition of "Good King Wenceslas," which I’ve personally never understood. What’s the Feast of Stephen?

Mrs. Brunswick clicked back in. "Miss Millhone, I’m not certain what the problem is, but we do show a cash deposit to this account number. Apparently, it was left in the night-deposit slot and posted over the weekend."

"You still have one of those night-deposit slots?" I asked with amazement.

"At our downtown branch, yes," she said.

"Well, there’s some kind of mistake here. I’ve never even seen the night-deposit slot. I use my twenty-four-hour instant teller card if I need to transact bank business after hours. What do we do now?"

"I can track down a copy of the deposit slip," she said skeptically.

"Would you do that, please? Because I didn’t make a deposit of any kind last Friday and certainly not five thousand dollars’ worth. Maybe somebody transposed some numbers on the deposit slip or something, but the money sure doesn’t belong to me."

She took my telephone number and said she’d get back to me. I could tell I was in for countless phone calls before the correction could be made. Suppose somebody was merrily writing checks against that five grand?

I went back to the task at hand, wishing I felt more enlightened than I did. My mind kept jumping around. The file on the fire claim at Wood/ Warren had actually come into my hands four days before, late Thursday, the 23rd. I’d been scheduled to have a farewell drink with my landlord, Henry Pitts, at four, and then take him out to the airport and put him on a plane. He was flying back to Michigan to spend the holidays with his family, some of whom are edging into their nineties with their vigor and good spirits still in evidence. Henry’s pushing eighty-two, a mere kid, and he was about as excited as one at the prospect of the trip.

I was still at the office that afternoon with my paperwork caught up and some time to kill. I went out onto my second-floor balcony, peering off to my right at the V of Pacific Ocean visible at the foot of State Street, ten blocks down. This is Santa Teresa, California, ninety-five miles north of Los Angeles. Winter here is a grand affair, full of sunshine and mild temperatures, vibrant magenta bougainvillea, gentle winds, and palm trees waving fronds at the sea gulls as they wheel overhead.

The only signs of Christmas, two days away, were the garlands of tinsel strung along the main streets.

The stores, of course, were packed with shoppers, and there was a trio of Salvation Army horn players tooting away at "Deck the Halls." In the interests of feeling jolly, I thought I’d better work out my strategy for the next two days.

Anyone who knows me will tell you that I cherish my unmarried state. I’m female, twice divorced, no kids, and no close family ties. I’m a private detective by trade. Usually I’m perfectly content to do what I do. There are times when I work long hours on a case and times when I’m on the road and times when I hole up in my tiny apartment and read books for days. When the holidays come around, however, I find that I have to exercise a certain cunning lest the absence of loved ones generate unruly depression. Thanksgiving had been a breeze. I spent the day with Henry and some pals of his, who’d cooked and sipped champagne and laughed and told tales about days long past, making me wish I were their age instead of my own, which is thirty-two.

Now Henry was leaving town, and even Rosie, who runs the dingy neighborhood tavern where I often eat, was closing down until January 2, refusing to tell a soul what she meant to do with herself. Rosie is sixty-six, Hungarian, short, top-heavy, bossy, and often rude, so it wasn’t as though I was worried I’d miss any touching heart-to-heart chats. The fact that she was closing her eatery was simply one more uncomfortable reminder that I was out there in the world all by myself and had best find a way to look after me.

At any rate, I’d glanced at my watch and decided I might as well head on home. I switched on the answering machine, grabbed my jacket and handbag, and was just locking up when Darcy Pascoe, the receptionist from the insurance company next door, popped her head in. I had worked for California Fidelity full time at one point, doing investigations on fire and wrongful death claims. Now the arrangement is informal. I’m more or less on call, doing a certain number of investigations for them, as needed, in exchange for downtown office space I couldn’t otherwise afford.

"Oh, wow. I’m glad I caught you," Darcy said. "Mac told me to give you this."

She handed me a file, which I glanced at automatically. The blank form inside indicated that I was being asked to do a fire-scene inspection, the first in months.

"Mac did?" Mac is the CFI vice-president. I couldn’t imagine him handling routine paperwork.

"Well, actually, Mac gave it to Andy and Andy said I should give it to you."

There was a memo attached to the file cover, dated three days before and marked rush. Darcy caught my look and her cheeks tinted faintly.

"It was stuck under a big pile of stuff on my desk or I’d have gotten it to you sooner," she said. Darcy’s in her late twenties and something of a flake. I crossed to my desk, tossing the file on top of some others I was working on. I’d catch it first thing in the morning. Darcy lingered in the doorway, guessing my intent.

"Is there any way you can get to that today? I know he’s anxious to get somebody out there. Jewel was supposed to handle it, but she’s taking two weeks off, so Mac said maybe you could do it instead."

"What’s the claim?"

"A big warehouse fire out in Colgate. You probably heard it on the news."

I shook my head. "I’ve been down in L.A."

"Well, the newspaper clippings are in there, too. I guess they want someone out there superquick."

I was annoyed at the pressure, but I opened the manila folder again and checked the property-loss notice, which was posted on top. "Wood/Warren?" I said.

"You know the company?"

"I know the Woods. I went to high school with the youngest girl. We were in the same homeroom."

She looked relieved, as if I’d just solved a problem for her. "That’s great. I’ll tell Mac maybe you can get out there this afternoon."

"Darcy, would you knock that off? I’ve got to take somebody to the airport," I said. "Trust me. I’ll make an appointment for the earliest possible moment."

"Oh. Well, I’ll make a note then so they’ll know you’re taking care of it," she said. "I have to get back to the phones. Let me know when you have the report and I’ll come pick it up."

"Terrific," I said. She must have decided she had pushed me far enough because she excused herself and disappeared in haste.

As soon as she left, just to get it over with, I put a call through to Wood/Warren and arranged to meet with the company president, Lance Wood, at 9:00 the next morning, Christmas Eve day.

Meanwhile, as it was 3:45, I tucked the file in my handbag, locked up, and headed down the back stairs to the lot where my VW was parked. I was home ten minutes later.

During our little pre-Christmas celebration, Henry gave me a new Len Deighton novel and I gave him a periwinkle-blue mohair muffler, which I had crocheted myself—a little-known talent of mine. We sat in his kitchen and ate half a pan of his homemade cinnamon rolls, drinking champagne out of the matching crystal flutes I’d given him the year before.

He took out his plane ticket and checked the departure time again, his cheeks flushed with anticipation. "I wish you’d come with me," he said. He had the muffler wrapped around his neck, the color setting off his eyes. His white hair was soft and brushed to one side, his lean face tanned from California sun.

"I wish I could, but I just picked up some work that’ll get my rent paid," I said. "You can take lots of pictures and show ’em to me when you get back."

"What about Christmas Day? You’re not going to be by yourself, I hope."

"Henry, would you quit worrying? I’ve got lots of friends." I’d probably spend the day alone, but I didn’t want him to fret.

He raised a finger. "Hold on. I almost forgot. I have another little present for you." He crossed to the counter by the kitchen sink and picked up a clump of greenery in a little pot. He set it down in front of me, laughing when he saw the expression on my face. It looked like a fern and smelled like feet.

"It’s an air fern," he said. "It just lives on air. You don’t even have to water it."

I stared at the lacy fronds, which were a nearly luminous green and looked like something that might thrive in outer space. "No plant food?"

He shook his head. "Just let it sit."

"I don’t have to worry about diffuse sunlight or pinching back?" I asked, tossing around some plant terms as if I knew what they meant. I’m notoriously bad with plants, and for years I’ve resisted any urge whatever to own one.

"Nothing. It’s to keep you company. Put it on your desk. It’ll jazz the place up a bit."

I held the little pot up and inspected the fern from all sides, experiencing this worrisome spark of possessiveness. I must be in worse shape than I thought, I thought.

Henry fished a set of keys out of his pocket and passed them over to me. "In case you need to get into my place," he said.

"Great. I’ll bring in your mail and the papers. Is there anything else you need done while you’re gone? I can mow the grass."

"You don’t need to do that. I’ve left you the number where I can be reached if the Big One hits. I can’t think of anything else." The Big One he referred to was the major earthquake we’d all been expecting any day now since the last one in 1925.

He checked his watch. "We better get a move on. The airport is mobbed this time of year." His plane wasn’t leaving until 7:00, which left us only an hour and a half to make the twenty-minute trip to the airport, but there wasn’t any point in arguing. Sweet man. If he had to wait, he might as well do it out there, happily chatting with his fellow travelers.

I put on my jacket while Henry made a circuit of the house, taking a few seconds to turn the heat down, making sure the windows and doors were secured. He picked up his coat and his suitcase and we were on our way.

I was home again by 6:15, still feeling a bit of a lump in my throat. I hate to say goodbye to folks and I hate being left behind. It was getting dark by then and the air had a bite to it. I let myself into my place. My studio apartment was formerly Henry’s single-car garage. It’s approximately fifteen feet on a side, with a narrow extension on the right that serves as my kitchenette. I have laundry facilities and a compact bathroom. The space has been cleverly designed and apportioned to suggest the illusion of living room, dining room, and bedroom once I open my sofa bed. I have more than adequate storage space for the few things I possess.

Surveying my tiny kingdom usually fills me with satisfaction, but I was still battling a whisper of Yuletide depression, and the place seemed claustrophobic and bleak. I turned on some lights. I put the air fern on my desk. Ever hopeful, I checked my answering machine for messages, but there were none. The quiet was making me feel restless. I turned on the radio—Bing Crosby singing about a white Christmas just like the ones he used to know. I’ve never actually seen a white Christmas, but I got the gist. I turned the radio off.

I sat on a kitchen stool and monitored my vital signs. I was hungry. One thing about living alone . . . you can eat any time you want. For dinner that night I made myself a sandwich of olive-pimento cheese on whole-wheat bread. It’s a source of comfort to me that the brand of olive-pimento cheese I buy has tasted exactly the same since the first time I remembered eating it at the age of three and a half. Resolutely I veered off that subject, since it connected to my parents, who were killed when I was five. I cut the sandwich into four fingers, as I always did, poured myself a glass of white wine, and took my plate over to the couch, where I opened the book Henry had given me for Christmas. I checked the clock.

It was 7:00 p.m. This was going to be a very long two weeks.

Excerpted from E is for Evidence by Sue Grafton.

Copyright © 1988 by Sue Grafton.

Published in December 2005 by St Martin’s Press.

All rights reserved. This work is protected under copyright laws and reproduction is strictly prohibited. Permission to reproduce the material in any manner or medium must be secured from the Publisher.

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Customer Reviews

Average Rating 4
( 99 )
Rating Distribution

5 Star

(45)

4 Star

(29)

3 Star

(17)

2 Star

(3)

1 Star

(5)

Your Rating:

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See All Sort by: Showing 1 – 20 of 99 Customer Reviews
  • Anonymous

    Posted November 3, 2011

    love it!

    am going thru the whole alphabet!

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted August 25, 2004

    FAROUT MOTIVE

    THIS IS NOT ONE OF MS. GRAFTON'S BEST STORIES. THE MOTIVE FOR THE MURDERS AND MAYHEM IS FAR-FETCHED. NEEDS A MORE BELIEVABLE ENDING.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Posted January 25, 2014

    highly recommended

    this was a great book i have enjoyed all of sue grafton's books an still reading them

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted January 20, 2014

    Great read!!!!!!

    We must start with letter A and go from there. They are a great read. I read her books while waiting for ajames Patterson to come out with new ones.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted October 21, 2013

    great mystery

    Sue Grafton scores another great mystery! Staying up all night to read to the end!

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Posted October 17, 2013

    E is for Evidence by Sue Grafton  ( I always want to type 'by Ki

    E is for Evidence by Sue Grafton  ( I always want to type 'by Kinsey Millhone') is Excellent!  Once again, I didn't see that coming.  Some of it, but certainly not the ending.  Sue Grafton has a way of showing the individual strands, then pulling them together at the end into a web of lies and deception.  Kinsey is a strong and usually likable character.  When her attitude changes and her perspective advances, I can see the sign in her experiences.  I really am enjoying this series.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Posted October 16, 2013

    Sue Grafton does it again. Great story line and character devel

    Sue Grafton does it again. Great story line and character development.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted May 16, 2013

    R

    Rememberable idiotical moments....

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted April 19, 2013

    Read A, B & C, like the books, but sometimes I think she doe

    Read A, B & C, like the books, but sometimes I think she does some dumb things. Then I get mad and find myself yelling at the book. Just ordered D, E, & F, hopefully she gets smarter as they go on, will give them one more try.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted February 23, 2013

    Ya...

    E is for evidence...evidence that justin biebers my husband!!

    0 out of 3 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted December 23, 2012

    To them

    You guys are SICK. Nook S€x is wrong.

    0 out of 3 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted December 23, 2012

    Lawrence

    *he bites her lower lip, and he begins taking off her jeans.*

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted December 24, 2012

    Reyna

    Smiles and lets him.

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted November 2, 2012

    Good series

    Gooooood

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  • Anonymous

    Posted June 26, 2012

    Love Sue Grafton's Books

    I have read Ms Grafton's books off and on for several years, checking them out from the library. I am now purchasing them for my IPad. The books are discriptive with out being morbid of mysteries Kinsey is trying to solve. Kinsey herself is an interesting person. Sometimes I find my self wanting to get right in the story and enjoy becoming a friend of hers to pal with!
    I have never belonged to a book club, but think her books could be read and enjoyed by all who enjoy a good book!

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  • Posted February 26, 2012

    more from this reviewer

    Pretty good

    It was the silly season and a Monday at that, and Kinsey Millhone was bogged down in a preliminary report on a fire claim. Something was nagging at her, but she couldn't pin it. The last thing she needed in the morning mail was a letter from her bank recording an erroneous $5,000 deposit in her account. Kinsey had never believed in Santa Claus and she wasn't about to change her mind now. Resigning herself to a morning of frustration, she phoned the bank and, assaulted by canned carols, waited on hold for an officer to clear up the snafu.

    It was with something less than Christmas cheer that Kinsey faced off only minutes later with California Fidelity's Mac Voorhies. Voorhies was smart, humorless, stingy with praise, and totally fair. He was frowning now.

    "I got a phone call this morning." he said, his frown deepening. "Somebody says you're on the take."

    Suddenly the $5,000 deposit clicked into place. It wasn't a mistake. It was a setup.

    "E" is for evidence: evidence planted, evidence lost. "E" is for ex-lovers and evasions, enemies and endings. For Kinsey, "E" is for everything she stands to lose if she can't exonerate herself: her license, her livelihood, her good name. And so she takes on a new client: namely, Kinsey Millhone, thirty-two and twice-divorced, ex-cop and wisecracking loner, a California private investigator with a penchant for lost causes--one of which, it is to be hoped, is not herself.

    As Kinsey begins to unravel the frame-up, she finds that her future is intimately tied to one family's past and to the explosive secret it has protected for almost twenty years. Digging deeper, she discovers that probing the past can have lethal consequences as she follows a trail of murder that leads to her own front door. And in what may well be her most challenging case, Kinsey comes up against the fact that sometimes, "E" is forever.

    When Kinsey is accused of being on the take, she has everything to lose--her license, her livelihood, and her good name. And so, being her own client, she sets out to unravel the frame-up--and discovers that her future is tied to an explosive secret a family has protected for years!

    It was a pretty good book. I didn't figure it out until Kinsey did. Well written and I can't wait for the next one.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted January 7, 2012

    Highly recommened.

    Sue Grafton's style is upheld in this book. She keeps you guessing till the end.

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  • Posted April 25, 2011

    well written

    I am really enjoying all of Sue Grafton's books. This book is good as are the others. I love the characters in her books and can't wait to read the "F" book next!

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  • Posted January 31, 2011

    more from this reviewer

    E is for Ex-husband: Spoilers

    Paperback: This is the 5th book in the series and so far the best. There are person issues as well as professional ones.
    Professionally, Kinsey is set up for arson fraud and her client is herself. The evidence has been planted and Kinsey has to prove her innocence before she is arrested. There ends up being two murders for Kinsey to solve.
    Personally, it is Christmas/New Year's and Kinsey is alone. No wait, ex-husband number one shows up. He claims to be clean from heroine addiction and want to make amends as part of his ten-step program. There's no Joshua or Henry in this book. However, Kinsey finds out the main reason for ex #1 leaving her. The suspects are rich in this book. Rich peeps = Lots of sex secrets.
    The ending was a little disappointing with the motive of the murder. The ending is not as bam!, in your face as the last four.

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  • Posted January 13, 2011

    more from this reviewer

    Excellent!!! highly recommend.

    Sue Crafton and her ABC's books are always a delight and this one was no disappointment.

    I was delightfully surprised since the Herione is the accused in this book. Kept on the edge of my seat at times and hated to put it down until it was finished.

    A great read.

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