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Sue Grafton 419 Sue Grafton from “O” Is for Outlaw Kinsey Millhone may not yet be as well known as Poe’s Auguste Dupin, Christie’s Miss Marple, or Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes, but give her time. Her creator, Sue Grafton, a Louisville native born in 1940 now living half the year in California and the other half back home, has cast Kinsey as the hero and private investigator par excellence in a series of “alphabet mysteries,” beginning with “A” Is for Alibi and currently extending to “R” Is for Ricochet. By the time she gets to Z, we’ll know Kinsey better than we know ourselves. Each new alphabetic installment of her life and career produces great joy among her myriad fans and a full-page ad in the New York Times. Kinsey lives in a studio apartment in southern California, drives a pale blue VW, and is addicted to McDonald’s Quarter Pounders with Cheese. She investigates most of her crime cases in Santa Teresa and Montebello, the fictional versions of Santa Barbara and Montecito, where Grafton has a home. Her sleuthing, however, has taken her twice to Louisville and allowed Grafton to pay homage to her hometown . Kinsey’s visit to Louisville in “O” Is for Outlaw shows just how exciting the old town can be. h My plane arrived in Louisville, Kentucky, at 5:20 P.M., at a gate so remote it appeared to be abandoned or under quarantine. I’d been in Louisville once before, about six months back, when a cross-country romp had ended in a cemetery, with my being the recipient of an undeserved crack on the head. In that case, as with this, I was out a substantial chunk of change, with little hope of recouping my financial losses. As I passed through the terminal, I paused at a public phone booth and checked the local directory on the off chance I’d find Porter Yount listed. I figured the name was unusual and there couldn’t be that many in the greater Louisville area. The high school librarian had told me the Tribune had been swallowed up by a syndicate some twenty years before. I imagined Yount old and retired, if he were alive at all. For once my luck held and I spotted the address and phone number of a Porter Yount, whom I assumed was the man I was looking for. According to the phone book, he lived in the 1500 block of Third Street. I made a note of the address and continued to the baggage claim level, where I forked over my credit card and picked up the keys to the rental car. The woman at Frugal gave me a sheet map and traced out my 419 420 The Kentucky Anthology route: taking the Watterson Expressway east, then picking up I-65 North into the downtown area. I found my car in the designated slot and took a moment to get my bearings . The parking lot was shiny with puddles from a recent shower. Given the low probability of rain any given day in California, I drank in the scent. Even the air felt different: balmy and humid with the late-afternoon temperatures in the low 70s. Despite Santa Teresa’s proximity to the Pacific Ocean, the climate is desertlike. Here, a moist spring breeze touched at newly unfurled leaves, and I could see pink and white azaleas bordering the grass. I shrugged out of Mickey’s jacket and locked it in the trunk along with my duffel. I decided to leave the issue of a motel until after I’d talked to Yount. It was close to the dinner hour, and chances were good that I’d find him at home. Following instructions, I took one of the downtown off-ramps, cutting over to Third, where I took a right and crossed Broadway. I drove slowly along Third, scanning house numbers. I finally spotted my destination and pulled in at a bare stretch of curb a few doors away. The tree-lined street, with its three-story houses of dark red brick, must have been lovely in the early days of the century. Now, some of the structures were run-down, and encroaching businesses had begun to mar the nature of the area. The general population was doubtless abandoning the once-stately downtown for the featureless suburbs. Yount’s residence was two and a half stories of red brick faced with pale fieldstone. A...

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