by Sue Grafton
I pushed away from the counter, heading toward the exit.
"Well, you don't need to take that attitude," he called. I glanced back. He was looking entirely too self-satisfied for my taste.
"Right," I said and pushed on out the double doors.
I came out of the police station into the flat overcast day and stood for a moment, collecting myself. The man gets to me. No doubt about it. I took a deep breath.
The temperature was in the mid-sixties. Pale remnants of sunlight shone through the clouds, tinting the neighborhood with lemon-colored light. The shrubbery had taken on a chartreuse glow and the grass seemed dry and artificial from the lack of moisture. It hadn't rained for weeks and the month of June had been a monotonous succession of foggy mornings, hazy afternoons, and chilly nights. Actually, Lieutenant Dolan had opened up a possibility and I wondered if Elaine's departure was coincidental with the murder of Marty Grice or connected in some way. If the vandalism at Tillie's was related, why not this? Could she have taken off to avoid the lieutenant's questioning? I thought it might help to pin down some dates.
I headed over to the newspaper office six blocks away and file clips on Marty Grice's death. There was only one clip, a small article, maybe two inches long, stuck back on page eight of local news, dated January 4.
+++
BURGLAR KILLS HOUSEWIFE,
THEN BURNS BODY,
POLICE SAY
A Santa Teresa housewife was bludgeoned to death during an apparent burglary in her west-side residence early last night. According to homicide detectives, Martha Renee Grice, 45, of 2095 Via Madrina, was struck repeatedly with a blunt instrument and doused with flammable liquid. The victim's body was discovered, badly burned, in the foyer of the partially destroyed single-family dwelling after Santa Teresa fire fighters battled the blaze for thirty minutes. The fire was first spotted by neighbors at 9:55 P.M. Two adjacent homes were evacuated, but no other injuries were reported. Details of the arson were withheld pending further investigation.
+++
The crime seemed pretty spectacular to get such small play. Maybe the cops hadn't had much to go on and had tried to minimize the coverage. That might explain Dolan's attitude. Maybe he wasn't being uncooperative. Maybe he had no evidence. Nothing makes a cop any tighter than that. I took down the pertinent information in my notebook and then I walked over to the public library and checked the Santa Teresa city directory that had come out last spring. Martha Grice was listed at 2095 Via Madrina along with a Leonard Grice, bldg. contrctr. I assumed he was the husband. The newspaper account had made no mention of him and I wondered where he'd been when the whole thing went down. The directory listed the neighbors next door at 2093 as Orris and May Snyder. His occupation was "retired" but the directory didn't say from what. I jotted down the names and the telephone number. It might be interesting to see if I could find what went on and whether Elaine might have seen something she didn't want to talk about. The more I thought about it, the better I liked that idea. It gave me a whole new line to pursue.
I retrieved my car from the lot behind my office and circled back around to Via Madrina. It was now twelve o'clock straight up and high-school students were spilling out onto the streets; girls in jeans, short white socks and high heels, guys in chinos and flannel shirts. The wholesome California sorts outnumbered the punkers about three to one, but most of them looked like they'd been dressed out of ragbags. Some kids were wearing outrageous designer jumpsuits and some wore whole outfits in camouflage fabric as though prepared for an air attack. About half the girls sported three to four earrings per ear. In hairstyles, they seemed to fancy the wet look, or ponytails sticking up out of the sides of their heads like waterspouts.
As I pulled up in front of the condominium, a cluster of six girls were clumping down the sidewalk, smoking clove-scented cigarettes. Shoulder pads and green nail polish, dark red lipstick. They looked like they were on their way to a USO dance in 1943.
I caught just a fragment of their conversation.
"So I'm all 'What the fuck did you think I was talking about, dickhead?!' and he goes like 'Hey, well, I never did anything to you, bitch, so I don't know what your problem is.'"
I smiled to myself, and then looked over at the Grice house with interest. It was white frame, a story and a half, with a squat L-shaped porch across the front, resting on fat redbrick pillars topped with short pyramids of wood. It looked as if it had been jacked up somehow and might, at any moment, collapse. Most of the porch roof had burned away. The yard was scrappy and a row of pale pink-and-blue hydrangea bushes crowded the porch, still looking browned and wilted from the fire, though new growth was bravely showing through. The front window frames on the first floor were capped with lintels of black soot where the fire had licked the framing. A sign had been posted warning trespassers away. I wondered if the salvage crew had already gone in to clean up. I was hoping not, but I was probably out of luck on that. I wanted to see the house as it had been on the night of the fire. I also wanted to chat with Leonard Grice, but there was no indication whatever that the house was inhabited. Even from the street, I could still pick up the six-month-old cologne of charred wood and grinding damp where the firemen's hoses had penetrated every seam and crevice.
As I headed toward Elaine's condominium, I spotted someone coming out of a small wooden utility shed in the Grices' backyard. I paused to watch. A kid maybe seventeen. He had a Mohawk haircut, three inches of what looked like bright pink hay with a path mown on either side. He had his head down, his hands shoved into the pockets of his army fatigues. With a start, I realized I'd seen him before – from Elaine's front window the first time I searched her place. He'd been standing in the street below, rolling a joint at a leisurely pace. Now what was he up to? I veered, picking up my pace so my path would intersect his just about at the property line. "Hello," I said.
He looked up at me, startled, flashing the sort of polite smile kids reserve for adults. "Hi."
His face didn't match the rest of him. His eyes were deepset, a jade green set off by dark lashes and dark eyebrows that feathered together at the bridge of his nose. His skin was clear, his smile engaging, slightly snaggle-toothed. He had a dimple in his left cheek. He glanced to one side, moving past me. I reached out and caught him by the sleeve. "Can I talk to you?"
He looked at me and then quickly back over his shoulder. "You talking to me?"
"Yes. I saw you coming out of that shed back there. You live around here?"
"What? Oh. Sure, couple of blocks away. This is my Uncle Leonard's house. I'm supposed to check and make sure nobody's bothering his stuff." His voice was light, almost feminine.
"What stuff is that?"
The jade-green eyes had settled on me with curiosity. He smiled and his whole face brightened. "You a cop or something?"
"Private investigator," I said. "My name is Kinsey Millhone."
"Wow, that's great," he said. "I'm Mike. You guarding the place or something like that?"
I shook my head. "I'm looking into another matter, but I heard about the fire. Your aunt was the one who was killed?" The smile flickered. "Yeah, right. Jesus, that was terrible. I mean, her and me were never close, but my uncle really got messed up over that. He's a fuckin' basket case. Oh. Sorry 'bout that," he said sheepishly. "He's like vegged out or something, staying with this other aunt of mine."
"Can you tell me how to get in touch with him?" "Well, my aunt's name is Lily Howe. I don't remember the number offhand, or I'd help you out."
He was beginning to blush and the effect was odd. Pink hair, green eyes, rosy cheeks, green army fatigues. He looked like a birthday cake, innocent and festive somehow. He ran a hand across his hair, which was standing straight up on top like a whisk broom.
I wondered why he was so ill at ease. "What were you doing back there?"
He glanced back at the shed with an embarrassed shrug. "I was checking the padlock. I get like really paranoid, you know? I mean, the guy pays me ten buck
s a month and I like to do right by him. Did you want something else? Because I have to go grab some lunch and get back to class, okay?"
"Sure. Maybe I'll see you later."
"Right. That'd be great. Anytime." He smiled at me again and then moved away, walking backward at first, his eyes latched to mine, turning finally so that I was watching the narrow back and slim hips. There was something disturbing about him, but I couldn't think what it was. Something didn't jibe. That goody-two-shoes helpfulness and the look in his eyes. Artless and cunning... a kid whose conscience is clear because he doesn't have one. Maybe I'd check him out too, as long as I was at it. I went into the condominium courtyard.
Chapter 7
* * *
I found Tillie spraying down the walk, a rolling tumble of leaves and debris pushed along by the force of the jet. Water dripped from the feather palms, the rubbery scent of hose mingling with the odor of wet earth. Stepping-stones were tucked in among the giant ferns, though why anyone would want to walk back in there was beyond me. It looked like a shadowy haven for daddy longlegs. Tillie smiled when she saw me and released the trigger nozzle, shutting off the spray. She was wearing jeans and a T-shirt, her spare form giving her a girlish look even in her sixties.
"Did you ever get any sleep?" I asked.
"No, and I'm not going to stay in that apartment 'til the windows are fixed. I may have an alarm system put in too. I came out here just to busy myself. Hosing the walks is restful, don't you think? It's one of the pleasures of adulthood. When I was a kid, my dad never would let me have a turn."
"Have you been down to the police station yet?"
"Oh, I'll go in a bit, but I don't look forward to it."
"I went by a little while ago and filed a missing persons report on Elaine."
"What'd they say?"
I shrugged. "Nothing much. They'll do what they can. I ran into a homicide detective who worked on Marty Grice's murder. He says Elaine was supposed to come in for an interview and never showed up. Do you remember how soon afterward she went to Florida?"
"Well, I'm not sure. It was that same week. I do know that much. She was terribly upset about the murder and that's one reason she left. I thought I mentioned that."
"You said she was sick."
"She was, but she always seemed to have something wrong with her. She said the murder had her crazy with anxiety. She thought getting out of town would help. Hang on," Tillie said. She went into the bushes and turned off the water at the faucet, using the last of the water pressure to empty the hose before she coiled it up again. She emerged from the shrubbery, wiping her damp hands on her jeans. "Are you thinking she knew something about Marty's death?"
"I think it's worth looking into," I said. "Her side window looks right down into the Grices' entryway. Maybe she saw the burglar."
Tillie made a skeptical face. "In the dark?"
I shrugged. "It doesn't seem likely, does it, but I don't know what else to think."
"But why wouldn't she have gone to the police if she knew who it was?"
"Who knows? Maybe she wasn't thinking straight. People panic. They don't like to get involved in these things. Maybe she felt she was in jeopardy herself."
"Well, she was nervous," Tillie said. "But then we were all a bundle of nerves that week. You want to come in?"
"Actually I do. I think I ought to take a look at those bills of hers. At least we can see how recently she's used her charge accounts and where she was at the time. Has anything else come in?"
"Just a couple of things. I'll show you what I've got."
I followed Tillie through the lobby and into the corridor beyond.
She unlocked her front door and moved into the living room, crossing to the secretary. Since the glass had been broken out of the doors, there was no need to unlock anything, but I saw her hesitate, nonplussed, putting an index finger on the side of her cheek like someone posing for a photograph. "Now, that's odd."
"What?" I asked. I crossed to the secretary and looked in. We'd replaced the tumble of books the night before, and there was nothing else on the shelves now except a small brass elephant and a framed snapshot of a puppy with a stick in its mouth.
"I don't see Elaine's bills and they should be there," she said. "Now, isn't that strange." She glanced at the shelves again and then opened the drawers one by one, sorting through the contents.
She moved into the kitchen and dug into the big black plastic bag where we had dumped all the broken glass and debris the night before. There was no sign of them.
"Kinsey, they were in the secretary yesterday. I saw them myself. Where could they have gone?"
She looked up at me. It didn't take a massive leap of intelligence to arrive at the obvious possibility.
"Could she have taken them?" Tillie asked. "That woman who broke in last night? Is that what she was really up to?"
"Tillie, I don't know. Something about it bothered me at the time," I said. "It didn't make sense to think someone would break in while you were here just to tear the place apart. Are you sure you saw them yesterday?"
"Of course. I put the new batch of bills with the other ones on the shelf. They were right here. And I don't remember seeing them at all when we cleaned up. Do you?"
I thought back, chasing it around in my memory. I'd only seen the bills once, the first time I'd talked to her. But why would someone bother to steal them? It didn't make sense. "Maybe she deliberately scared the pants off you to keep you out of the way while she searched the place," I said.
"Well, she sure had the right idea. I wouldn't have come out of my room on a dare! But why would she do that? I don't understand."
"I don't either. I can always get duplicates of the bills, but it's going to be a pain in the ass and I'd rather not do it if I don't have to."
"I want to know who has a key to my apartment. That makes my blood run cold."
"I don't blame you. Listen, Tillie. Nothing makes me crazier than sixteen unanswered questions in a row. I'm going to see what I can find out about this murder next door. It has to be connected somehow. Have you talked to Leonard Grice recently?"
"Oh, he hasn't been there since it happened," she said. "I haven't seen him at any rate."
"What about the Snyders on the other side? Do you think they could be of any help?"
"They might. Do you want me to talk to them?"
"No, don't worry about it. I'll check with them myself. Just one more thing. Leonard Grice has a nephew... a kid with a pink Mohawk."
"Mike."
"Yeah, him. Is there any chance he might have been the person who broke in last night? I just talked to him outside and he's not a big guy. He might well have looked like a woman in the dark."
"I don't think so," she said, skepticism plain. "I couldn't swear to it, but I don't think it was him."
"Well. Just a thought. I don't like to make assumptions about gender. It really could have been anyone. I'm going to go next door and see what the Snyders have to say. You take care of yourself."
The house at 2093 was similar in feeling to the house that burned... the same-size lot, same ill proportions, the same white frame and red brick. The brick itself was roughly textured, a cunning imitation of fired clay. There was a FOR SALE sign out front with a banner pasted across it boasting SOLD! as though an auction had been enacted just before I started up the walk. A large tree shaded the yard down to a chill, and dark ivy choked the trunk, spreading out in all directions in a dense mat that nearly smothered the walk. I went up the porch steps and knocked on the aluminum screen door. The front door had a big glass panel in it, blocked by a sheer white curtain stretched between two rods. After a moment, someone moved the curtain aside and peered out.
"Mr. Snyder?"
The curtain was released and the door opened a crack. The man appeared to be in his seventies, corpulent and benign. Old age had given him back his baby fat and the same look of grave curiosity.
I held out a business card. "My name is Kinsey Millh
one. Could I have a few minutes of your time? I'm trying to track down Elaine Boldt, who lives in that big condominium over there, and Tillie Ahlberg suggested I talk to you. Can you help me out?"
Mr. Snyder released the catch on the screen door. "I'll do what I can. Come on in." He held the screen door open and I followed him inside. The house was as dark as the inside of a soup can and smelled of cooked celery.
From the rear of the house, a shrill voice called out.
"What's that? Who all is out there, Orris?"
"Someone Tillie sent!"
"Who?"
"Hold on a minute," he said to me, "she's deaf as a yard of grass. Take a seat."
Mr. Snyder lumbered toward the back. I perched on an upholstered chair with wooden arms. The fabric was a dark maroon plush with a high-low pattern of foliage, some nondescript sort that I'd never seen in real life. The seat was sprung; all hard edges and the smell of dust. There was a matching couch stacked with newspapers and a low mahogany coffee table with an inset of oval glass barely visible for all the paraphernalia on top: dog-eared paperbacks, plastic flowers in a ceramic vase shaped like two mice in an upright embrace, a bronze version of praying hands, six pencils with erasers chewed off, pill bottles, and a tumbler that had apparently held hot milk which had left a lacy pattern on the sides of the glass like baby's breath. There was also an inexplicable pile of pancakes wrapped in cellophane. I leaned forward, squinting. It was a candle. Mr. Snyder could have moved the entire table outside and called it a yard sale.
From the back end of the house, I could hear his exasperated explanation to his wife. "It's nobody selling anything," he snapped. "It's some woman Tillie sent, says she's looking for Mrs. Boldt. Boldt!! That widda woman lived upstairs of Tillie, the one played cards with Leonard and Martha now and again."
There was a feeble interjection and then his voice dropped.
"No, you don't need to come out! Just keep set. I'll take care of it."
He reappeared, shaking his head, his jowls flushed. His chest was sunken into his swollen waistline. He'd had to belt his pants below his big belly and his cuffs drooped at the ankles. He hitched at them irritably, apparently convinced he'd lose them if he didn't hang on. He wore slippers without socks and all the hair had been worn away from his ankles, which were narrow and white, like soup bones.