Four Sue Grafton Novels

by Sue Grafton

  “I was, but Gus’s niece showed up and she needs a house key.”

  “Hang on.”

  He left the door open while he found the set of keys in his kitchen junk drawer. “The way you described your phone conversation, I didn’t think she’d come at all, let alone this fast.”

  “Me, neither. I was pleasantly surprised.”

  “How long will she stay?”

  “I haven’t asked her yet, but I can let you know. You may end up dealing with her anyway since I have to go into the office first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “On Saturday?”

  “I’m afraid so. I’ve got paperwork to catch up on and I like the quiet.”

  When I returned to the studio, Melanie was still in the bathroom, and the sound of running water suggested she was washing her face. I took two glasses from the cabinet and opened a bottle of Edna Valley Chardonnay. I poured six ounces for each of us and when she came out, I handed her Gus’s house key and a glass of wine.

  “I hope you like wine. I took the liberty,” I said. “Have a seat.”

  “Thanks. After three hours on the freeway, I could use a drink. I thought Boston drivers were bad, but people out here are lunatics.”

  “You’re from Boston?”

  “More or less. We moved to New York when I was nine, but I went to school in Boston and still visit friends from my BU days.” She sat down in one of the director’s chairs and did a quick visual survey. “Nice. This would be a palace in the city.”

  “It’s a palace anywhere,” I said. “I’m glad you made it out here. Henry was just asking how long you might stay.”

  “Until the end of next week if all goes well. In the interest of efficiency, I called the local paper and placed a classified ad that starts tomorrow and runs all next week. They’ll put it in the ‘Help Wanted’ section—companion, private-duty nurse, that sort of thing—and they’ll also run it in the ‘Personals.’ I wasn’t sure Uncle Gus had an answering machine so I gave his address. I hope that wasn’t a mistake.”

  “I don’t see why it would be. You probably won’t be swamped with applicants at this time of year. A lot of people postpone job hunting until after the holidays.”

  “We’ll see how we do. In a pinch, I can always try to scare up a temp. I do apologize for my response when you called. I haven’t seen Gus in years so you caught me off guard. Once I decided to fly out, I thought I might as well do it right. Speaking of Uncle Gus, how is he? I should have asked about him first thing.”

  “I didn’t get over there to see him today, but Henry did and says he’s about as you’d expect.”

  “In other words, screaming and shouting.”

  “Pretty much.”

  “He’s been known to throw things, too, when he’s really on a tear. Or he did way back when.”

  “How are you related? I know he’s your uncle, but where on the family tree?”

  “My mother’s side. He was actually her great-uncle, so I guess that makes him a great-great to me. She died ten years ago this past May, and once his brother passed on, I was the only one left. I feel guilty I haven’t seen him for so long.”

  “Well, it can’t be easy if you’re on the East Coast.”

  “What about you? You have family out here?”

  “Nope. I’m an orphan child as well, which is probably for the best.”

  We chatted for ten or fifteen minutes and then she glanced at her watch. “Oops. I better get going. I don’t want to keep you up. In the morning, you can give me directions to the nursing home.”

  “I’ll be out of here early, but you can always knock on Henry’s door. He’ll be happy to help. I take it you’ll be staying next door?”

  “I’d hoped to, unless you think he’d object.”

  “I’m sure he won’t care, but I should warn you the place is grim. We cleaned what we could, but it’s iffy in my opinion. Who knows when Gus last had a go at it himself.”

  “How bad?”

  “It’s gross. The sheets are clean, but the mattress looks like something he dragged in from the curb. He’s a hoarder as well, so two of the three bedrooms aren’t usable at all, unless you’re looking for a place to toss trash.”

  “He hoards? That’s new. He didn’t used to do that.”

  “He does now. Dishes, clothing, tools, shoes. It looks like he has newspapers from the past fifteen years. There were items in the fridge that were probably capable of spreading disease.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “You think it’s better if I stay somewhere else?”

  “I would.”

  “I’ll take your word for it. How hard is it going to be to find a hotel at this hour?”

  “It shouldn’t be a problem. We don’t get many tourists at this time of year. There are six or eight motels just two blocks from here. When I run in the mornings, I always see the vacancy signs lighted.”

  Maybe it was the wine, but I was noticing how friendly I felt, possibly because I was so grateful she’d arrived. Or maybe ours was one of those relationships where you butt heads up front and get along swimmingly from that point on. Whatever the dynamic, the next thing I knew I was saying, “You can always stay here. For tonight, at any rate.”

  She seemed as surprised as I. “Really? That’d be great, but I wouldn’t want to put you out.”

  Having offered, of course, I could have bitten off my tongue, but I felt bound by etiquette to assure her of my sincerity, while she swore it’d be no big deal to bumble around in the dark in search of accommodations—clearly something she was hoping to avoid.

  In the end, I made up a bed for her on the fold-out sofa in my living room. She already knew where the bathroom was so I took a few minutes to show her how to work the coffeemaker and where the cereal box and bowls were stowed.

  At 11:00 she retreated to her bed and I climbed the spiral staircase to the loft. Since she was still on East Coast time, she turned her light out long before I did. In the morning, I got up at 8:00 and by the time I came downstairs, showered, and dressed, she was already up and gone. Like a good guest, she’d stripped the sheets, which she’d folded neatly and placed on the lid of my washing machine, along with the damp towel she’d used for her shower. She’d refolded the sofa bed and put the cushions back in place. According to the note she’d left, she’d gone in search of a coffee shop and expected to be back by 9:00. She offered to buy me dinner if I was free that night, which as it happened, I was.

  I left for the office at 8:35 that morning and I didn’t see her again for six days. So much for dinner.

  9

  Late Saturday afternoon, I joined Henry and Charlotte for the tree-trimming festivities. I declined the eggnog, which I knew contained a stunning quantity of calories, not to mention fat and cholesterol. Henry’s recipe called for a cup of superfine sugar, a quart of milk, twelve large eggs, and two cups of whipping cream. He’d made a nonalcoholic version, which allowed his guests to add bourbon or brandy to taste. By the time I arrived, the Christmas-tree lights had been threaded through the branches, and Rosie had already been there and gone. She’d accepted a cup of eggnog and then she’d left for the restaurant, as her dictatorial presence was required in the kitchen.

  Henry, William, Charlotte, and I unwrapped and admired the ornaments, most of which had been in Henry’s family for years. Once the tree was trimmed, William and Henry had their annual argument about how to apply tinsel. William was of the one-strand-at-a-time method, and Henry thought the effect was more natural if the tinsel was tossed and allowed to form picturesque clumps. They settled on a little bit of both.

  At 8:00 we walked the half block to Rosie’s. William went to work behind the bar, which left the table to Henry, Charlotte, and me.

  I hadn’t paid attention to how much either had had to drink, which may or may not explain what followed. The menu that night was the usual strange assortment of Hungarian dishes, many of which Rosie had determined in advance would be our free choice for the occasion.

&nbs
p; While we waited for the first course, I turned to Henry. “I saw lights on at Gus’s so I’m assuming you and Melanie connected this morning after I left for work.”

  “We did and I found her most forceful and effective. She’s accustomed to dealing with the hassles of life in New York so she knows how to get things done. We were at Rolling Hills by nine fifteen. Of course, there was no sign of the attending physician and no way to get Gus released without the doctor’s official sanction. Somehow Melanie managed to hunt him down and get his signature on the form. She orchestrated the process with such efficiency, we had Gus out of there and back at his place by eleven ten.”

  “She found a place to stay?”

  “She checked into the Wharfside on Cabana. She also did the grocery shopping and ordered a wheelchair from a rental company. She had it delivered and was out pushing Gus around the neighborhood this afternoon. The attention worked wonders. He was really quite nice.”

  I was about to make a comment in response, when Charlotte spoke up. “Who built that row of houses on your block? They seem very much alike.”

  Henry turned and looked at her, faintly disconcerted by the change in subject. “Not so. My house and Gus’s are direct images of one another, but the house just past the vacant lot and Moza Lowenstein’s place, which is one more door down, have a very different feel. They might have been constructed around the same time, but with the changes people have made in the intervening years, it’s hard to tell what the original floor plans were like.”

  Henry and I exchanged a quick look that Charlotte didn’t catch. Sure enough, she’d steered the conversation around to real estate. I hoped her question was idle, but she was apparently pursuing a train of thought.

  “I take it none of them were designed by a name architect?”

  “Not that I know. Over the years, a series of builders bought up the lots and threw together whatever was easy and cheap. What makes you ask?”

  “I was thinking about the restrictions on houses over fifty years old. If a house has no historical significance, a buyer would be free to demolish the structure and build something new. Otherwise, you’re more or less limited to the footprint, which reduces the potential.”

  “Why is that relevant? None of my neighbors have expressed any interest in selling.”

  She frowned. “I understand there hasn’t been much turnover, but given the advanced ages of home owners in the area, some of these houses are bound to come up for sale—Gus’s being a case in point.”

  “And?”

  “What will happen when he dies? Melanie won’t have the first idea how to market his place.”

  I flicked another look at Henry, whose face was now carefully composed. In the seven years I’ve known him, I’ve seen him lose his temper a handful of times, and his manner was always unfailingly mild. He didn’t quite look at her. “What are you proposing?”

  “I’m not proposing anything. I’m saying someone from out of state might misread the situation and underestimate the market value.”

  “If Gus or Melanie should raise the question, I’ll give them your business card and you can rush right in.”

  Charlotte looked at him. “Excuse me?”

  “I didn’t realize you were here to cultivate clients. Are you planning to farm the area?” he asked. He was referring to the real estate practice of working an area—sending out flyers, calling on the residents, planting the seeds in hopes of harvesting a sale.

  “Of course not. We’ve already discussed the subject and you made it clear you disapproved. If I offended you in some way, that wasn’t my intent.”

  “I’m sure it wasn’t, but it does seem callous to be estimating home prices predicated on the deaths of people I’ve known for years.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Henry. You can’t be serious. There’s nothing personal in this. People die every day. I’m seventy-eight myself and I think estate planning is important.”

  “Doubtless.”

  “You needn’t take that tone. After all, there are tax implications. And what about the beneficiaries? For most people, a house is the largest asset they have, which is certainly true in my case. If I don’t have a clue about property values, how can I determine a fair division among my heirs?”

  “I’m sure you’ll have it calculated down to the penny.”

  “I wasn’t speaking literally. I’m talking about the average person.”

  “Gus isn’t as average as you seem to think.”

  “Where in heaven’s name is all the hostility coming from?”

  “You’re the one who brought it up. Kinsey and I were discussing something else entirely.”

  “Well, I’m sorry to interrupt. It’s clear you have your nose out of joint, but I haven’t done anything except express an opinion. I don’t understand what you’re afraid of.”

  “I don’t want my neighbors to think I endorse solicitors.”

  Charlotte picked up her menu. “I can see this is a point on which we can’t agree so why don’t we leave it that way?”

  Henry picked up his menu as well and opened it. “I’d appreciate that. And while we’re about it, perhaps we could talk about something else.”

  I could feel my face flush. This was like marital bickering except these two weren’t that well acquainted. I thought Charlotte would be embarrassed by his tone, but she didn’t bat an eye. The moment passed. The rest of the dinner conversation was unremarkable and the evening seemed to end on a pleasant note.

  Henry saw her to her car, and while the two said good night, I debated about mentioning the clash, but decided it wasn’t my place. I knew what made him so touchy on the subject. At the age of eighty-seven, he had to be thinking about the financial aspects of his own demise.

  After Charlotte pulled away, we fell into step, walking the half block home. “I suppose you think I was out of line,” he remarked.

  “Well, I don’t think she’s as mercenary as you implied. I know she’s focused on her work, but she’s not crass.”

  “I was irritated.”

  “Come on, Henry. She didn’t mean any harm. She believes people should be informed about property values, and why not?”

  “I suppose you’re right.”

  “It’s not a question of who’s right. The point is if you’re going to spend time together, you have to take her as she is. And if you don’t intend to see her again, then why pick a fight?”

  “Do you think I should apologize?”

  “That’s up to you, but it wouldn’t do any harm.”

  Late Monday afternoon I’d scheduled an appointment with Lisa Ray to discuss her recollections about the accident, for which she was being sued. The address she’d given me was a new condominium development in Colgate, a series of frame town houses standing shoulder to shoulder in clusters of four. There were six exterior styles and four types of building materials: brick, frame, fieldstone, and stucco. I was guessing six floor plans with mix-and-match elements that would make each apartment unique. The units were arranged in varied combinations—some with shutters, some with balconies, some with patios out front. Each foursome sat on a square of well-tended lawn. There were shrubs and flower beds and small hopeful trees that wouldn’t mature for another forty years. In lieu of garages, the residents kept their vehicles in long carports that ran between the town houses in horizontal rows. Most of the parking spaces were empty, which suggested people off at work. I saw no evidence of children.

  I found Lisa’s house number and parked on the street out front. While I waited for her to answer the door, I sampled the air without detecting the scent of any cooking under way. Probably too early. I imagined the neighbors would trickle home between five thirty and six. Dinner would be delivered in vehicles with signs on the top or pulled from the freezer in boxes complete with gaudy food photos, the oven and microwave instructions printed in type so small you’d have to don your reading glasses.

  Lisa Ray opened the door. Her hair was dark, cut short to accommodate its na
tural curl, which consisted of a halo of perfect ringlets. She was fresh-faced, with blue eyes and freckles like tiny beige paint flecks across the bridge of her nose. She wore black flats, panty hose, a red pleated skirt with a short-sleeved red cotton sweater. “Yikes. You’re early. Are you Kinsey?”

  “That’s me.”

  She opened the door and let me in, saying, “I didn’t expect you to be so prompt. I just got home from work and I’d love to get out of these clothes.”

  “That’s fine. Take your time.”

  “I’ll be back in a second. Have a seat.”

  I moved into the living room and settled on the couch while she took the stairs two at a time. I knew from the file that she was twenty-six years old, a part-time college student who paid her tuition and expenses by working twenty hours a week in the business office at St. Terry’s Hospital.

  The apartment was small. White walls, beige wall-to-wall carpet that looked new and smelled of harsh chemicals. The furniture was a mix of garage-sale finds and items she’d probably managed to cadge from home. Two mismatched chairs, both upholstered in the same fake leopard print, flanked a red-plaid couch, with a coffee table filling the space between. A small wooden dinette table and four chairs were arranged at the far end of the room with a pass-through to the kitchen off to the right. Checking the magazines on the coffee table, I had my choice of back issues of Glamour or Cosmopolitan. I picked Cosmopolitan, turning to an article about what men like in bed. What men? What bed? I hadn’t had a close encounter with a guy since Cheney left my life. I was about to calculate the exact number of weeks, but the idea depressed me before I even started to count.

  Five minutes later Lisa reappeared, trotting down the stairs in jeans and a sweatshirt with the University of California Santa Teresa logo on the front. She took a seat in one of the upholstered chairs.

  I set the magazine aside. “Is that where you went to school?” I asked, indicating her shirt.