by Sue Grafton
I crossed to her desk. “Hi, Kim. Remember me?”
“Yes.”
I could hear the word “unfortunately,” which she’d left out. I said, “Good. I need a meeting with Teddy and I’d appreciate it if you’d give her a call to set it up.”
I thought she might play dumb and pretend she didn’t know who I was talking about, but she tried a different strategy. “What makes you think Teddy wants to talk to you?”
I put an index finger against my cheek, tilting my head in what I hoped was a winsome fashion. “Well, let’s see. Hmmm. Possibly because I had a nice long chat with her ex-husband yesterday.” I held up that same index finger. “Or. Possibly because I had a drink last night with Christian Satterfield and he was very informative. Also relevant is the fact that I’m pissed off and she’d do well to mollify me while she has the chance.”
Kim broke off eye contact and her cheeks picked up a tint of pink under the recently applied tan. Really, she should have used the lighter shade. She said, “I’m not sure where she is this morning.”
“Probably at your place since she’s living with you. Why don’t you call home?”
I could see I’d thrown her into an agony of indecision. She didn’t want to make the call in front of me because she knew I’d pick up her home number simply by watching her dial. I gave her a verbal nudge. “You can use the phone in one of the empty offices. I’ll be happy to wait.”
She debated another few seconds and then excused herself and rose from her chair. She was wearing very high heels, no stockings, and a skirt so short, I could see her underpants.
I said, “I see London, I see France . . .”
She tugged her skirt down in back and left the reception area.
As soon as she disappeared, I reached for her steno pad and flipped through the pages until I found the notes she’d been taking about flights and departure times during my first visit. At that point, I hadn’t known she was a player in the drama, so it’s lucky I pay attention to these things. I ripped out the sheet, folded it, and tucked it in my bag, then flipped the pages back to the one she was using to take notes today.
She reappeared and took her seat. No eye contact, of course. “She said you should come for drinks at five.” She scribbled an address across one corner of her steno pad and tore off the scrap.
“Can I bring anything?” I chirped.
She ignored the offer. I hadn’t been serious, but Cheez Whiz on saltines was bound to be on the low end of canapés, even in their debased circumstances.
I left the real estate office and crossed the parking lot. It wasn’t until I unlocked my car and slid under the wheel that I finally picked up on a line Edna had tossed out earlier. The remark was folded into her confrontation with Henry when she was so righteously defending herself. At the time, I’d heard what she’d said, but I’d been focused on the showdown and I hadn’t picked up the significance. It suddenly occurred to me to ask myself the following: why had she said, “I don’t know your Mr. Adelson, but the hose bib has to be his handiwork because it certainly isn’t ours”?
How could she not know Dale Adelson when she and Joseph had bought the house from him two and a half months before? Had they completed the purchase long-distance, with papers flying back and forth and no face-to-face communication? I don’t own property, so I’m not sure how these things work, but you’d think the name would have registered.
I pulled out of the lot with a quick look at my watch. It was just after nine and the county offices would be open. I returned to my office and left the car in the driveway, then hiked the five blocks to the courthouse. I went up the stairs to the county clerk’s office, where I sat at a small computer in the reception area and typed in the Shallenbargers’ street address. I don’t consider myself computer literate, but this was a simple machine with a limited number of functions, more like a typewriter with a quiet keyboard and no carriage return.
From the street address, I was able to pick up the assessor’s parcel number, which in turn provided me the name of the owners of the property: Dale and Trish Adelson. Edna had given Henry the impression they’d bought the property, but I don’t know that she’d come right out and said so. The Shallenbargers were apparently renting the house, which clarified one point. Then I wondered if they were sticking Henry for their entire water bill or just the portion they were using for irrigation. I thought he’d be interested in the answer as well if he was calculating his losses.
The Santa Teresa Water District has offices in City Hall, some five blocks away. It was by then 9:30 and I’d caught them in a lull between customers. Both clerks were on the telephone, but one acknowledged my presence. There were four or five desks with the usual stacks of paperwork, gray metal file cabinets, upright files, fluorescent lights overhead, and a few personal items on the desktops, but in the main the atmosphere was one of industry and efficiency.
I waited only briefly before Mrs. Fremont, the administrative assistant, approached. She was a tall, big-boned woman in her seventies with a wiry topknot of gray curls and emphatic eyebrows that she’d penciled in herself two inches higher than one would expect. She wore heavy silver earrings and a pair of narrow glasses with black frames that rested low on her nose.
I leaned my elbows on the counter and said, “I’m hoping you can give me some help. I have an elderly couple living next door, Joseph and Edna Shallenbarger. Mrs. Shallenbarger’s concerned about their water bill being so high. Her husband’s disabled and neither one of them drives, so I said I’d see what I could find out. They moved here from Perdido in January and she’s been shocked at how expensive it is.”
“I don’t know why. The rates should be the same.”
“That’s what I said. I wondered if they might have a leak in their service lateral. Most of those old galvanized iron pipes are seventy years old. You get a break, it’s costly to locate and even worse to replace. Sewer or water lines break on a homeowner’s property, it’s up to the homeowner to remedy the problem.” I thought I did a creditable job of rendering the plumber’s point of view, and she must have thought so, too.
“Oh, don’t I know it. Comes as a shock to some. Give me that name and address and I’ll see what we’ve got.”
I gave her the information and watched her write it on a slip of paper that she took with her to the row of file cabinets on the far wall. She found the proper drawer and picked her way through the documents until she found what she was looking for. The fact that there was a file in the Shallenbargers’ name assured me that they’d applied for service, which would be happy news for Henry. She removed a slim file and returned to the counter. She opened the cover and leafed through several sheets of paper. The glasses worn low on her nose gave her an air of authority.
“You’re not on computer yet?” I asked.
“They’re threatening. I’d like to know what we’ll do if the power goes out.”
She pursed her lips while she read the information and then shook her head as though reluctant to contradict the elderly. “I’m not sure what she’s worried about. According to our records, water consumption has stayed about the same.”
“Really? Well, that’s good news. You’re comparing the same three months last year?”
“Yes, ma’am. They must be doing a good job of conservation.”
“I can’t argue with that,” I said.
What interested me was the printed form on top that Edna had filled out by hand and signed. Even upside down I could see it was labeled OCCUPANT COURTESY BILLING APPLICATION. I put my finger on it. “What’s that?”
She glanced down. “That would be the application they filled out when they initiated service.”
“Mind if I take a look?”
She put a quick hand out to restrain me, but I’d already turned the file around. She said, “It may not be appropriate for you to read the file.”
“I th
ought this was public information.”
“Well, yes, but some of it is personal.”
“I’m just looking at the top sheet.”
I turned the file so we were both looking at it from the same angle. “See there. The only personal information on the application is the service address, which I already know because I live right next door to them. They asked me to come down here and so there’s no breach of privacy.” I pointed to the lower portion of the form. “Who’s Calvin Sanchez?”
“The property owner. He’s required to sign the same form, agreeing to be jointly or severally responsible for any amounts due the Santa Teresa Water District if the occupant fails to pay.”
“I thought the Shallenbargers bought the place. Aren’t they the owners?”
She shook her head. “Tenants.”
“Really! I had no idea. You learn something new every day, don’t you?” I could have told her that “Calvin Sanchez” was most likely a figment of Edna’s imagination, but I thought I’d better check further before I mentioned it to anyone.
I relinquished my hold on the file, and Mrs. Fremont closed it, saying, “If your Mrs. Shallenbarger believes she’s been billed incorrectly, she can always call or stop by. We’ll be happy to talk to her.”
“I’ll let her know. Thanks so much for your time.”
When I left the water department, I realized all I’d done was to burden myself with another problem. In a curious way, I knew Henry would have a hard time staying worked up about the water theft. Initially, he might have been dismayed, perhaps genuinely angry, but I knew his conscience would kick in, undermining his good sense and overruling his belief in the virtues of honesty. He’d start to feel sorry for the pair—poor sweet old folks forced to resort to such measures. It would be one of those “there but for the grace of God” moments. He’d think about how fortunate he and his siblings were: able-bodied, mentally sharp, blessed with good health, and comfortable financially because they’d figured out all those years ago that saving for the future, while not always easy, would be prudent.
I had watched Edna manipulate Henry until she only needed to sigh and he’d be ready to serve and protect. If I wasn’t careful, instead of Henry feeling perturbed about the water they’d siphoned from his line, he’d be going door to door taking up a collection to help them make ends meet. In his mind, it wouldn’t amount to much more than pennies a day, and why not lend a hand since he had more than they did? That was certainly Edna’s attitude.
• • •
When I reached the office, I unlocked the door, disarmed the system, and then sat down at my desk. I picked up the phone and called directory assistance. When I had the operator on the line, I asked for a listing for last name Adelson in Richmond, Virginia. Apparently, there was only one: Dale and Trish. I made a note of the number, depressed the plunger, and then dialed. It was only 10:00 California time, which would make it roughly 1:00 on the East Coast.
The line rang twice and a woman picked up.
“Mrs. Adelson?”
“This is Trish, yes.”
“This is Kinsey Millhone out in Santa Teresa. Henry Pitts’s tenant.”
“Yes, of course,” she said, though I was pretty sure she wouldn’t have put two and two together if I hadn’t spelled it out for her. “I hope you’re not calling to say something’s happened to Henry.”
“No, no. It’s nothing like that. Sorry if I caused you alarm. Is your husband there by any chance?”
“He’s off at the university. I don’t expect him home until late this afternoon. Is this something I can help you with?”
“I hope so. We’re concerned about your house.”
“Is there a problem?”
“That’s what I’m calling to find out. Do you have tenants in there?”
“No. The house is on the market, but we don’t have renters. Dale asked our real estate agent about the possibility and she said being a long-distance landlord would be a nightmare. Why do you ask?”
“Because an elderly couple moved in a couple of months ago. Edna and Joseph Shallenbarger.”
“Moved in? I don’t understand. You mean someone’s living there?”
“I’m afraid so. When Henry first met them, Edna said they’d moved in in January. We just assumed they bought the place. It wouldn’t have occurred to me to look into it, but they actually attached an illegal T fitting to Henry’s water line and they’ve been using his water to irrigate their grass and shrubs. We’re in the middle of a drought out here and Henry’s fit to be tied because his water bill’s gone up. When he mentioned you, Edna had no idea who he was referring to.”
She was still having trouble assimilating the introductory concept. “An elderly couple’s living in the house? You mean old people?”
“For the past two and a half months. I didn’t want to raise a question if these were friends of yours.”
“Absolutely not. I can’t believe this. How could someone move in like that?”
“I don’t know, but that’s what they seem to have done.”
“Well, we’ll have to evict them as soon as possible. Do you think we should fly out?”
“It might come down to that. Do you know a Calvin Sanchez?”
“Who’s he?”
“He signed their application for water service, listing himself as the property owner.”
“I don’t understand what’s going on. We own that property. We haven’t authorized anyone to do anything. We’ve continued to pay utilities because it makes the house easier to show. Not that anyone’s looked at it since we moved here.”
“Well, I just talked to the water department and the Shallenbargers have put the water service in their name. I’m not sure about gas or electricity. I know they don’t have their garbage picked up.”
“I’ll ask Dale if he’s been receiving statements. If these people have put utilities in their name, the bills might be going directly to them.”
“I guess we can sort this all out once we talk to them. As long as you’re in agreement, we’ll go next door and have a conversation. I didn’t want to mention this to Henry until I talked to you.”
“Well, thank you. I appreciate that, and I’m sure Dale will as well. Of course we want them out of there, so do whatever’s necessary. You have our permission to take any action required.”
“Perfect. We’ll have a chat with them and get back to you.”
After I hung up, I sat and considered the situation. I’d certainly served enough eviction notices in my capacity as a process server. A tenant can be terminated with a thirty-day, sixty-day, or ninety-day notice, depending on the circumstances. Grounds for eviction include damage to the property or illegal activity on the premises. There is also a three-day notice to pay rent or quit, but I couldn’t think how that would apply to someone who wasn’t paying rent to begin with.
38
The address Kim had given me for the condominium she shared with Teddy was part of a complex in an area called Paloma Run, located on a sheltered stretch of beach south of Montebello. Teddy was expecting me at 5:00, and I allowed sufficient time to account for rush-hour traffic. There was ample parking provided so as not to annoy the rich in their efforts to park their Mercedes, Maseratis, and Bentleys, many of which were neatly tucked into small cul-de-sacs, landscaped to disguise their purpose. We would have taken offense if we’d been confronted with an acre of unsightly asphalt.
I followed a series of flat stones that wound through the low-growing ground cover. Landscaping was limited due to a proliferation of pines that left the needle-matted ground under them impossible to plant. The building itself comprised two- and three-story sections, set at angles to maximize privacy without obstructing the views of the Pacific. Their apartment was on the second floor, linked to adjacent units by way of open loggias.
When I rang the bell, Teddy came to the do
or. She was barefoot, in formfitting jeans and a loose gauzy shirt with voluminous sleeves. As was true of the caftan she’d worn the night I met her, the style of the garment was vaguely Indian—small mirrors embroidered along the bodice, the hem beaded.
She stepped back, admitting me, and then closed the door behind us. “This should be interesting,” she said. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll only be a minute.” She turned and padded down the hallway, disappearing from sight.
Setting my mental timer to “one minute” was a smart move on her part, as it suggested I wouldn’t have time to search the premises in depth, which is how I normally occupy my time when afforded the opportunity. I circled the big open room, which served as living room, dining room, and study. The decor was nautical—no big surprise there, given the ocean beyond. Pale grays and blues, enormous glass goblets filled with sand where hermit crabs walked, leaving tracks like the stylized rake marks in a Japanese garden. Throughout, I saw bleached hardwood floors, floor-to-ceiling windows along the front and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves on two interior walls. A glass-paned door leading to the patio was open to admit an ocean breeze. A stack of coffee table books served as a doorstop, all of them lavishly illustrated with the paintings of J.M.W. Turner. There was one boxed set, two eight-by-twelve-inch volumes, one of text and the other of black-and-white and color plates of his works.
I moved out onto the balcony and looked over the rail. Below, a wooden walkway stretched from the first-floor deck across the ice plant as far as the loose sand. Waves broke in a series of thunderous reports, the surf washing up and back. I could see the appeal of living a stone’s throw from the ocean. The sounds were restful and it was lovely to look out and see nothing but ocean all the way out to the horizon. On the downside, the salt air took its toll and the occasional strong storm could plant a sailboat in your front yard.