P Is for Peril

by Sue Grafton

  I watched him kick, pound, and cut, the muscles in his back and shoulders bunching as he worked. His arms were knotted with veins and matted with a fine red hair. A trickle of sweat angled down along his cheek. He shrugged, blotting the side of his face with the sleeve of his T-shirt. He tossed his mallet aside and sprung to his feet, wiping his palms on his back of his pants. He held a hand out, saying, "What's your name again?"

  "It's Kinsey. The last name's Millhone with two L's."

  The sun had taken its toll on his fair complexion, leaving a series of lines in his forehead, additional lines at the outer corners of his eyes. I pegged him in his late twenties, five foot ten, a hundred and sixty pounds. Having been a cop, I still view men as suspects I might be called upon later to identify in a lineup. "Mind if I look around?"

  He shrugged. "Help yourself. There's not much to see," he said. "What kind of business you in?"

  I walked into the bathroom, my voice echoing against the tile. "I'm a private detective."

  Toilet, pedestal sink with a built-in medicine cabinet above it. The shower stall was fiberglass with an aluminum-framed glass door. The floor was done in a white ceramic tile that ran halfway up the wall. Above, there was a floral-print vinyl paper in beige, white, and charcoal gray. The effect was both fresh and old-fashioned. Also, easy to keep clean.

  I moved back into the main room and crossed to the closet, peering into the four-by-six space, which was fully carpeted, empty, and painted a pristine white. Sufficient room for filing cabinets and office supplies. Even had a hook where I could hang my jacket. I turned back to the main room and let my gaze travel the perimeter. If I placed my desk facing the window, I could look out at the deck. The shutters were perfect. If a client dropped in, I could close the lower set for privacy and leave the upper set folded back for light. I tried a window crank, which turned smoothly, without so much as a whine or a creak. I leaned against the windowsill. "No termites, no leaky roof?"

  "No, ma'am. I can guarantee that because I did the work myself. This is real quiet back here. You ought to see it by day. Lot of light coming through these windows. Trouble walks in, you got cops right across the street." His accent was faintly Southern.

  "Fortunately, my job's not that dangerous."

  He tucked his hands into his front pockets. His face was dappled with sun damage like a fine patina of freckles. I couldn't think what to say next and the silence stretched. Tommy launched in again without a lot of help from yours truly. "Place was in pretty bad shape when we took possession. We upgraded plumbing and electrical, put on a new roof and aluminum siding. Stuff like that." His voice was so soft I found myself straining to hear.

  "It looks nice. How long have you owned it?"

  "About a year. We're new out here. We lost our parents a few years ago – both passed away. Richard hates talking about that almost more'n me. It's still a sore subject. So, now it's just the two of us, my brother and me." He crossed to the cooler and opened the lid, glancing over at me. "Offer you a beer?"

  "Oh, no thanks. I was just about to have supper when someone showed me your ad. After I talk to Richard, I'll head on back and eat there."

  "Don't like to drink and drive," he remarked, smiling ruefully.

  "That's part of it," I said.

  He rooted through the crushed ice, pulled out a Diet Pepsi, and popped the tab. I held up a hand, but not quick enough to stop him.

  "Seriously, I'm fine."

  His frown was softened by a tone of mock disapproval. "No beer, no soda pop. Can's open now. Might as well have a sip. You don't want the whole thing to go to waste," he said. Again, he proffered the Pepsi, waggling the can coaxingly in my direction. I took it to avoid a fuss. He reached into the cooler and extracted a bottle of Bass Ale. He flipped the cap off and held it by the neck while he seated himself on the floor. He leaned his back against the wall, his legs extended in front of him. His work boots looked enormous. He gestured at the empty expanse of carpet. "Pull up a seat. Might as well be comfortable."

  "Thanks." I picked a spot across from him and sat down on the floor, taking a polite sip of Pepsi before I set the can aside.

  Tommy took a long draw of beer. He looked like a guy accustomed to smoking while he worked. "I used to smoke," he said, as though reading my mind. "Tough to give up, but I think I got it licked. You smoke?"

  "Once upon a time."

  "Been six months for me. Now and then, I still get the itch, but I take in a couple of breaths just like this..." He paused to demonstrate, his chest expanding as he sucked air audibly through his nose. He let out his breath. "Pretty soon the craving goes away. Where you from?"

  "I'm local. Went to Santa Teresa High."

  "Me and my brother come from Texas. Little town called Hatchet. Ever hear of it?"

  I shook my head.

  "Right outside Houston. Pop was in oil. Luckily he sold the company before the bottom dropped out. Poured all his money into real estate. Developed shopping malls, office buildings, all kinds of commercial properties. California's weird. People don't seem all that friendly like they do where we come from. Especially the women. Lot of them seem stuck-up."

  The silence settled again.

  He took another pull of beer and wiped his mouth on his palm. "Private detective. That's a new one on me. You carry a gun?"

  "Occasionally. Not often." I dislike being "drawn out," though he was probably only being polite until his brother appeared.

  He smiled lazily as if picking up on my innate crankiness. "So which do you prefer? Guys way too young for you or guys way too old."

  "I never thought about it like that."

  He wagged a finger. "Guys way too old."

  I felt my cheeks grow warm. Dietz really wasn't that old.

  Me, I like women your age," he said, showing a flash of white teeth. "You got a boyfriend?"

  "That's none of your business."

  Tommy laughed. "Oh, come on. You seeing someone steady?"

  More or less," I said. I didn't want to piss this guy off when I was hoping against hope I'd end up renting the place.

  "'More or less.' I like that. So which is it?"

  "'More,' I guess."

  "Can't be much of a romance if you have to guess." He narrowed his eyes as though consulting his intuition. "So here's what I think. I bet you're real schizy. Bet you blow hot and cold about other human beings, especially men. Am I right?"

  "Not necessarily. I wouldn't say that."

  "But you must've seen a lot of bad guys, the business you're in."

  "I've seen some bad women, too."

  "That's another thing I like. Bad girls, bad women, renegades, rebels..." He lifted his head, checking his watch as he did. "Here he comes. Fifteen minutes late. You can just about bank on it."

  I glanced at the window as a pair of headlights swept across the parking area. I rose to my feet. Tommy finished his beer and set the bottle aside. A car door slammed and shortly afterward Richard Hevener walked in, tapping a clipboard restlessly against the side of his leg. He wore jeans and a black T-shirt, over which he wore a supple-looking black leather sportscoat. He was taller than Tommy and a lot stockier, his hair dark. He was the somber brother and seemed to take himself very seriously. This was going to be a chore.

  "Richard Hevener," he said as he offered me his hand. We shook hands and then he turned to Tommy. "Looks good."

  "Thanks. Finish picking up and I'm out of here. You need anything else?"

  I tuned out briefly while the two conferred. I gathered there was another property undergoing renovations and Tommy was starting work on that the following week. His manner had shifted in his brother's presence, his flirtatiousness gone. Their discussion finished, Tommy picked up the wastebasket full of carpet scraps and carried them outside, heading for the trash bin at the rear of the lot.

  "So what do you think of the place?" Richard said, turning to me. "You want to fill out an application?" His accent and his manner of speaking were much less "Texas" than
Tommy's. Consequently, he seemed older and more businesslike.

  "Sure, I could do that," I said, trying not to sound like I was sucking up.

  He passed me the clipboard and a pen. "We pay water and trash. You pay your own electric and phone. Heating's prorated and it varies, depending on the season. There's only one other tenant and he's a CPA."

  "I can't believe the space hasn't been snapped up."

  "Ad just went in. We've already had a lot of calls. Three, right after yours. I'm meeting another guy tonight."

  I could feel anxiety begin to mount. I leaned on a windowsill and began to fill in the information. Applications are tedious, requiring tidbits of information that are actually nobody's business. I filled in my Social Security number and my California driver's license number, circled DIVORCED in the section that asked if I were single, married, or divorced. Previous addresses, how long, and reasons for leaving. Personal references I listed, along with the bank where I had my checking account. I made a few things up. I drew a dotted line where it asked for credit card numbers and the balance on those accounts. By the time I finished, Tommy had left. I heard his truck in the driveway and then it was gone. I handed Richard the clipboard, watching while he scanned the information.

  "If you want a deposit, I can give you one tonight."

  "No need. I'll call your references and run a credit check. We have a couple more people coming by on Monday."

  "Do you have any idea how soon you'll be making a decision?"

  "Middle of the week. Make sure we have a way to reach you in case I have a question."

  I pointed to the application. "That's my home phone and my work phone. I've got a message machine on both."

  "This your current business address?"

  "That's right. I'm renting space from an attorney named Lonnie Kingman. He and my landlord will both tell you I pay on time."

  "Sounds good. Something comes up, I'll call. Otherwise, I'll be in touch once I've processed all the applications."

  "Fine. That sounds great. If you like, I can pay the first six months in advance." I was starting to sound ridiculous, fawning and insecure.

  Richard said, "Really." He studied me, his eyes a dark, brooding brown. "Fifteen hundred dollars, plus the additional one seventy-five for the cleaning deposit," he said, making sure I knew the full extent of my folly.

  I thought about Fiona's check for fifteen hundred bucks. "Sure, no problem. I could give you that right now."

  "I'll take that into consideration," he said.

  Chapter 6

  * * *

  Saturday, I opened my eyes automatically at 5:59 A.M. I stared up at the skylight, which was beaded with rain, the entire Plexiglas dome scattered with tiny pearls of light. The breeze coming in the bedroom window smelled of leaf mold, wet sidewalks, and the dripping eucalyptus trees that lined the street beyond. Actually, the scent of eucalyptus is almost indistinguishable from the odor of cat spray, but I didn't want to think about that. I bunched the pillow under my head, secure in the knowledge that I didn't have to crawl out of bed for my run. As dutiful as I am about exercise, there's still nothing more delicious than the opportunity to sleep in. I burrowed under the covers, ignoring the world until 8:30, when I finally came up for air.

  Once I'd showered and dressed, I made myself a pot of coffee and owned a bowl of cereal while I read the morning paper. I changed my sheets, started a load of laundry, and generally picked up around the place. When I was a child, my aunt Gin insisted I clean my room on Saturdays before I went out to play. Since we lived in a trailer, the task didn't amount to much, but the habit remains. I dusted, vacuumed, scrubbed toilet bowls – mindless activities that left me free to ruminate. I alternated fantasies, mentally rearranging furniture in my new office space and thinking about who to query next in my search for Purcell. With Fiona's fifteen-hundred-dollar retainer now safely in my account, I felt obligated to work through the weekend. I resisted the temptation to theorize after only one day's work, but if I'd been forced to place bets, I would have plunked down my money on the notion that Purcell was dead. From what I'd learned of him, I couldn't see him taking off without a word to his wife and small son. That didn't explain the missing passport and the missing thirty grand, but both might surface in due course. At this point, there was no reason to believe they were germane.

  At eleven o'clock, I hauled out the phone book and turned to the yellow pages, checking out the section that listed nursing homes. There were close to twenty by my count. Many boasted large boxed ads detailing the amenities: COMPREHENSIVE RECUPERATIVE LONG-TERM CARE... SPACIOUS ROOMS IN A TRANQUIL SETTING... ELEGANT DESIGN OF BUILDING AND INTERIOR... BEAUTIFUL NEW FACILITY WITH SECURE GARDEN COURTYARD.

  Some included cartoon maps with arrows pointing out their superior locales, as though it was preferable to decline in one of Santa Teresa's better neighborhoods. Most facilities had names suggesting that the occupants pictured themselves any place but where they were: Cedar Creek Estates, Green Briar Villa, Horizon View, Rolling Hills, The Gardens. Surely, no one envisioned being frail and fearful, abandoned, incapacitated, lonely, ill, and incontinent in such poetic-sounding accommodations.

  Pacific Meadows, the nursing home that Dow Purcell managed, touted twenty-four-hour RN care and on-site chapel and pastoral services, which were bound to come in handy. It was also certified by Medicare and Medicaid, giving it a decided advantage over some of its private-pay competitors. I decided to make a visit to see the place myself. The regular staff probably wouldn't be there on weekends, which might prove advantageous. Maybe all the prissy, officious sorts were home doing laundry just like I was.

  I tucked a fresh pack of index cards in my handbag, pulled on my boots, and found my yellow slicker and umbrella. I locked the door behind me and scurried through the puddles to my car parked at the curb. I slid in on the driver's side, shivering involuntarily at the chill in the air. The rain had picked up from the early morning lull and now pounded on my car roof with the staccato rattle of falling nails. I fired up the engine and then hunched over the steering wheel, driving in slow motion while the windshield wipers gave the royal wave.

  When I pulled into the parking lot at Pacific Meadows, the sky was dark with clouds, and the lights in the windows made the place look cozy and warm. I chose a spot near the entrance, assigned to an employee whose name had been painted out; black on black and impossible to read. I shut down the engine and waited until the squall had passed before I emerged. Even then, I had to pick my way across the half-flooded tarmac to the relative dryness of the sheltered front entrance. I shook off my umbrella and gave my slicker a quick brush before I stepped through the door. Dripping raincoats and wide-brimmed water-repellent hats were hung on a row of pegs. I added my slicker to the mix and propped my umbrella in the corner while I took my bearings.

  Along the wide hallway ahead, I could see a row of six elderly people in wheelchairs arranged against the wall like drooping houseplants. Some were sound asleep and some simply stared at the floor in a sensory-deprivation daze. Two were strapped in, their posture eroded by osteoporosis, bones melting from within. One woman, very thin, with long, white limbs, swung a bony leg fretfully over the arm of the wheelchair, moving with agitation as though prompted by pain. I felt myself recoil as if I were at the scene of a four-car pileup.

  At the far end of the corridor, two women in green uniforms piled sheets on a laundry cart already heaped with soiled linens. The air smelled odd – not bad, but somehow alien – a blend of disassociated odors: canned green beans, adhesive tape, hot metal, rubbing alcohol, laundry soap. There was nothing offensive in any single element, but the combination seemed off, life's perfume gone sour.

  To my right, aluminum walkers were bunched together like grocery carts outside a supermarket. The day's menu was posted on the wall, behind glass, like a painting on exhibit. Saturday lunch consisted of a ground chicken patty, creamed corn, lettuce, tomato, fruit cup, and an oatmeal cookie. In my world, the lettuce and t
omato might appear as a restaurant garnish, a decorative element to be ignored by the diner, left behind on the plate to be thrown in the trash. Here, the lettuce and tomato were given equal billing, as though part of a lavish nutritional feast. I thought about fries and a QP with Cheese and nearly fled the premises.

  French doors opened into the dining room, where I could see the residents at lunch. Even at a glance, I noted three times more women than men in evidence. Some wore street clothes, but the majority were still dressed in their robes and slippers, not bedridden but confined by their convalescent status. Many turned to stare at me, not rudely, but with a touching air of expectation. Had I come for a visit? Was I there to take them home? Was I someone's long-overdue daughter or niece proposing an outing in the clean, fresh air? I found myself glancing away, embarrassed I was offering nothing in the way of personal contact. Sheepishly, I looked back, raised my hand, and waved. A tentative chorus of hands rose in response as my greeting was returned. Their smiles were so sweet and forgiving I felt pricked with gratitude.

  I backed away from the dining room and crossed the hall. A second set of doors stood open, revealing a day room, currently empty, furnished with mismatched couches, upholstered chairs, a piano, two television sets, and a cluster of game tables. The floors were done in a glossy beige linoleum, the walls painted a restful shade of robin's egg blue. The ready-made drapes were a blend of yellow, blue, and green in a vaguely floral pattern. Countless throw pillows had been needle-pointed, cross-stitched, quilted, and crocheted. Perhaps a clutch of church ladies had been afflicted by a fit of stitchery. One pillow had a saying embroidered across the face – YOU'RE ONLY AS OLD AS YOU FEEL – a disheartening thought, given some of the residents I'd seen. Metal folding chairs were stacked against the near wall for quick assembling. Everything was clean, but the "decorating" was generic, budget-driven, falling somehow short of good taste.

  I walked past the front desk, which was located in a small alcove, and cruised down the corridor, guided by signs indicating the services of a dietary supervisor, a nursing supervisor, and a clutch of occupational, speech, and physical therapists. All three doors were open, but the offices were empty and the lights had been doused. Across the hallway I saw a sign for Admissions. That door was closed and a casual try of the knob told me it was locked. Next door was Medical Records, which apparently shared space with Administration. I thought I'd start there.