by Sue Grafton
The first week she worked she’d found the passbooks for two savings accounts in one of the cubbyholes in his desk. One contained a pathetic fifteen thousand dollars and the other, twenty-two thousand. Obviously he wanted her to believe that was the extent of it. He was taunting her, knowing she had no way to get her hands on the funds. In her previous job, something similar had occurred. She’d persuaded Mrs. Feldcamp to sign countless checks made out to cash, but four more big savings accounts had surfaced after the old woman was gone. Those four held close to five hundred thousand dollars, which made her weep with frustration. She’d taken one last run at the money, backdating withdrawal slips that she forged with the old woman’s signature. She thought the effort was credible, but the bank had taken issue. There was even talk of prosecution, and if she hadn’t shed that particular persona, all her hard work might have come to nothing. Fortunately she’d been quick enough to vanish before the bank discovered the extent of her chicanery.
At Gus’s, the week before, after a diligent search through the chest of drawers in one of the spare bedrooms, she’d found some jewelry that must have belonged to his wife. Most of it was cheap, but Mrs. Vronsky’s engagement ring was mounted with a good-sized diamond and her watch was a Cartier. Solana had moved those to a hiding place in her room until she could get to a jeweler’s and have them appraised. She didn’t want to try a pawnshop because she knew she would net only a small percentage of their value. Items in pawnshops were easily traced and that would never do. Really, she was losing hope of unearthing assets beyond those in hand.
She crept to the closet, lifting the knob as she opened the door. She’d learned the hard way that the hinges screeched like someone stepping on a dog’s tail. That had happened the second night she’d spent in the house. Gus had sat up in bed, demanding to know what she was doing in his room. She’d said the first thing that had come into her head. “I heard you yelling and I thought something was wrong. You must have had a bad dream. Why don’t I warm you some milk?”
She’d laced the milk with cherry cough syrup, telling him it was a special drink mix for kids, full of vitamins and minerals. He’d swallowed it right down, and she’d made a point of oiling the hinges before she tried again. Now she went back through his jacket pockets, testing his raincoat, his only sports coat, and the robe he’d left hanging on the closet door. Nothing, nothing, nothing, she thought irritably. If the old man was worthless, there was no way she could put up with him. He could go on for years, and what was the point of helping if it netted her nothing? She was a trained professional, not a volunteer.
She gave up the search for the night and returned to bed, frustrated and out of sorts. She lay there, sleepless, roaming the house in her mind, trying to determine how he’d outwitted her. Nobody could live as long as he had without having a substantial sum of money somewhere. She’d obsessed about the subject from day one of her employment when she’d been certain of success. She’d quizzed him about his insurance policies, pretending that she was pondering the issue of whole life versus term. Almost gleefully he’d told her he’d let his policies lapse. She’d been sorely disappointed, though she’d discovered through Mr. Ebersole how difficult it was to insinuate oneself as a beneficiary. She’d done better with Mrs. Prent, though she wasn’t at all sure the lesson she’d learned there would apply to this situation. Surely Gus had a will, which might provide another possibility. She hadn’t found a copy, but she’d come across a safe-deposit key, which suggested he kept his valuables at the bank.
All the worrying was exhausting. At 4:00 A.M. she rose, put on her clothes, and made her bed neatly. She let herself out the front door and walked the half block to her car. It was dark and cold, and she couldn’t shake the sour mood he’d put her in. She drove to Colgate. In long stretches, the highway was deserted, as wide and empty as a river. She pulled into the carport at her apartment complex, her gaze moving across the line of windows to see who was awake. She loved the sense of power she experienced, knowing she was up and about while so many others were dead to the world.
She let herself in and checked to make sure Tiny was home. He seldom went out, but when he did, she might not see him for days. She opened his door with the same stealth she employed in searching Gus’s closets. The room was dark, dense with his body smells. He kept his heavy curtains closed because the morning light bothered him, nudging him awake hours before he was ready to get out of bed. He stayed up late at night watching television and he couldn’t face life before noon, he said. The soft wash of daylight from the hallway revealed his bulky outline in the bed, one beefy arm on top of the quilt. She closed the door.
She poured a tot of vodka in a jelly glass and sat down at the dining room table, which was piled high with junk mail and unopened bills, among them her new driver’s license, which she was thrilled to have in her possession. On top of the closest stack was a blank envelope with her name scrawled across the front. She recognized her landlord’s nearly illegible scrawl. He was actually the manager, a position he enjoyed because he paid no rent. The note inside was short and to the point, informing her of a two-hundred-dollar-a-month increase, effective immediately. Two months previously she’d been told the building had been sold. Now the new owner was systematically jacking up the rents, which automatically raised the value of the property. At the same time, he was making a few improvements, if that’s what you wanted to call them. He’d taken credit for having the mailboxes repaired when it was actually a post office regulation. The mailman wouldn’t deliver to any address where there wasn’t a clearly marked box. The dead bushes had been pulled away from the front of the building and left at the curb, where the trash collectors had ignored them for weeks. He’d also installed coin-operated washers and dryers in the communal laundry room, which had been abandoned for years and had served as a storage space for bicycles, many of which were stolen. She knew most of the tenants would ignore the washing machines.
Across the back alleyway from her apartment there was another complex he’d bought—twenty-four units in four buildings, each with its own unlocked laundry room, where a washer and dryer were available without charge. There were only twenty apartments in her building, and many of her fellow tenants took advantage of the free facilities. Small boxes of detergent were available from a vending machine, but it was easy enough to jimmy the mechanism and take what you needed. She wondered what the new owner was up to, probably snapping up properties right and left. Greedy people were like that, squeezing the last penny out of those like herself, who struggled to survive.
Solana had no intention of paying two hundred more a month for a furnished apartment that was barely habitable as it was. For a while Tiny had kept a cat, a big old white male that he’d named after himself. He was too lazy to get up and let the cat in and out, so the animal had taken to pissing on the carpet and using the heat registers to relieve itself in more serious ways. She was used to the smell by now, but she knew if she left the place, the manager would raise hell. She hadn’t paid a pet deposit because when the two of them moved in, they didn’t have a pet. Now she couldn’t see why she should be held responsible when the cat had died of old age. She wasn’t even going to think about the medicine cabinet Tiny had ripped out of the bathroom wall or the scorch mark on the laminate counter where he’d set a hot skillet some months before. She decided to hold off on paying the rent while she considered her alternatives.
She went back to Gus’s house at 3:00 that afternoon and found him awake and cross as a bear. He knew she’d been sleeping in the house three or four nights a week and he expected to have her at his beck and call. He said he’d been banging and thumping on the wall for hours. The very idea put her in a fury.
“Mr. Vronsky, I told you I was leaving at eleven o’clock last night just as I always do. I made a point of coming into your room to tell you I was on my way home and you agreed.”
“Someone was here.”
“It wasn’t me. If you doubt me, go in my room and look at
the bed. You’ll see it hasn’t been slept in.”
She went on in this vein, insistent on her version of events. She could see how befuddled he was, convinced of one thing when she was standing there telling him the opposite.
He blinked rapidly and his face took on the stubborn cast she knew so well. She put a hand on his arm. “It’s not your fault. You’re overly emotional, that’s all. It happens with people your age. You might be having a series of small strokes. The effect would be much the same.”
“You were here. You came into my room. I saw you looking for something in the closet.”
She shook her head, smiling at him sadly. “You were dreaming. You did that last week. Don’t you remember?”
He searched her face.
She kept her expression kind and her tone sympathetic. “I told you then you were imagining things, but you refused to believe me, didn’t you? Now you’re doing it again.”
“No.”
“Yes. And I’m not the only one who’s noticed. Your niece called me right after she spoke to you on the phone earlier this week. She said you were confused. She was so worried about you, she asked a neighbor to come over and check up on you. Do you remember Ms. Millhone?”
“Of course. She’s a private detective and she intends to investigate you.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Your niece asked her to pay a visit because she thought you were showing signs of senile dementia. That’s why she came, to see for herself. It wouldn’t take a private detective to determine how disturbed you’ve become. I told her it might be any number of things. A thyroid condition, for instance, which I also explained to your niece. From now on, you’d be wise to keep your mouth shut. They’ll think you’re paranoid and making things up—another sign of dementia. Don’t humiliate yourself in the eyes of others. All you’ll get is their pity and their scorn.”
She watched his face crumble. She knew she could break him down. As cranky and ill-tempered as he was, he was no match for her. He began to tremble, his mouth working. He was blinking again, this time trying to hold back tears. She patted his arm and murmured a few endearments. In her experience, it was kindness that caused the old ones so much pain. Opposition they could take. They probably welcomed it. But compassion (or the semblance of love in this case) cut straight to the soul. He began to weep, the soft, hopeless sound of someone sinking under the weight of despair.
“Would you like a little something to settle your nerves?”
He put a trembling hand over his eyes and nodded.
“Good. You’ll feel better. The doctor doesn’t want you to be upset. I’ll bring you some ginger ale as well.”
Once he’d taken his medicine, he sank into a sleep so deep she was able to pinch him hard on the leg and get no response.
She made up her mind to give notice at the first complaint. She was tired of catering to him.
At 7:00 that night, he’d toddled from the bedroom to the kitchen, where she was sitting. He was using his walker, which made a dreadful thumping sound that got on her nerves.
He said, “I didn’t have my dinner.”
“That’s because it’s morning.”
He hesitated, suddenly unsure of himself. He flicked a look at the window. “It’s dark out.”
“It’s four A.M. and, naturally, the sun isn’t up. If you like, I can fix your breakfast. Would you like eggs?”
“The clock says seven.”
“It’s broken. I’ll have to have it repaired.”
“If it’s morning, you shouldn’t be here. When I said I saw you last night, you told me I’d imagined it. You don’t come to work until midafternoon.”
“Ordinarily, yes, but I stayed last night because you were upset and confused and I was worried. Sit down at the table and I’ll make you something nice for your breakfast.”
She helped him into a kitchen chair. She could tell he was struggling to figure out what was true and what was not. While she scrambled eggs for him, he sat, silent and sullen. She put his eggs in front of him.
He stared at the plate but made no move to eat.
“Now what’s wrong?”
“I don’t like hard eggs. I told you that. I like them soft.”
“I’m so sorry. My mistake,” she said. She took his plate and dumped the eggs in the trash, then scrambled two more, leaving them so soft they were little more than rivers of slime.
“Now eat.” This time he obeyed.
Solana was tired of the game. With nothing to gain, it might be time to move on. She liked her patients with a little fight left in them. Otherwise, what did her victories mean? He was a loathsome man anyway, smelling faintly medicinal and reeking of wet. Right then and there she decided to quit. If he thought he was so smart, he could fend for himself. She wouldn’t bother to notify his niece she was leaving. Why waste the time or the energy on a long-distance call? She told him it was time for his regular pain medication.
“I took that.”
“No, you didn’t. I keep notes for the doctor. You can see for yourself. There’s nothing written here.”
He took his pills, and within minutes his head was drooping and she helped him to his bed again. Peace and quiet at last. She went to her room and packed her belongings, tucking his wife’s jewelry in her overnight case. She’d been paid accumulated overtime the day before by mail, a stingy check from his niece, who hadn’t even included a thank-you note. She wondered if she might borrow the car she’d seen sitting in the garage. He probably wouldn’t notice it was gone since he so seldom went out. As it was, the car was of use to no one, and Solana’s secondhand convertible was a mess.
She’d just finished zipping up her bags when she heard a knock at the door. Why would somebody stop by at this hour? She hoped it wasn’t Mr. Pitts from next door inquiring about the old man’s welfare. She checked her reflection in the mirror on the dresser. She smoothed her hair back and adjusted the clip she was using to hold it in place. She went into the living room. She flipped on the porch light and peered out. She couldn’t place the woman, though she looked familiar. She appeared to be in her seventies and was well put together: low heels, hose, and a dark suit with a froth of ruffles at the neck. She looked like a social worker. Her smile was pleasant as she glanced at the paper she carried, refreshing her memory. She opened the door a crack.
“Are you Mrs. Rojas?”
Solana hesitated. “Yes.”
“Am I pronouncing that right?”
“Yes.”
“May I come in?”
“Are you selling something?”
“Not at all. My name’s Charlotte Snyder. I’m a real estate agent and I was wondering if I could speak to Mr. Vronsky about his house. I know he took a tumble and if he’s not feeling up to it, I can come back another time.”
Solana made a point of looking at her watch, hoping the woman would get the hint.
“I apologize for the hour. I know it’s late, but I’ve been with a client all day and this was the first chance I’ve had to stop by.”
“What’s this about the house?”
Charlotte looked past her into the living room. “I’d prefer to explain it to him.”
Solana smiled. “Why don’t you come in and I’ll see if he’s up? The doctor wants him to get as much rest as possible.”
“I wouldn’t want to disturb him.”
“Not to worry.”
She let the woman in and left her sitting on the couch while she made a trip to the bedroom. She turned on the overhead light and looked at him. He was down in the depths of sleep. She waited a suitable interval and then flicked off the light switch and returned to the living room. “He’s not feeling well enough to come out of his room. He says if you’ll explain your business to me, I can pass the information along when he’s feeling better. Perhaps you’d be so kind as to tell me your name again.”
“Snyder. Charlotte Snyder.”
“I recognize you now. You’re a friend of Mr. Pitts next door, yes?”
�
��Well, yes, but I’m not here because of him.”
Solana sat and stared at her. She didn’t like people who were cagey about stating their business. This woman was uneasy about something, but Solana couldn’t figure out what it was. “Mrs. Snyder, of course you should do as you think best, but Mr. Vronsky trusts me with everything. I’m his nurse.”
“It’s a big responsibility.” She appeared to wrestle with the idea, whatever it was, blinking at the floor before deciding to go on. “I’m not here to promote anything one way or the other. This is purely a courtesy…”
Solana gestured impatiently. Enough with the preamble.
“I’m not sure Mr. Vronsky understands how much this place is worth. I happen to have a client who’s in the market for a property of this sort.”
“What sort is that?” Solana’s first impulse was to disparage the house, which was small, outdated, and in bad repair. Then again, why give the agent reason to offer less, if that’s what she was getting at?
“Are you aware that he owns a double lot? I checked with the county assessor’s office, and it turns out when Mr. Vronsky bought this lot, he bought the one next door as well.”
“Of course,” Solana said, though it had never occurred to her that the vacant lot next door belonged to the old man.
“Both are zoned for multiple-family dwelling.”
Solana knew very little about real estate, never having owned a piece of property in her life. “Yes?”
“My client’s here from Baltimore. I’ve shown everything currently listed, but then yesterday, it occurred to me…”