by Sue Grafton
“How much?”
“Excuse me, what?”
“You can give me the figures. If Mr. Vronsky has questions, I can let you know.” Wrong move. Solana could see the woman’s uneasiness return.
“You know, on second thought, it might be better if I come back another time. I should deal with him in person.”
“What about tomorrow morning at eleven?”
“Fine. That’s good. I’d appreciate it.”
“Meanwhile, there’s no point wasting his time or yours. If it’s too little money, selling is out of the question, in which case it won’t be necessary to bother him again. He loves this house.”
“I’m sure he does, but being realistic, the land is worth more than the house at this point, which means we’re talking about a tear-down.”
Solana shook her head. “No, no. He won’t want to do that. He lived here with his wife and it would break his heart. It would take a lot to get him to agree.”
“I understand. Perhaps this is not a good idea, our discussing…”
“Fortunately, I have influence and I might talk him into it if the price is right.”
“I haven’t done the comps. I’d have to give it some thought, but everything depends on his response. I wanted to feel him out before I went further.”
“You must have an opinion or you wouldn’t be here.”
“I’ve already said more than I should. It would be highly irregular to mention a dollar amount.”
“That’s up to you,” Solana said, but in a tone that implied the door was closing.
Mrs. Snyder paused again to marshal her thoughts. “Well…”
“Please. I can help.”
“With the two lots together, I think it would be reasonable to say nine.”
“‘Nine’? You’re saying nine thousand or ninety? Because if it’s nine, you might as well stop right there. I wouldn’t want to insult him.”
“I meant nine hundred thousand. Of course, I’m not committing my client to a dollar amount, but we’ve been looking in that range. I represent his interests first and foremost, but if Mr. Vronsky wanted to list the property with me, I’d be delighted to walk him through the process.”
Solana put a hand to her cheek.
The woman hesitated. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. You have a business card?”
“Of course.”
Later, Solana had to close her eyes with relief, realizing how close she’d come to blowing everything. As soon as the woman was gone, she went into the bedroom and unpacked her bags.
18
Driving home from work on Friday, I spotted Henry and Charlotte walking the bike path along Cabana Boulevard. They were bundled up, Henry in a navy peacoat, Charlotte in a ski jacket with a knit hat pulled down over her ears. The two were engrossed in conversation and didn’t see me pass, but I waved nonetheless. It was still light out, but the air was the dull gray of dusk. The streetlights had come on. The restaurants along Cabana were open for happy hour and the motels were activating their vacancy signs. The palm trees stood at parade rest, fronds rustling in the sea wind coming in off the beach.
I turned onto my street and snagged the first parking spot I saw, sandwiched between Charlotte’s black Cadillac and an old minivan. I locked up and walked to my apartment, checking the Dumpster as I went by. Dumpsters are a joy because they cry out to be filled, thus encouraging us to rid our garages and attics of accumulated junk. Solana had tossed the bicycle frames, the lawn mowers, long-defunct canned goods, and the carton of women’s shoes, the weight of the trash forming a compact mass. The mound was almost as high as the sides of the container and would probably have to be hauled away before long. I pulled my mail out of the box and went through the gate. When I rounded the corner of the studio, I saw Henry’s brother William standing on his porch in a natty three-piece suit with a muffler wrapped around his neck. The January chill had brought bright spots of color to his cheeks.
I crossed the patio. “This is a surprise. Are you looking for Henry?”
“Matter of fact I am. This upper-respiratory infection has triggered an asthma attack. He said I could borrow his humidifier to head off anything worse. I told him I’d stop by to pick it up, but his door’s locked and he’s not responding to my knock.”
“He’s off on a walk with Charlotte. I saw them on Cabana a little while ago so I’d imagine they’ll be home soon. I can let you in if you want. Our doors are keyed the same, which makes it easier if I’m out and he has to get into the studio.”
“I’d appreciate your help,” he said. He stood aside while I stepped forward and unlocked the back door. Henry had left the humidifier on the kitchen table, and William scribbled him a note before he took the apparatus.
“You going home to bed?”
“Not until after work if I’m able to hold out that long. Friday nights are busy. Young people revving up for the weekend. If necessary, I can wear a surgical mask to prevent my passing this on.”
“I see you’re all dressed up,” I said.
“I just came from a visitation at Wynington-Blake.”
Wynington-Blake was a mortuary I knew well (Burials, Cremation, and Shipping—Serving All Faiths), having dropped by on previous occasions. I said, “Sorry to hear that. Anyone I know?”
“I don’t believe so. This is a visitation I read about when I checked the obituaries in the paper this morning. Fellow named Sweets. No mention of close relations so I thought I’d put in an appearance in case he needed company. How’s Gus doing? Henry hasn’t mentioned him of late.”
“I’d say fair.”
“I knew it would come down to this. Old people, once they fall…” He let the sentence trail off, contemplating the sorry end of yet another life. “I should call on him while I can. Gus could go at any time.”
“Well, I don’t think he’s on his deathbed, but I’m sure he’d appreciate a visit. Maybe in the morning when he’s up and about. He could use some cheering up.”
“What better time than now? Raise his spirits, so to speak.”
“He could use that.”
William brightened. “I could tell him about Bill Kips’s death. Gus and Bill lawn-bowled together for many years. He’ll be sorry he missed the funeral, but I picked up an extra program at the service and I could talk him through the memorial. Very moving poem at the end. ‘Thanatopsis’ by William Cullen Bryant. You know the work, I’m sure.”
“I don’t believe I do.”
“Our dad made us memorize poetry when the sibs and I were young. He believed committing verse to memory served a man well in life. I could recite it if you like.”
“Why don’t you step in out of the cold before you do.”
“Thank you. I’m happy to oblige.”
I held the door open, and William moved far enough into my living room so I could close it behind him. The chill air seemed to have followed him in, but he set to work with a will. He held on to his lapel with his right hand, his left tucked behind him as he began to recite. “Just the last of it,” he said, by way of introduction. He cleared his throat. “‘So live, that when thy summons comes to join / The innumerable caravan which moves / To that mysterious realm, where each shall take / His chamber in the silent halls of death, / Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, / Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed / By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave / Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch / About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.’”
I waited, expecting a perky postscript.
He looked at me. “Inspirational, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know, William. It’s really not that uplifting. Why not something with a touch more optimism?”
He blinked, stumped for a substitute.
“Why don’t you give it some thought,” I said. “Meanwhile, I’ll tell Henry you stopped by.”
“Good enough.”
Saturday morning, I made another run over to the residence hotel on Dave L
evine Street. I parked out in front and let myself in. I walked down the hall to the office, where the landlady was tallying receipts on an old-fashioned adding machine with a hand crank.
“Sorry to interrupt,” I said. “Is Melvin Downs in?”
She turned in her chair. “You again. I believe he went out, but I can check if you like.”
“I’d appreciate that. I’m Kinsey Millhone, by the way. I didn’t catch your name.”
“Juanita Von,” she said. “I’m the owner, manager, and cook, all rolled into one. I don’t do the cleaning. I have two young women who do that.” She got up from the desk. “This might take a while. His room’s on the third floor.”
“You can’t call?”
“I don’t permit telephones in the rooms. It’s too costly having jacks installed, so I let them use mine when the occasion arises. As long as they don’t take advantage, of course. You might wait in the parlor. It’s the formal room to the left as you go down this hall.”
I turned and went back to the parlor, where I prowled the perimeter. While the surfaces weren’t cluttered, Juanita Von did seem to favor ceramic figures, knock-kneed children with sagging socks and fingers in their mouths. The bookshelves were free of books, which probably saved her cleaning women the effort of dusting. Limp sheer curtains at the window filtered sufficient light to make the air in the room seem gray. The matching sofas were unforgiving, and the wooden chair wobbled on its legs. The only sound was the ticking of the grandfather clock in one corner of the room. What kind of people lived in such a place? I pictured myself coming home to this at the end of each day. Talk about depressing.
I spotted six neatly stacked magazines on the coffee table. I picked up the first, a copy of last week’s TV Guide. Under it was the November 1982 issue of Car & Driver and under that was an issue of BusinessWeek from the previous March. A few minutes later Juanita Von reappeared. “Out,” she said, sounding entirely too satisfied for my taste.
“Not to get repetitive here, but do you have any idea when he’ll be back?”
“I do not. As a proprietor, I’m strictly hands-off. If it’s not my business, I don’t inquire. That’s my policy.”
Thinking to endear myself, I said, “This is a wonderful old house. How long have you owned it?”
“Twenty-six years this March. This is the old Von estate. You might have heard of it before. Property once stretched from State Street to Bay and covered twelve square blocks.”
“Really. It’s quite a place.”
“Yes, it is. I inherited this house from my grandparents. My great-grandfather built it at the turn of the century and gave it to my grandparents the day they were married. It’s been added onto over the years as you can tell. Corridors go every which way.”
“Did your parents live here as well?”
“Briefly. My mother’s people were from Virginia, and she insisted that they move to Roanoke, which is where I was born. She didn’t much care for California and she certainly had no interest in local history. My grandparents knew she’d talk my father into selling the property once they were gone so they skipped a generation and left it to me. I was sorry to have to break it up into rental units, but it was the only way I could afford the upkeep.”
“How many rooms do you have?”
“Twelve. Some are larger than others, but most of them have good light, and they all have the same high ceilings. If I ever come into money, I intend to redo the public rooms, but that’s not likely to happen any time soon. I sometimes discount the rent a bit if a tenant wants to paint or fix up. As long as I approve the changes.”
She began to tidy the magazines, her attention turned to the task so she wouldn’t have to make eye contact. “If you don’t mind my asking, what’s your business with Mr. Downs? I’ve never known him to have a visitor.”
“We believe he witnessed an accident in May of last year. This was a two-vehicle collision up near City College and he offered assistance. Unfortunately, one’s now suing the other for a large sum of money, and we hope he has information that might help settle the dispute.”
“Way too many people suing in my opinion,” she said. “I’ve served on juries in two different lawsuits and both were a waste of time, not to mention the taxpayers’ dollars. Now, if we’re done chatting, I’ll get on with my work.”
“Why don’t I leave Mr. Downs a note and he can contact me. I don’t want to turn into a pest.”
“Fine with me.”
I took out a pen and a spiral-bound notebook, dashing off a note, asking if he’d get in touch at his earliest convenience. I ripped the leaf from my notebook and folded it in half before I handed it to her with one of my business cards. “There’s a machine on both these numbers. If he can’t reach me directly, tell him I’ll return the call as soon as I can.”
She read the card and sent me a sharp look, though she made no comment.
I said, “I don’t suppose I could trouble you for a quick tour.”
“I don’t rent to females. Women are usually trouble. I don’t like gossip and petty bickering, not to mention feminine-hygiene products interfering with the plumbing. I’ll see Mr. Downs gets your note.”
“Fair enough,” I said.
I stopped by the supermarket on my way home. For once, the sun was out, and while the temperature was still riding in the low fifties, the sky was a bright clear blue. Charlotte’s Cadillac was parked across the street. I let myself in and unloaded my shopping bags. I’d noticed a batch of fresh bread dough proofing in a cradle that Henry kept in the glass-enclosed breezeway between my place and his. He hadn’t made bread for ages and the notion put me in a good mood. Having been a professional baker by trade, he’d make eight to ten loaves at a time, and he was generous about sharing. I hadn’t talked to Charlotte in a week, so once my kitchen was tidied up, I trotted across the patio and knocked on Henry’s door. I could see Henry at work, and judging from the size of the kettle on the stove, he was making chili or spaghetti sauce to go with his bread. William was seated at the table, with a cup of coffee in front of him, an odd expression on his face. Charlotte stood with her arms crossed, and Henry was whacking an onion with a vengeance. He reached over and opened the door for me, but it wasn’t until I’d closed it behind me that I tuned in to the tension in the room. At first I thought there was a problem with Gus because the three of them were so silent. I figured William had gone next door to visit him and brought back a bad report, which was only partially true. I found myself looking from one stony face to the next.
I said, “Is everything okay?”
Henry said, “Not really.”
“What’s going on?”
William cleared his throat, but before he could speak, Henry said, “I’ll handle this.”
“Handle what?” I asked, still clueless.
Henry used the knife blade to sweep the onion aside. He laid out eight cloves of garlic and used the flat of the same blade to crush the cloves, which he then chopped. “William went over to Gus’s for a visit this morning and saw Charlotte’s business card on the coffee table.”
“Oh?”
“I shouldn’t have mentioned it,” William said.
Henry sent a hot look in Charlotte’s direction and I realized then that there was a dispute under way. “These people are my neighbors. I’ve known some of them for the better part of fifty years. You went over there to hustle real estate. Gus was under the impression that I sent you over there to talk about the sale of his home when I did no such thing. He has no interest in putting his property on the market.”
“You don’t know that. He was totally unaware of how much equity he’d built up or the use he could make of it. Of course he knew he’d bought the lot next door, but that was fifty years ago, and he didn’t understand how that half-acre ownership enhanced the overall value. People are entitled to information. Just because you’re not interested doesn’t mean he’s not.”
“Your efforts reflected poorly on me and I don’t appreciate it. F
rom what his nurse says he was close to collapse.”
“That’s not true. He wasn’t the least bit upset. We had a nice chat and he said he’d think about it. I was there less than twenty minutes. There was no pressure whatever. I don’t operate that way.”
“Solana told William you were there twice. Once to talk to her and then a second time to discuss the matter with him. Maybe you don’t call that pressure, but I do.”
“He was sleeping the first time and she said she’d pass the information along. I went back at her request because she wasn’t sure she’d explained it properly.”
“I asked you not to do it at all. You did an end-run around me.”
“I don’t need your permission to go about my business.”
“I’m not talking about permission. I’m talking about simple decency. You don’t go into a man’s home and cause trouble.”
“What trouble are you talking about? Solana’s the one who has everyone all riled up. I drove all the way up from Perdido this morning and here you are being pissy with me. Who needs it?”
Henry was silent for a moment, opening a can of tomato sauce. “I had no idea you’d take such liberties.”
“I’m sorry you’re upset, but I really don’t think you have the right to dictate my behavior.”
“That’s entirely correct. You can do anything you want, but keep my name out of it. Gus has health problems, as you well know. He doesn’t need you waltzing in there acting like he’s on his deathbed.”
“I did no such thing!”
“You heard what William said. Gus was beside himself. He thought his house was being sold out from under him and he was being sent to a nursing home.”
Charlotte said, “Stop that. Enough. I have a client who’s interested…”
“You have a client in the wings?” Henry stopped and stared at her in astonishment.
“Of course I have clients. You know that as well as I do. I haven’t committed a crime. Gus is free to do anything he wants.”
William said, “At the rate he’s going, you’ll end up dealing with his estate. That should settle it.”