by Sue Grafton
I didn’t wake until well after five p.m. For a moment I thought I’d slept all the way around the clock until the next dawn. I stared up at the clear Plexiglas dome above my bed, trying to orient myself in the half-light. Given the early February sunsets, the day was already draining away like gray water from the bottom of a bathtub. I assessed my mental state and decided I’d probably had enough sleep, realized I was starving, and hauled myself out of bed. I brushed my teeth, showered, and shampooed my hair. Afterward I pulled on an old sweatshirt and worn jeans. Downstairs, I collected a plastic bucket full of rags and cleaning products. Now that the immediate crisis had passed, I found myself tuning into the rage I felt for her assailant. Men who beat women were almost as low as the men who beat kids.
I tried Cheney’s number, but he was apparently already up and out. I left a message on his machine, indicating the time of day and the fact that I was too hungry to wait for him. When I opened my front door, a manila envelope dropped out of the frame where it had been tucked. Across the front, Hector had scrawled a note: “Friday. 5:35 p.m. Knocked but no answer. Amended transcript and tape enclosed. Sorry I couldn’t be more help. Give me a call when you get back.” He’d jotted down his home number and the number for the studio. He must have stopped by and knocked while I was in the shower. I checked the time. He’d apparently been there only fifteen minutes before, and I had to guess it was too soon to catch him at either number. I tucked both the tape and the transcript in my handbag and then took myself to a coffee shop where breakfast was served twenty-four hours a day.
I studied Hector’s notations while I made a pig of myself, hastily consuming a plate full of the sorts of foodstuffs nutritionists forbid. He hadn’t managed to decipher much more than I had. To my page of notes, he’d added the following:
“Hey… I hate that stuff…. myself think. You’re not…”
“Oh, come on. I’m just kidding…. [laughter] But you have to admit, it’s a great idea. She goes in at the same time every day… deify…”
“You’re sick.
“People shouldn’t get in my… [clatter… clink]”
Sound of water… squeak…
“If anything happens, I’ll…”
Thump, thump…
“I’m serious… stubby –”
“No link Laughter… chair scrape… rustle… murmur…
At the bottom of the page, he’d scrawled three big question marks. My sentiments exactly.
When I reached Danielle’s cottage, I parked in the alleyway near the hedge as I had the night before. It was dark by then. At this rate I might never see full sun again. I took out my flashlight and checked the batteries, satisfied that the beam was still strong. I spent a few minutes walking along the borders of the alleyway, using the blade of light to cut through the weeds on either side. I didn’t expect to find anything. I wasn’t really looking for “evidence” as such. I wanted to see if I could figure out where Danielle’s assailant might have gone. There were any number of places where he might have hidden, yards he could have crossed to reach the streets on either side. In the middle of the night, even a slender tree trunk can provide cover. For all I knew, he’d taken up a position within easy viewing distance, watching the ambulance and all the cop cars arrive.
I went back to Danielle’s cottage, where I crossed the backyard to the main house. I climbed the back steps and knocked on the lighted kitchen window. I could see Danielle’s landlord rinsing dinner dishes before he placed them in the rack. He caught sight of me at just about that time and came to the back door, drying his hands on a dish towel. I got a key from him, pausing to chat for a few minutes about the assault. He’d gone to bed at ten. He said he was a light sleeper, but his bedroom was on the second floor, the street side of the house, and he’d heard nothing. He was a man in his seventies, retired military, though he didn’t say which branch. If he knew how Danielle made a living, he made no comment. He seemed as fond of her as I was, and that was all I cared about. I professed ignorance of her current status, except to indicate that she’d survived and was expected to recover. He didn’t press for specifics.
I walked back along the brick path to Danielle’s small porch. The crime scene tape had been removed, but I could still see traces of fingerprint powder around the doorknob and frame. The rag-wrapped length of bloody pipe would probably be tested for fingerprints, but I doubted it would yield much. I let myself into the cottage and flipped on the overhead light. The splattered blood was like a Rorschach, a dark red pattern of smears and exclamation marks where the force of the blows had flung blood in two tracks across the wall. The bloodstained rug had been removed, probably tossed in the trash can at the rear of the lot. The blood on the baseboard looked like teardrops of paint.
The entire apartment was barely a room and a half and cheaply constructed. I toured the premises, though there wasn’t much to see. Like mine, Danielle’s living quarters occupied a very small space. It looked as though Danielle’s battle with her assailant had been confined to the front room, most of which was taken up with a sitting area and a king-size bed. The sheets and comforter were a Laura Ashley print, pink-and-white floral polished cotton with matching drapes, and a correlating pink-and-white-striped paper lined the walls. Her kitchen consisted of a hot plate and a microwave oven sitting atop a painted chest of drawers.
The bathroom was small, painted white, with tiny old-fashioned black-and-white tiles on the floor. The sink was skirted in the same Laura Ashley print she’d used in the bedroom. She’d bought a matching polished-cotton shower curtain, with a valance covering the rod. The wall opposite the john was a minigallery. A dozen framed photographs were hung close together, many sitting crooked on the hangers. Danielle must have been flung up against the connecting wall during the assault. Several had been knocked off the wall and lay facedown on the tile floor. I lifted them with care. Two of the frames had smashed on impact, and the glass in all four was either badly cracked or broken. I stacked the four damaged pictures together, tossed glass shards in the trash, and then straightened the remaining photographs, pausing to absorb the subject matter. Danielle as a baby. Danielle with Mom and Dad. Danielle at about nine, in a dance recital with her hair done up.
I went back into the front room and found a thick sheaf of brown grocery bags tucked in the slot between the wall and the chest of drawers. I put the damaged framed photographs in the bag and set them by the front door. I’d seen similar frames at the drugstore for a couple of bucks apiece. Maybe I’d stop by and pick up some replacements. I pulled all the linens off the bed and set them out on the porch. Even the dust ruffle had picked up a spray of blood posies. I’d make a trip to the cleaners in the morning. I filled my bucket with hot water, mixing a potent brew of cleaning solutions. I wiped down the walls, scrubbed the baseboards and floors until the soapy water turned a frothy pink. I clumped that lot, refilled the bucket, and started over again.
When I’d finished, I pulled out the transcript and sat down on the bed, using Danielle’s phone to try Hector at his home number. He answered promptly.
“This is Kinsey here. I’m glad I caught you at home. I thought you might be on your way to the studio.”
“Not this early, and today not at all. I work Saturday through Wednesday, so Thursday and Friday nights are usually my weekend. Last night was an exception, but I try to keep those to a minimum. I got hot plans tonight. I give Beauty a bath, and then she gives me one. You got the transcript, I take it.”
“Yeah, and I’m sorry I missed you. I was in the shower when you dropped it off.” We spent a few minutes commiserating with one another about the poor quality of the tape recording. “What’d you make of it?”
“Not much. I picked up a couple of words, but nothing that made any sense.”
“You have any idea what they’re talking about?”
“Nope. Lorna sounds upset with him, is mostly what I pick up.”
“You’re sure it’s Lorna?”
“I couldn’t
swear, but I’m pretty sure it was her.”
“What about the guy?”
“I didn’t recognize his voice. Doesn’t sound like anyone I’m familiar with. You ought to listen again yourself and see what you hear. Maybe we can take turns filling in the missing pieces like a jigsaw puzzle.”
“We don’t have to make it our life’s work,” I said. “I’m not even sure it’s relevant, but I’ll have another go at it when I get home.” I glanced down at the annotated transcript. “What about this word deify. That seems odd, doesn’t it? Deify who?”
“I wasn’t real sure about that one, but it’s the only word I could think of. Phrase I keep running through my head is that business about ‘she goes in at the same time every day.’ I don’t know what the hell that’s about.”
“And why ‘stubby’? Lorna says that, I think.”
“Well, this may sound odd, but I’ll tell you the hit I got on that. I don’t think she’s using ‘stubby’ as an adjective. There’s a guy here in town with the nickname Stubby. She could be talking about him.”
“That’s an interesting possibility. This was someone she knew?”
“Presumably. His real name is John Stockton. Call him Stubby because he’s a little short fat guy. He’s a developer –”
“Wait a minute,” I cut in. “I just heard that name. I’m almost sure Clark Esselmann referred to him… assuming there’s only one. Is he a member of the Colgate Water Board?”
Hector laughed. “Whoa, no chance. They’d never let him on the board. Talk about a conflict of interests. He’d vote himself into half a dozen get-rich schemes.”
“Oh. Then it’s probably not related. Was she talking to or about him?”
“About him, I’d guess. Actually, there could be some marginal connection. Stockton would have to apply to the water board if he were trying to get a permit for some kind of development. Since Lorna ‘baby-sat’ with Esselmann, she might have heard about Stubby in passing.”
“Yeah, but so what? In a town like this, you hear about a lot of things, but that doesn’t get you killed. How hard is it to get a permit?”
“It’s not hard to apply, but with the current water shortage, it’d take a hell of a project to get them to say yes.”
I said, “Well.” I ran the idea around a couple of laps, but it didn’t seem to produce any insights. “I don’t know how that pertains. If they’re talking about water, it might tie in somehow with ‘she goes in at the same time every day.’ Maybe that reference is to swimming. I know Lorna jogged, but did she also swim?”
“Not that I ever heard. Besides, if the guy’s talking to Lorna, why refer to her as ‘she’? He’s gotta be talking about someone else. And Stockton doesn’t have anything to do with swimming pools. He does malls and subdivisions,” he said. “With a phrase like that, they could be talking about work. She goes in ‘to work’ at the same time every clay. Or she goes in ‘to bed’ at the same time every day.”
“True. Oh, well. Maybe something will occur to us if we give it a rest. Anything else strike you?” I asked.
“Not really. Just that Lorna sounded pissed.”
“I thought so, too, which is why I listened so carefully. Whatever the guy’s saying, she didn’t like it a bit.”
“Ah, well. Like you say, if it’s ever going to make any sense, you’ll probably have to leave it alone for a while. If I have a brainstorm, I’ll give you a buzz.”
“Thanks, Hector.”
By the time I locked up and returned the key to Danielle’s landlord, it was close to 6:45 and the place was looking better. The smell of ammonia suggested an institutional setting, but at least Danielle wouldn’t have to come home to a shambles. I went out to my car, arms loaded with odds and ends. I set the plastic bucket on the front seat on the passenger’s side and stuck the bundle of bedclothes on the backseat, along with the paper bag holding the broken picture frames. I slid in behind the steering wheel and sat for a moment, trying to think what to do next. Hector’s suggestion about Stubby Stockton as the subject of Lorna’s taped conversation was mildly intriguing. From what I’d overheard of Clark Esselmann’s comments on the phone, Stockton would be present at the upcoming board meeting, which was tonight by my calculations. With luck, maybe I’d run into Serena and I could quiz her again on the subject of the missing money.
I found a public phone at the nearest gas station and looked up the number for the Colgate Water District. It was way past working hours, but the message on the answering machine gave details about the meeting, which was scheduled at seven in the conference room at the district offices. I hopped in the car, fired up the engine again, and hit the highway, heading north.
Fourteen minutes later I pulled into the parking lot behind the building, uncomfortably aware of a steady stream of cars both ahead of me and behind. Like some kind of car rally, we nosed into parking slots one after the other. I shut my engine clown and got out, locking the car behind me. It was easy enough to determine where the meeting was being held simply by following the other attendees. At the back end of the building, I could see lights on, and I trotted in that direction, starting to feel competitive about the available seating spaces.
The entrance to the conference room was tucked into a small enclosed patio. Through the plate-glass window, I could see the water board members already in place. I went in, anxious to get settled while there were still seats left. The meeting room was drab and functional: brown carpet, walls paneled in dark wood veneer, an L of folding tables up front, and thirty-five folding chairs for the audience. There was a big coffee urn on a table to one side, a stack of cups, sugar packets, and a big jar of Cremora. The lighting was fluorescent and made all of us look yellow.
The Colgate Water Board consisted of seven members, each with an engraved plate indicating name and title: counsel for the water district, the general manager and chief engineer, the president, and four directors, one of whom was Clark Esselmann. The board member named Ned, whom he’d talked to by phone, was apparently Theodore Ramsey, now seated two chairs away. The “Bob” and “Druscilla” he’d mentioned in passing were Robert Ennisbrook and Druscilla Chatham respectively.
Appropriately enough, the water board members had been provided big pitchers of iced water, and they poured and drank water lustily while discussing its scarcity. Some of the members I knew by name or reputation, but with the exception of Esselmann, I didn’t recognize any of their faces. Serena was in the front row, fussing with her belongings and trying to act as if she weren’t worried about her father. Esselmann, in a suit and tie, looked frail but determined. He was already engaged in conversation with Mrs. Chatham, the woman to his left.
Many people had already assembled, and most of the available folding chairs were filled. I spotted an empty chair and claimed it, wondering what I was doing here. Some attendees had briefcases or legal pads. The man next to me had written out a commentary in longhand, which he seemed to be refining while we waited for the meeting to begin. I turned and checked the rows behind me, all of which were occupied. Through the plate-glass window, I could see additional people seated at the picnic table or lounging against the ornamental fence. Speakers on the patio allowed the overflow crowd to hear the proceedings.
Copies of the agenda were stacked up front, and I left my seat briefly so that I could snag one for myself. I gathered that members of the audience would be free to address the board. To that end, requests were filled out and submitted. There were many consultations back and forth, people who seemed to know one another, some in small groups representing a particular petition. I wasn’t even sure what the issues were, and the agenda I scanned made it all sound so tedious, I wasn’t sure I cared. I wondered if I’d be able to identify Stubby Stockton on sight. A lot of us look short and fat while seated.
At 7:03 the meeting was called to order, with a roll call of board members present. Minutes of the previous meeting were read and approved without modification. Various items on the consent agenda were
approved without discussion. Much rustling and coughing and throat clearing throughout. Everyone seemed to speak in a monotone, so that every subject was reduced to its most boring components. Service policies were discussed among the board members in the sort of dry style reserved for congressional filibusters. If anything was actually being accomplished, it was lost on me. What struck me as curious was that Clark Esselmann, in his telephone conversation with Ned at the house, had seemed quite passionate. Behind the scenes, feelings apparently ran high. Here, every effort was made to neutralize emotion in the interest of public service.
One by one members of the audience were able to approach the podium, addressing the board members with prepared statements. These they read aloud in their best singsong public speaking voices, managing somehow to deliver their comments without any spontaneity, humor, or warmth. As in church, the combination of body heat and hot air was bringing the surrounding air temperature up to anesthetic levels. For someone as sleep-deprived as I’d been for the last five days, it was hard to keep from toppling off my chair sideways.
I’m ashamed to confess I actually nodded off once, a sort of dip in consciousness that I became aware of only because my head dropped. It must have happened again, because just as I began to enjoy a much needed snooze, I was jerked upright by a heated verbal exchange. Belatedly, I realized I’d missed the opening round. ‘
Clark Esselmann was on his feet, stabbing a finger at the man at the podium. “It’s people like you who’re ruining this county.”
The man he was addressing had to be John “Stubby” Stockton. He was maybe five feet tall and very heavyset, with a round baby face and dark thinning hair. He was a man who perspired heavily, and throughout the interchange he mopped at his face with his handkerchief. “People like me? Oh, really, sir. Let’s leave personalities out of this. This is not about me. This is not about you. This is about jobs for this community. This is about growth and progress for the citizens of this county, the –”