N is for NOOSE

by Sue Grafton

  “I wasn’t aware of that.”

  “I used to worry he’d be killed in the line of duty. I never imagined he’d go like he did.” She paused, drawing on her cigarette, using smoke as a form of punctuation.

  “It must have been difficult.”

  “It was awful,” she said. Up went the hand again, resting against her mouth as the tears began to well in her eyes. “I still can’t think about it. I mean, as far as I know, he never had any symptoms. Or let’s put it this way: If he did, he never told me. He did have high blood pressure and the doctor’d been on him to quit smoking and start exercising. You know how men are. He waved it all aside and went right on doing as he pleased.” She set the cigarette aside so she could blow her nose. Why do people always peek in their hankies to see what the honking noseblow has just netted them?

  “How old was he?”

  “Close to retirement. Sixty-three,” she said. “But he never took good care of himself. I guess the only time he was ever in shape was in the army and right after, when he went through the academy and was hired on as a deputy. After that, it was all caffeine and junk food during work hours, bourbon when he got home. He wasn’t an alcoholic ��� don’t get me wrong ��� but he did like to have a cocktail at the end of the day. Lately, he wasn’t sleeping well. He’d prowl around the house. I’d hear him up at two, three, five in the morning, doing god knows what. His weight had begun to drop in the last few months. The man hardly ate, just smoked and drank coffee and stared out the window at the snow. There were times when I thought he was going to snap, but that might have been my imagination. He really never said a word.”

  “Sounds like he was under some kind of strain.”

  “Exactly. That was my thought. Tom was clearly stressed, but I don’t know why and it’s driving me nuts.” She picked up her cigarette and took a deep drag and then tapped the ash off in a ceramic ashtray shaped like a hand. “Anyway, that’s why I called Dietz. I feel I’m entitled to know.”

  “I don’t want to sound rude, but does it really make any difference? Whatever it was, it’s too late to change, isn’t it?”

  She glanced away from me briefly. “I’ve thought of that myself. Sometimes I think I never really knew him at all. We got along well enough and he always provided, but he wasn’t the kind of man who felt he should account for himself. His last couple of weeks, he’d be gone sometimes for hours and come back without a word. I didn’t ask where he went. I could have, I guess, but there was something about him… he would bristle if I pressed him, so I learned to back off. I don’t think I should have to wonder for the rest of my life. I don’t even know where he was going that night. He told me he was staying home, but something must have come up.

  “He didn’t leave you a note?”

  “Nothing.” She placed her cigarette on the ashtray and reached for a compact concealed under her pillow. She opened the lid and checked her face in the mirror. She touched at her front teeth as though to remove a fleck. “I look dreadful,” she said.

  “Don’t worry about it. You look fine.”

  Her smile was tentative. “I guess there’s no point in being vain. With Tom gone, nobody cares, including me if you want to know the truth.”

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Please.”

  “I don’t mean to pry, but were you happily married?”

  A little burble of embarrassed laughter escaped as she closed the compact and tucked it back in its hiding place. “I certainly was. I don’t know about him. He wasn’t one to complain. He more or less took life as it came. I was married before… to someone physically abusive. I have a boy from that marriage. His name is Brant.”

  “Ah. And how old is he?”

  “Twenty-five. Brant was ten when I met Tom, so essentially Tom raised him.”

  “And where is he?”

  “Here in Nota Lake. He works for the fire department as a paramedic. He’s been staying with me since the funeral though he has a place of his own in town,” she said. “I told him I was thinking about hiring someone. It’s pointless in his opinion, but I’m sure he’ll do whatever he can to help.” Her nose reddened briefly, but she seemed to gain control of herself.

  “You and Tom were married for, what, fourteen years?”

  “Coming up on twelve. After my divorce, I didn’t want to rush into anything. We were fine for most of it, but recently things began to change for the worse. I mean, he did what he was supposed to, but his heart wasn’t in it. Lately, I felt he was secretive. I don’t know, so… tightlipped or something. Why was he out on the highway that night? I mean, what was he doing? What was so precious that he couldn’t tell me?”

  “Could it have been a case he was working on?”

  “It could have been, I suppose.” She thought about the possibility while she stubbed out her cigarette. “I mean, it might have been job-related. Tom seldom said a word about work. Other men ��� some of the deputies would swap stories in social situations, but not him. He took his Job very seriously, almost to a fault.”

  “Someone in the department must have taken over his workload. Have you talked to them?”

  “You say ‘department’ like it was some kind of big-city place. Nota Lake’s the county seat, but that still isn’t saying much. There were only two investigators, Tom and his partner, Rafer. I did talk to him ��� not that I got anything to speak of. He was nice. Rafer’s always nice enough on the surface,” she said, “but for all of the chitchat, he managed to say very little.”

  I studied her for a moment, running the conversation through my bullshit meter to see what would register. Nothing struck me as off but I was having trouble understanding what she wanted. “Do you think there’s something suspicious about Tom’s death?”

  She seemed startled by the question. “Not at all,” she said, “but he was brooding about something and I want to know what it was. I know it sounds vague, but it upsets me to think he was withholding something when it clearly bothered him so much. I was a good wife to him and I won’t be kept in the dark now he’s gone.”

  “What about his personal effects? Have you been through his things?”

  “The coroner returned the items he had on him when he died, but they were just what you’d expect. His watch, his wallet, the change in his pocket, and his wedding ring.”

  “What about his desk? Did he have an office here at the house?”

  “Well, yes, but I wouldn’t even know where to begin with that. His desk is a mess. Papers piled up everywhere. It could be staring me in the face, whatever it is. I can’t bring myself to look and I can’t bear to let go. That’s what I’d like you to do… see if you can find out what was troubling him.”

  I hesitated. “I could certainly try. It would help if you could be more specific. You haven’t given me much.”

  Selma’s eyes filled with tears. “I’ve been racking my brain and I have no idea. Please just do something. I can’t even walk in his den without falling apart.”

  Oh boy, just what I needed ��� a job that was not only vague, but felt hopeless as well. I should have bagged it right then, but I didn’t, of course. More’s the pity as it turned out.

  Chapter 2

  *

  Toward the end of my visit with her, the Valium seemed to kick in and she rallied. Somehow she managed to pull herself together in a remarkably short period of time. I waited in the living room while she showered and dressed. When she emerged thirty minutes later, she said she was feeling almost like her old self again. I was amazed at the transformation. With her makeup in place, she seemed more confident, though she still tended to speak with a hand lifted to conceal her mouth.

  For the next twenty minutes, we discussed business, finally reaching an agreement about how to proceed. It was clear by then that Selma Newquist was capable of holding her own. She reached for the phone and in the space of one call not only booked my accommodation but insisted on a ten percent discount on what was already the off-
season rate.

  I left Selma’s at 2:00, stopping off in town long enough to flesh out my standard junk food diet with some Capt’n Jack’s fish and chips and a large Coke. After that, it was time to check into the motel. Obviously, I wouldn’t be leaving Nota Lake for another day yet, at the very least. The motel she’d booked was the Nota Lake Cabins, which consisted of ten rustic cottages set in a wooded area just off the main highway about six miles out of town. Tom’s widowed sister, Cecilia Boden, owned and managed the place. When I pulled into the parking lot, I could see that the area was a bit too remote for my taste. I’m a city girl at heart and generally happiest close to restaurants, banks, liquor stores, and movie theaters, preferably bug free. Since Selma was paying, I didn’t think I should argue the point, and in truth the rough-hewn log exteriors did look more interesting than the motels in town. Silly me.

  Cecilia was on the telephone when I stepped into the office. I pegged her at sixty, as small and shapeless as a girl of ten. She wore a red plaid flannel shirt tucked into dark stiff blue jeans. She had no butt to speak of, just a flat plain in the rear. I was already wishing she’d quit perming the life out of her short cropped hair. I also wondered what would happen if she allowed the natural gray to emerge from under the uniform brown dye with which she’d doused it.

  The reception area was compact, a pine-paneled cubbyhole hardly large enough for one small upholstered chair and the rack of pamphlets touting the countless recreational diversions available. A side door marked MANAGER probably led to her private apartment. The reception desk was formed by a twelve-inch writing surface mounted on the lower half of the Dutch door that separated the miniature lobby from the office where I could see the usual equipment: desk, file cabinets, typewriter, cash register, Rolodex, receipt ledger, and the big reservations book she was consulting in response to her caller’s inquiry. She seemed ever so faintly annoyed with the questions she was being asked. “I got rooms on the Twenty-fourth, but nothing the day after… You want fish cleaning and freezing, try the Elms or the Mountain View… Uh-huh… I see… Well, that’s the best I can do…” She smiled to herself, enjoying some kind of private joke “Nope… No room service, no weight room, and the sauna’s broke…”

  While I waited for her to finish, I pulled out several pamphlets at random, reading about midweek ski lift and lodging packages closer to Mammoth Lakes and Mammoth Summit. I checked the local calendar of events. I’d missed the big annual trout derby, which had taken place the week before. I was also too late to attend February’s big fishing show. Well, dang. I noticed the festivities in April included another fishing show, the trout opener press reception, the official trout opener, and a fish club display, with a Mule Days Celebration and a 30K run coming up in May. It did look like it might be possible to hike, backpack, or mulepack my way into the Eastern Sierras, where I imagined a roving assortment of hungry wildlife lunging and snapping at us as we picked our way down perilously narrow traits with rocks rattling off the mountainside into the yawning abyss.

  I looked up to find Cecilia Boden staring at me with a flinty expression. “Yes, ma’am,” she said. She kept her hands braced on the Dutch door as if defying me to enter.

  I told her who I was and she waved aside my offer of a credit card. Mouth pursed, she said, “Selma said to send her the bill direct. I got two cottages available. You can take your pick.” She took a bunch of keys from a hook and opened the lower half of the Dutch door, leaving me to follow as she headed through the front door and down a path packed with cedar chips. The air outside was damp and smelled of loam and pine resin. I could hear the wind moving in the trees and the chattering of squirrels. I left my car where I’d parked it and we proceeded on foot. The narrow lane leading to the cabins was barred by a chain strung between two posts. “I won’t have cars back in this part of the camp. The ground gets too tore up when the weather’s bad,” she said, as if in answer to my question.

  “Really,” I murmured, for lack of anything better.

  “We’re close to full up,” she remarked. “Unusual for March.”

  This was small talk in her book and I made appropriate mouth noises in response. Ahead of us, the cabins were spaced about seventy-five feet apart, separated by bare maples and dogwoods, and sufficient Douglas firs to resemble a cut-your-own Christmas tree farm. “Why do they call it Nota Lake? Is that Indian?”

  Cecilia shook her head. “Nope. Ancient times, nota was a mark burned into a criminal’s skin to brand him a lawbreaker. That way you always knew who the evildoers were. Bunch of desperadoes ended up over in this area; scoundrels deported to this country from England back in the mid-seventeen hundreds. Some reason all of them were branded; killers and thieves, pickpockets, fornicators ��� the worst of the worst. Once their indenture’d been served, they became free men and disappeared into the west, landing hereabouts. Their descendants went to work for the railroad, doing manual labor along with assorted coolies and coloreds. Half the people in this town are related to those convicts. Must have been a randy bunch, though where they found women no one seems to know. Ordered ‘em by mail, if my guess is correct.”

  We’d reached the first of the cabins and she continued in much the same tone, her delivery flat and without much inflection. “This is Willow. I give ‘em names instead of numbers. It’s nicer in my opinion.” She inserted her key. “Each one is different. Up to you.”

  Willow was spacious, a pine-paneled room maybe twenty feet by twenty with a fireplace made up of big knobby boulders. The inner hearth was black with soot, with wood neatly stacked in the grate. The room was pungent with the scent of countless hardwood fires. Against one wall was a brass bedstead with a mattress shaped like a hillock. The quilt was a crazy patch and looked as if it smelled of mildew. There was a bed table lamp and a digital alarm clock. The rug was an oval of braided rags, bleached of all color, thoroughly flattened by age.

  Cecilia opened a door on the left. “This here’s the bath and your hanging closet. We got all the amenities. Unless you fish,” she added, in a small aside to herself. “Iron, ironing board, coffeemaker, soap.”

  “Very nice,” I said.

  “The other cabin’s Hemlock. Located over near the pine grove by the creek. Got a kitchenette, but no fireplace. I can take you back there if you like.” For the most part, she spoke without making eye contact, addressing remarks to a spot about six feet to my left.

  “This is fine. I’ll take this one.”

  “Suit yourself,” she said, handing me a key. “Cars stay in the lot. There’s more wood around the side. Watch for black widder spiders if you fetch more logs. Pay phone outside the office. Saves me the hassle of settling up for calls. We got a cafe down the road about fifty yards in that direction. You can’t miss it. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Open six o’clock in the morning until nine-thirty at night.”

  “Thanks.”

  After she left, I waited a suitable interval, allowing her time to reach the office ahead of me. I returned to the parking lot and retrieved my duffel, along with the portable typewriter I’d stashed in the rental car. I’d spent my off-hours at Dietz’s catching up on my paperwork. My wardrobe, in the main, consists of blue jeans and turtlenecks, which makes packing a breeze once you toss in the fistful of underpants.

  In the cabin again, I set the typewriter by the bed and put my few articles of clothing in a crudely made chest of drawers. I unloaded my shampoo and placed my toothbrush and toothpaste on the edge of the sink, looking around me with satisfaction. Home sweet home, barring the black widders. I tried the toilet, which worked, and then inspected the shower, artfully concealed behind a length of white monk’s cloth hanging from a metal rod. The shower pan looked clean, but was constructed of the sort of material that made me want to walk on tiptoe. Outings at the community pool in my youth had taught me to be cautious, bare feet still recoiling instinctively from the clots of soggy tissues and rusted bobby pins. There were none here in evidence, but I sensed the ghostly presence of som
e oldfashioned crud. I could smell the same chlorine tinged with someone else’s shampoo. I checked the coffeemaker, but the plug seemed to be missing one prong and there were no complimentary packets of coffee grounds, sugar, or non-dairy coffee whitener. So much for the amenities. I was grateful for the soap.

  I returned to the main room and did a quick survey. Under the side window, a wooden table and two chairs had been arranged with an eye to a view of the woods. I hauled out the typewriter and set it up on the tabletop. I’d have to run into town and find a ream of bond and a copy shop. These days, most P.I.s use computers, but I can’t seem to get the hang of ‘em. With my sturdy Smith-Corona, I don’t require an electrical outlet and I don’t have to worry about head crashes or lost data. I pulled a chair up to the table and stared out the window at the spindly stand of trees. Even the evergreens had a threadbare look. Through a lacework of pine needles, I could see a line of fencing that separated Cecilia’s property from the one behind. This part of town seemed to be ranchland, mixed with large undeveloped tracts that might have been farmed at one point. I pulled out a tatty legal pad and made myself some notes, mostly doodles if you really want to know.

  Essentially, Selma Newquist had hired me to reconstruct the last four to six weeks of her late husband’s life on the theory that whatever had troubled him probably took place within that time frame. I don’t generally favor spouses spying on one another ��� especially when one of the parties is dead ��� but she seemed convinced the answers would give her closure. I had my doubts.

  Maybe Tom Newquist was simply worried about finances, or brooding about how to occupy his time during his retirement.

  I’d agreed to give her a verbal report every two to three days, supplemented by a written account. Selma had demurred at first, saying verbal reports would be perfectly adequate, but I told her I preferred the written, in part to detail whatever information I collected. Productive or not, I wanted her to see what ground I was covering. It was just as important for her to be aware of the information I couldn’t verify as it was for her to have a record of the facts I picked up along the way. With verbal reports, much of the data gets lost in translation. Most people aren’t trained to listen. Given the complexity of our mental processes, the recipient tunes Out, blocks, forgets, or misinterprets eighty percent of what’s been said. Take any fifteen minutes’ worth of conversation and try to reconstruct it later and you’ll see what I mean. If the communication has any emotional content whatever, the quality of the information retained degrades even further. A written report was for my benefit, too. Let a week pass and I can hardly remember the difference between Monday and Tuesday, let alone what stops I made and in what order I made them. I’ve noticed that clients are confident about your abilities until payment comes due and then, suddenly, the total seems outrageous and they stand there wondering exactly what you’ve done to earn it. It’s better to submit an invoice with a chronology attached. I like to cite chapter and verse with all the proper punctuation laid in. If nothing else, it’s a demonstration of both your IQ and your writing skills. How can you trust someone who doesn’t bother to spell correctly and/ or can’t manage to lay out a simple declarative sentence?