N is for NOOSE

by Sue Grafton

  “My pleasure.”

  *

  When I got home at five o’clock, Henry’s kitchen lights were on and I found him sitting at his kitchen table with a file box in front of him. I tapped on the glass and he motioned me in. “Help yourself to a cup of tea. I just made a pot.”

  “Thanks.” I took a clean mug from the dish rack and poured myself a cup of tea, then sat at the kitchen table watching Henry work.

  “These are rebate coupons. A new passion of mine in case you’re wondering,” he said. Henry had always been enthusiastic about saving money, sitting down daily with the local paper to clip and sort coupons in preparation for his shopping trips.

  “Can I help?”

  “You can file while I cut,” he said. He passed me a pile of proof of purchase seals, which I could see were separated according to the company offering to refund a portion of the price. He was saying, “Short’s Drugs has started a Receipt Savers Rebate. Club, which allows you to collect your rebates and send them in all at once. There’s no point in trying to get fifty cents back when it costs you nearly thirty-five cents for stamps.”

  “I can’t believe the time you put in on this,” I remarked as I filed. Over-the-counter diet remedies, detergent, soap, mouthwash.

  “Some are products I use anyway so who can resist? Look at this one. Free toothpaste. Makes your smile extra white it says.”

  “Your smile’s already white.”

  “Suppose I end up preferring the taste of this one. There’s no harm in trying something new,” he said.

  “Here’s one for shampoo. You get one free if you buy before April First. Only one per customer and I’ve got mine already, so I kept this for you if you’re interested.”

  “Thanks. You do this in addition to the store coupons?”

  “Well, yes, but this takes a lot more patience. Sometimes it takes as long as two to three months, but then you get a nice big check. Fifteen bucks once. Like found money. You’d be surprised how quickly it adds up.”

  “I’ll bet.” I took a sip of my tea.

  Henry passed me another ragged pile of clippings. “When you finish that batch, you can start on these.”

  “I don’t mean to sound petty,” I said, bringing the conversation around to my concerns, “but honestly, Rosie paid more attention to those rowdies than she did to us last night. It didn’t hurt my feelings so much as piss me off.”

  Henry seemed to smile to himself. “Aren’t you overstating your case?”

  “Well, it may be too strong a term, but you get my point. Henry, how much children’s aspirin do you take these days? I counted fifteen of these.”

  “I donate the extras to charity. Speaking of pain relievers, how’s your hand?”

  “Good. Much better. It hardly hurts,” I said. “I take it Rosie’s attitude doesn’t bother you.”

  “Rosie’s Rosie. She’s never going to change. If it bugs you, tell her. Don’t complain to me.”

  “Oh right. I see. You want me to take the point.”

  “Battle of the Titans. I’d like to see that,” he remarked.

  *

  At six, I left Henry’s, stopping by my apartment to pick up my umbrella and a jacket. Once again, the rain had eased off, but the cold saturated the air, making me grateful to step into the tavern. Rosie’s was quiet, the air scented with the pungent smell of cauliflower, onions, garlic, bacon, and simmering beef. There were two patrons sitting in a booth, but I could see they’d been served. The occasional clink of flatware on china was the only sound I heard.

  Rosie was sitting at the bar by herself, absorbed in the evening paper, which was open in front of her. A small television set was turned on at the far end of the bar, the sound muted. There was no sign of William and I realized if I was going to catch her, this would be my only chance. I could feel my heart thump. My bravery seldom extends to interactions of this kind. I pulled out the stool next to hers and perched. “Something smells good.”

  “Lot of somethings,” she said. “I got William fixing deep-fried cauliflower with sour cream sauce. Also hot pickled beef, and beef tongue with tomato sauce.”

  “My favorite,” I said dryly.

  Behind us, the door opened and a foursome came in, admitting a rush of cold air before the door banged shut again. Rosie eased down off her stool and moved across the room to greet them, playing hostess for once. The door opened again and Colleen Sellers was suddenly standing in the entrance. What was she doing here? So much for my confrontation with Rosie. Maybe Colleen had decided to give me some help.

  *

  “I don’t even know what I’m doing here,” she said, glumly. Her blond hair drooped with the damp and her glasses had fogged over from the heat in the place.

  “Talking about Tom.”

  “I guess.”

  “You want to tell me the rest of it?”

  “There’s nothing much to tell.”

  We were seated in the back booth I usually claim as my own. I’d poured her a glass of wine that was now sitting in front of her untouched. She removed her glasses, holding them by the frames while she pulled a paper napkin from the dispenser and cleaned the lenses in a way that made me worry she was scratching them. Without the glasses, she looked vulnerable, the misery palpable in the air between us.

  “When did you first meet him?”

  “At a conference up in Redding a year ago. He was there by himself. I never did meet his wife. She didn’t like to come with him, or at least that’s what I heard. I gathered she was a bit of a pain in the ass. Not that he ever admitted it, but other people said as much. I don’t know what her gig was. He always spoke of her like she was some kind of goddess.” She pushed her hair back from her face and tucked it behind her ears in a style that wasn’t flattering. She put on her glasses again and I could see smears on the lenses.

  “Did you meet by chance or by design?”

  Colleen rolled her eyes and a weary smile played around her mouth. “I can see where you’re headed, but okay… I’ll bite. I knew he was going to be there and I looked him up. How’s that?”

  I smiled back at her. “You want to tell it your way?”

  “I’d appreciate that,” she said dryly. “Until the conference in Redding, I only dealt with him by phone. He sounded terrific so naturally, I Wanted to meet him in person. We hit it off right away, chatting about various cases we’d worked, at least the interesting ones. You know how it is, trading professional tales. We got talking department politics, his experiences versus mine, the usual stuff.”

  “I don’t mean to sound accusatory, but someone seemed to think the two of you were very chummy.”

  “Chummy?”

  “That you were flirtatious. I’m just telling you what I heard.”

  “There’s no law against flirting. Tom was a doll. I never knew a man yet who couldn’t use a little boost to his ego, especially at our age. My god. Who the hell’s telling you this stuff? Someone trying to make trouble, I can tell you that.”

  “How well did you know him?”

  “I only saw him twice. No, correction. I saw him three times. It was all work at first, starting with the case he was on.”

  “What case was that?”

  “County sheriff up in Nota Lake found an apparent suicide in the desert, an ex-con named Ritter, who’d hung himself from a branch of a California white oak. Identification was confirmed through his fingerprints and Tom tracked him back as far as his release from Chino in the spring of ‘eighty-one. Ritter had family in this area; Perdido to be precise. He talked to them by phone and they told him Ritter’d been traveling with a pal.”

  “Alfie Toth,” I supplied. I was curious to hear her version, but I didn’t want her to think I was completely ignorant of the facts.

  “How’d you hear about him?” she asked.

  “Hey, I have my sources just like you have yours. I know Tom drove down here in June to look for him.”

  “That’s right. I was the one got a line on the guy. T
oth had been arrested here on a minor charge. I called Tom and he said he’d be down within a day. This was mid-April. I told him I’d be happy to make the contact, but he preferred doing it himself. I guess he got caught up in work and it was June by the time he made it down here. By then, Toth was gone.”

  “So Tom never talked to him?”

  “Not that I know of. As it turned out, Toth’s body was the one found in January of this year. The minute the ID was made, I called Tom. The MO was the same for both Ritter and Toth and that was worrisome. The two deaths had to be related, but it was tough to determine what the motivation might have been.”

  “From what I hear, the murders were separated by a five-year time gap. You have a theory about that?”

  I could see her mouth pull down and she wagged her head to convey her ambivalence. “This was one time when Tom and I didn’t agree on anything. It could have been a double-cross… you know, a bank heist or burglary with Ritter and his sidekick betraying an accomplice. Fellow catches up with them and kills Ritter on the spot. Then it takes another five years to hunt down his pal, Toth.”

  “What was Tom’s idea?”

  “Well, he thought Toth might have been a witness to Ritter’s murder. Something happens in the mountains and Pinkie Ritter dies. Toth manages to get away and eventually the killer catches up with him.”

  I said, “Or maybe Alvin Toth killed Ritter and someone else came along and avenged Ritter’s death.”

  She smiled briefly. “As a matter of fact, I suggested that myself, but Tom was convinced the perpetrator was the same in both cases.”

  I thought about Dr. Yee’s assessment, which was the same as Tom’s. “It would help if I knew how to get in touch with Ritter’s family.”

  “I can give you the phone number. I don’t have it with me, but I could call you later if you like.”

  “That’d be great. One other thing. I know this is none of my business, but were you in love with Tom? Because that’s what I’m picking up, reading between the lines,” I said.

  Her body language altered and I could see her debate with herself about how much to reveal. “Tom was loyal as a dog, completely devoted to his wife, which he let me know right off the bat. Ain’t that always the way? All the good men are married.”

  “So they say.”

  “But I’ll tell you something. We had real chemistry between us. It’s the first time I ever understood the term soul mate. You know what I mean? We were soul mates. No kidding. It was like finding myself in this other guise… my spiritual counterpart… and that was heady stuff. We’d be in a room together with five or six hundred other people and I always knew where he was. It was like tentacles stretching all the way across the auditorium. I wouldn’t even have to look for him. The bond was that strong. There wasn’t anything I couldn’t say to him. And laugh? God, we laughed.”

  “You go to bed with him?” I asked, casually.

  A blush began to saturate Colleen’s cheeks. “No, but I would have. Hell, I was so crazy about him I broached the subject myself. I was shameless. I was wanton. I’d have taken him on any basis… just to be with him once.” She shook her head. “He wouldn’t do it, and you know why? He was honorable. Decent. Can you imagine the gall of it in this day and age? Tom was an honorable man. He made a promise to be faithful and he meant it. That’s one of the things I admired most about him.”

  “Maybe it’s just as well. He wouldn’t have been good at deceit even if he’d been willing to try.”

  “So I’ve told myself.”

  “You miss him,” I said.

  “I’ve cried every day since I heard about his death. I never even had the chance to say goodbye to him.”

  “It must be tough.”

  “Awful. It’s just awful. I miss him more than I missed my own mother when she died. So maybe if I’d slept with him, I’d have had to kill myself or something. Maybe the loss and the pain would have been impossible to bear.”

  “You might have had less respect for him if he’d given in.”

  “That’s a risk I’d have taken, given half a chance.”

  “At any rate, I’m sorry for your pain.”

  “No sorrier than I am. I’m never going to find another guy like him. So what can you do? You soldier on. At least his wife has the luxury to mourn in public. Is she taking it hard?”

  “That’s why she hired me, trying to find relief.”

  Colleen looked away from me casually, trying to conceal her interest. “What’s she like?”

  I thought for a moment, trying to be fair. “Generous with her time. Terribly insecure. Efficient. She smokes. Sort of hard-looking, platinum blond hair teased out to here. She has slightly gaudy taste and she’s crazy about her son, Brant. This was Tom’s stepson.”

  “Do you like her? Is she nice?”

  “People claim she’s neurotic, but I do like the woman. A few don’t, but that’s true of all of us. There’s always someone who thinks we’re dogshit.”

  “Did she love him?”

  “Very much, I’d say. It was probably a good marriage… maybe not perfect, but it worked. She doesn’t like the idea of his dying with unfinished business.”

  “Back to that,” she said.

  “I’d do the same for you if you hired me to find answers.”

  Colleen’s gaze came back to mine. “You thought it was me. That we were having an affair.”

  “It crossed my mind.”

  “If I’d had an affair with him, would you have told his wife the truth?”

  “No. What purpose would it serve?”

  “Right.” She was silent for a moment.

  “Do you know why Tom was so distressed?” I asked.

  “I might.”

  “Why so protective?”

  “It’s not up to me to ease her mind,” she said. “Who’s easing mine?”

  I held my hands up in surrender. “I’m just asking the question. You have to do as you see fit.”

  “I have to go,” she said abruptly, gathering up her coat. “I’ll call you later with the phone number for Ritter’s daughter.”

  I held a finger up. “Hang on. I just remembered. I have something for you if you’re interested.” I reached into the outer zippered compartment of my shoulder bag and pulled out one of the black-and-white photographs of Tom at the April banquet. “I had these done up in case I needed ‘em. You might like to have something to remember him by.”

  She took the picture without comment, a slight smile playing across her mouth as she studied it.

  I said, “I never met him myself, but I thought it captured him.”

  She looked up at me with tears rimming her eyes. “Thank you.”

  Chapter 16

  *

  When I returned from my run the next morning, there was a message from Colleen Sellers on my answering machine, giving me the name and Perdido address of a woman named Dolores Ruggles, one of Pinkie Ritter’s daughters. As this represented the only lead I had, I gassed up the VW and headed south on 101 as soon as I was showered and dressed.

  On my left, I could see fields under cultivation, the newly planted rows secured by layers of plastic sheeting as slick and gray as ice. Steep hills, rough with lowgrowing vegetation, began to crowd up against the highway. On my right, the bleak Pacific Ocean thundered against the shore. Surfers in black wetsuits waited on rocking boards like a scattered flock of sea birds. The rains had moved on, but the sky was still white with a ceiling of sluggish clouds and the air was thick with the mingled scents of brine and recent precipitation. Snow would be falling in the high Sierras near Nota Lake.

  I took the Leeward off-ramp and made two left turns, crossing over the freeway again in search of the street where Dolores Ruggles lived. The neighborhood was a warren of low stucco structures, narrow streets intersecting one another repeatedly. The house was a plain box, sitting in a plain treeless yard with scarcely a bush or a tuft of grass to break up the monotonous flat look of the place. The porch consisted of
a slab of concrete with one step leading up to the front door and a small cap of roofing to protect you as you rang the bell, which I did. The door was veneer with long sharp splinters of wood missing from the bottom edge. It looked like a dog had been chewing on the threshold.

  The man who opened the door was drying his hands on a towel tucked into the waist of his trousers. He was easily in his sixties, maybe five-foot-eight, with a coarsely lined face and a thinning head of gray-white hair the color of wood ash. His eyes were hazel, his brows a tangle of wiry black and gray. “Keep your shirt on,” he said, irritably.

  “Sorry. I thought the bell was broken. I wasn’t even sure anyone was home. I’m looking for Dolores Ruggles.”

  “Who the hell are you?”

  I handed him my card, watching his lips move while he read my name. “I’m a private investigator,” I said.

  “I can see that. It says right here. Now we got that established, what do you want with Dolores? She’s busy at the moment and doesn’t want to be disturbed.”

  “I need some information. Maybe you can help me and we can spare her the imposition. I’m here about her father.”

  “The little shithead was murdered.”

  “I’m aware of that.”

  “Then what’s it to you?”

  “I’m trying to find out what happened.”

  “What difference does it make? The man is D-E-A-D dead and not soon enough to suit my taste. I’ve spent years coping with all the damage he did.”

  “Could I come in?”

  He stared at me. “Help yourself,” he said abruptly and turned on his heel, leaving me to follow. I scurried after him, taking a quick mental photograph as we passed through the living room. Not to sound sexist, but the room looked as if it had been designed by a man. The floors were bare hardwood, stained dark. I noted a tired couch and a sagging upholstered chair, both shrouded by heavy woven Indian-print rugs. I thought the coffee table was antiqued, but I could see as I passed the only patina was dust. The walls were lined with books: upright, sideways, slanting, stacked, packed two deep on some shelves, three deep on others. The accumulation of magazines, newspapers, junk mail, and catalogs suggested a suffocating indifference to tidiness.