Sue Grafton

by Four Sue Grafton Novels(Q, R, S;T)

  “Kinsey Millhone,” I said, holding out my hand.

  “Julian Frisch. You selling something? Avon, Fuller Brush?”

  “I don’t think they sell door-to-door these days.” Again, I explained who I was and my fact-finding mission with regard to the Fredricksons. “Are you acquainted with them?”

  “Sure. She does my books. You want to come in?”

  “I’d like that.”

  His living room looked like a display for computer sales and service. Some of the equipment I could identify on sight—keyboards and the monitors that looked like clunky television screens. There were eight computers set up, with tangled cables that snaked across the floor connecting them. In addition, there were sealed cartons I assumed contained brand-new computers. The few cranky-looking models sitting in one corner might have come in for repair. I’d heard the terms “floppy disk” and “boot up” but I didn’t have a clue what they meant.

  “I take it you sell or repair computers.”

  “Little bit of both. What do you have?”

  “A portable Smith-Corona.”

  He half-smiled, as if I were making a joke, and then he wagged a finger at me. “Better catch up with reality. You’re missing the boat. Time’s going to come when computers will do everything.”

  “I have trouble believing that. It just seems so unlikely.”

  “You’re not a believer like the rest of us. The day will come when ten-year-olds will master these machines and you’ll be at their mercy.”

  “That’s a depressing thought.”

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you. At any rate, that’s probably not why you knocked on my door.”

  “True enough,” I said. I redirected my attention and went through my introduction, which I’d just about perfected by then, wrapping up with a reference to the two-car collision on May 28 of the year before. “How long has Gladys Fredrickson handled your books?”

  “The past two or three years. I only know her professionally, not personally. She’s a mess right now, but she does good work.”

  “Did or does?”

  “Oh, she still handles my accounts. She complains about her aches and pains, but she never misses a beat.”

  “She told the insurance company she couldn’t work because she can’t sit for long periods and she can’t concentrate. She said the same thing to me when I took her statement.”

  His expression was pained. “That’s a pile of crap. I see the courier service over there two and three times a week.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “I work right here. I got a clear view across the street. I don’t mean to rat her out, but she’s as busy as ever.”

  Maybe I was falling in love. My heart gave the same pitter-patter and my chest felt warm. I put a hand across my forehead to see if I was suffering a fever of sudden onset. “Hang on a minute. This is too good to believe. Would you mind repeating that on tape?”

  “I could do that,” he said. “I was thinking about firing her, anyway. Her whining is getting on my nerves.”

  I sat down on the lone metal folding chair and put my tape recorder on an unopened carton. I took out my clipboard so I could make a written record of the information as well. He didn’t have tons to contribute, but what he offered was pure gold. Gladys Fredrickson’s claims of disability were fraudulent. She hadn’t collected a cent yet, unless she was receiving state disability checks, which was entirely possible. Once he’d gone through his account for the tape recorder, I packed up my gear and shook his hand, thanking him profusely.

  He said, “Not a problem. And if you change your mind about becoming computer literate, you know where I am. I could get you up and running in no time.”

  “How much?”

  “Ten grand.”

  “You lost me there. I don’t want to pay ten grand for something that makes me feel inadequate.” I left thinking, Ten-year-old kids? Get serious.

  The neighbor across the street to the right of the Fredricksons’ was no help at all. The woman never did quite grasp my purpose, thinking I was selling insurance, which she politely declined. I repeated myself twice and then thanked her and moved over to the house on the other side.

  The woman who answered the door was the same woman I’d seen when I arrived at the Fredricksons’ house the first time. Given my experience with elderly persons, namely Gus, Henry, and the sibs, I placed this woman in her early eighties. She was quick and soft-spoken and seemed to have all her faculties about her. She was also as plump as a pincushion and she smelled of Joy perfume. “I’m Lettie Bowers,” she said, as she shook my hand and invited me in.

  Her skin felt delicate and powdery, her palm two or three degrees warmer than my own. I wasn’t sure she should be so trusting, inviting a stranger into her house, but it suited my purposes.

  Her living room was sparsely furnished, frothy curtains at the windows, faded carpet on the floor, faded paper on the walls. The Victorian-style furniture had a vaguely depressing air about it, which suggested it was authentic. The rocker I sat down in had a horsehair seat, which you couldn’t get away with now. To the right of the front door, on the Fredricksons’ side of the house, French double doors opened onto a wood balcony crowded with flowerpots. I explained who I was and that I was working as an investigator on behalf of the insurance company Gladys Fredrickson was suing in the wake of her accident. “Would you mind if I ask you a few questions.”

  “Fine. I’m happy for the company. Would you like tea?”

  “No, thanks. I take it you’re aware of the claim?”

  “Oh yes. She told me she was suing and I said, ‘Good for you.’ You should see the poor thing hobbling around. What happened was terrible and she’s entitled to recompense.”

  “I don’t know about that. These days, hitting up an insurance company is like going to Vegas to play the slot machines.”

  “Exactly. All that money is paid in and very little is paid out. The insurance companies as good as dare you to try to collect. They’ve got all the power on their side. If you win, they dump you or they double your premiums.”

  This was discouraging. I’d heard these sentiments expressed before, the belief that insurance companies were fat cats and the mice deserved anything they could get. “In this case, the facts are in dispute, which is why I’m here.”

  “The facts are obvious. There was an accident. It’s as simple as that. Gladys told me it was covered on their home-owner’s policy and the company had refused to pay. She said suing was the only way to force their hand.”

  “Auto.”

  “‘Auto’?”

  “It’s not their home-owner’s policy. She’s suing the company that carries the defendant’s car insurance.” Personally, I wondered if I was shooting myself in the foot. We were clearly working at cross-purposes, but I got out my tape recorder and went through my drill; identifying myself, Lettie Bowers, blah blah blah. Then I said, “How long have you known the Fredricksons?”

  “If you want the truth, I don’t know them well and I don’t like them much. Am I under oath?”

  “No ma’am, but it would be helpful if you could tell me what you know as truthfully as possible.”

  “I always do that. I was raised that way.”

  “I take it Gladys Fredrickson’s talked to you about the accident.”

  “She didn’t have to. I saw it.”

  I leaned forward slightly. “You were at the intersection?”

  She seemed confused. “There wasn’t any intersection. I was sitting right here, looking out the window.”

  “I don’t understand how you could have seen what went on.”

  “I couldn’t miss it. I do my pickup work by the window, which gives me good light and offers a nice view of the neighborhood. I used to do needlepoint, but lately I’ve gone back to knitting and crochet. Less strain on my eyes and easier on my hands. I’d been watching them at work, which is how I happened to see the tumble she took.”

  “Gladys fell?”
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  “Oh my, yes. It was entirely her fault, but the way she explained it to me, the insurance company will have to pay anyway if everything goes well.”

  “Could we back up a few paragraphs and start this again?”

  I took a few minutes to go back over the lawsuit, filling in the details while she shook her head.

  “You must be talking about someone else. It didn’t happen that way.”

  “Fine. Let’s hear your side of it.”

  “I don’t mean to sound judgmental, but she and her husband are penny-pinchers and they hate to hire help. The rain gutters were jammed with leaves. We’d had a number of spring storms and the water had been pouring down in torrents, right over the edge instead of going into the down spouts. First week of nice weather, she got up on a ladder to clean the gutters and the ladder toppled. She landed on the wooden deck and the ladder came down and clunked her in the head. I was surprised she didn’t break her back, as much as she weighs. The sound was awful, like a bag of cement. I ran out, but she said she was all right. I could see she was woozy and limping badly, but she wouldn’t accept help. Next thing I knew, Millard pulled the van around in front and honked. They had a heated discussion and then she got in.”

  “Did she tell you this in confidence?”

  “Not in so many words. She said it was just between the two of us and then she gave me a wink. And here all this time, I thought the claim was legitimate.”

  “Would you be willing to testify in the defendant’s behalf?”

  “Of course. I don’t approve of cheaters.”

  “Nor do I.”

  Late afternoon, as a special treat, I took myself up to Rosie’s and ordered a glass of wine. I’d wait and eat when I got home, but I’d done a good day’s work and I deserved a reward. I’d just settled into my favorite booth when Charlotte Snyder appeared. I hadn’t seen her for weeks, since she and Henry had quarreled. I thought her presence was coincidental, but she paused in the doorway, looking around, and when she spotted me, she headed straight for my table and sat down across from me. She had a scarf tied over her hair, which she removed and put in her coat pocket while she shook her hair back to its natural shape. Her cheeks were pink from the cold and her eyes were bright. “I took a chance on catching you here when you didn’t answer your door. If you tell me Henry’s on his way in, I’ll disappear.”

  “He’s having dinner with William. It’s boys’ night out,” I said. “What’s up?”

  “I’m hoping to redeem myself in Henry’s eyes. I heard the court appointed a woman named Cristina Tasinato as Gus Vronsky’s conservator.”

  “Don’t remind me. I was nearly sick when I heard.”

  “That’s what I wanted to talk about. According to the bank, she’s taking out a big construction loan, putting the house up as collateral.”

  “News to me.”

  “I gather she wants to remodel and upgrade, add a wheelchair ramp, redo electrical and plumbing, and generally bring the house up to snuff.”

  “The place could use a face-lift. Even with the cleanup Solana’s done, it’s still a mess. What’s the size of the loan?”

  “A quarter of a million bucks.”

  “Wow. Who told you?”

  “Jay Larkin, a friend of mine in the loan department. We used to date years ago and he was a big help when I was getting into real estate. He knew I’d been interested in listing the property and when this came up, he assumed I’d made a deal. It struck me as curious because I told Solana the two parcels together were worth far more than the house. This block is already zoned multiple-family. Any buyer with savvy would purchase both lots and tear the old house down.”

  “But it makes sense to remodel with Gus so adamant about hanging on.”

  “That’s just what I’m getting at. She put the house on the market. Well, maybe not Solana, but the conservator.”

  “For sale? How so? I haven’t seen a sign out front.”

  “This is a pocket listing. I’m guessing she’ll pay off the construction loan with the proceeds from the sale. I wouldn’t have known about it, but an agent in our Santa Teresa office is handling the deal. She remembered I’d done comps when my client came through town so she was calling to ask if I wanted a referral fee. I was sorely tempted, but with Henry so burned at me, I didn’t dare.”

  “What’s the asking price?”

  “A million two, which is a joke. Even fixed up, it’ll never sell for that. I thought it was odd after Solana swore up and down Gus would rather die than part with the place. What I can’t understand is why the house was listed with my company. Didn’t anybody realize I’d get wind of it?”

  “The conservator probably had no idea you were ever involved,” I said. “Solana doesn’t seem that sophisticated about real estate. If this is her doing, maybe she wasn’t aware how closely you work with one another.”

  “Or maybe she’s thumbing her nose at us.”

  “This is being done through Gus’s bank?” I asked.

  “Sure. One big happy family, but the whole thing stinks. I thought you should know.”

  I said, “I wonder if there’s any way to gum up the works?”

  Charlotte pushed a piece of paper across the table. “This is Jay’s number at the bank. You can tell him we talked.”

  30

  I slept poorly that night, my brain abuzz. Lettie Bowers’s revelations had been a gift, but instead of feeling good, I was kicking myself for not interviewing her earlier. She and Julian both. If I’d talked to neighbors before my first meeting with the Fredricksons, I would have known what I was dealing with. I felt like I was slipping, distracted by the miscalculations I’d made in my dealings with Solana Rojas. Not to beat myself to death here, but Gus was in big trouble and I was the one who’d put him there. What more could I do? I’d called the county so there was no point in going over that ground again. Nancy Sullivan had doubtless drawn and quartered me in her report. Beyond that, I hadn’t witnessed verbal, emotional, or physical abuse that warranted calling the police. Which left me where?

  I couldn’t persuade my mind to shut up. There was nothing I could do about any of it in the middle of the night, but I couldn’t let it go. Finally, I sank into some deep canyon of sleep. It was like slipping into a trough in the ocean’s floor, dark and silent, the weight of the water pinning me in place. I wasn’t even aware I’d fallen asleep until I heard the noise. My leaden senses registered the sound and invented a few quick stories to account for it. None of them made sense. My eyes popped open. What was that?

  I checked the clock, as though noting the time would make a difference. 2:15. If I hear the cork pop from a champagne bottle, I automatically check the time in case it turns out to be a gunshot and I’ll be asked later to file a police report. Someone was riding a skateboard in front of the house; metal wheels on concrete, repeated clicks as the skateboard rolled across cracks in the sidewalk. Back and forth, the sound surging and receding. I listened, trying to determine how many skateboarders there were—only one as far as I could tell. I could hear the kid try kick flips, the board slamming down when he made it, clattering off when he missed. I thought about Gus railing at the two nine-year-olds on skateboards in December. He was at his crankiest back then, but at least he was on his feet. Despite his complaints and the nuisance calls he made, he was alive and vigorous. Now he was failing and no one else in the neighborhood was irritable enough to protest the racket outside. The board clacked and banged, off the curb, into the street, back up on the curb again, and down the sidewalk. This was getting on my nerves. Maybe I’d be the cranky neighbor from now on.

  I pushed the covers aside and made my way across the carpeted loft in the dark. There was sufficient illumination from the Plexiglas skylight above that I could see where I was going. Barefoot, I went down the spiral stairs, my oversized T-shirt leaving my bare knees exposed. It was cold in the studio and I knew I’d need a coat if I went out to shake a fist as Gus would have. I went into the downstairs bathroom a
nd stepped into the fiberglass tub and shower surround, with its window that looked out on the street. I’d left the light off so I could see out without the skateboarder knowing I was there. The sound seemed farther away—muted, but persistent. Then silence.

  I waited, but heard nothing. I crossed my arms for warmth and peered out at the dark. The street was empty and remained so. Finally, I climbed the spiral stairs again and crawled back in my bed. It was 2:25 and my body heat had dissipated, leaving me shivering. I pulled the covers over my shoulders and waited to get warm. Next thing I knew, it was 6:00 A.M. and time for my morning run.

  I started to feel more optimistic as I put away the miles. The beach, the damp air, the sun painting gauzy layers of color across the sky—everything suggested this would be a better day. When I reached the dolphin fountain at the foot of State, I took a left and headed toward town. Ten blocks later I made the turn and jogged back toward the beach. I didn’t wear a watch, but I could time my progress as I reached the ding-ding-dinging signal gates near the train station. The ground began to vibrate and I heard the train approach, its warning howl subdued in deference to the hour. Later in the day, when the passenger train came through, the horn would be loud enough to halt conversations up and down the beach.

  As a self-appointed site foreman, I took the opportunity to peek through the wooden barrier surrounding the new Paramount Hotel pool. Much of the construction debris was gone, and it looked as though the plaster coat had been sprayed over the gunite. I could imagine the completed project: deck chairs in place, tables with market umbrellas protecting the hotel patrons from the sun. The image faded, replaced by my worries about Gus. I debated putting a call through to Melanie in New York. The situation was distressing and she’d blame me. For all I knew, Solana had already given her an annotated version of the story, appointing herself the good guy while I was the bad.