Sue Grafton Novel Collection

by Sue Grafton

  “But how’d you feel about it? Didn’t it bother you?”

  “I knew we’d end up together, so who cared about them?”

  “I mean Charisse in particular.”

  “She was nothing. A pig. I couldn’t have cared less about her.”

  “Geez, that’s amazing. When I was in high school, I was insecure. You must have had a lot more self-confidence.”

  “I wouldn’t say that. It just seemed like fate. The minute I saw Cornell, that was it for me. That was grade school. We went to different junior high schools and reconnected in high school in our senior year.”

  “Love at first sight.”

  “Right.”

  “So really, it didn’t matter if Charisse and Adrianne were friends—in terms of its effect on you.”

  “Charisse could do anything she liked. No skin off my back.” She glanced at her watch, signaling time was up. She could have been a shrink, given her skill in silent communication.

  I held up a hand. “Just one other thing and then I’ll let you go. Doesn’t it seem a trifle coincidental that your father disappeared just about the same time she did?”

  Justine stared at me. “I don’t get what you mean.”

  “Come on, Justine. You’re not that naive.”

  “You’re implying the two of them went off together?”

  “Didn’t it ever cross your mind?”

  “Of course not. Daddy left in June. She was with us for months and months after that.”

  “Actually, it was only until the end of July. Maybe six weeks or so. What if they were having an affair?”

  Justine laughed. “Oh, that’s gross. I don’t like to think he had sex with my mother, let alone with someone like her. That’s disgusting.”

  “Disgusting to you perhaps, but in the annals of human history it’s not exactly a first. I said the same thing to your mom. Charisse was promiscuous, so why not him?”

  Justine clamped her mouth shut, staring at the floor. Agitated, she tucked a strand of pale hair behind one ear.

  I said, “Look, I’m not making any claims here. None of us have the facts. This is purely speculation.”

  “Well, it’s in bad taste,” she said. She stood up.

  “I guess I better let you go. Maybe I should have a chat with Cornell.”

  “I’m not sure he’s interested.”

  “He didn’t seem opposed to my talking to you.”

  “He was being polite.”

  “A quality I’ve always admired in a man. Anyway, you needn’t fret because I can’t do it now. I have something else to do.”

  Hazelwood Springs on my California map was a microdot on Highway 78 ten miles south of Quorum. The town turned out to be so small that I drove straight through without realizing it. I made a three-point turn, using the next convenient driveway, and then doubled back. The entire town consisted of a minimart, two side roads, a scattering of houses, and a two-pump gas station of the old-fashioned variety, where some guy actually came outside, filled your tank, cleaned the windshield, and passed the time of day. I ended up putting another twenty bucks’ worth of gas in Dolan’s boat, but in return, the fellow was kind enough to point out Lennie Root’s place, which was just across the road.

  Lennie Root’s small white frame house sat on pylons of raw cinder block, thus creating the crawl space he used to store his miscellaneous painting equipment. There was a flowery ceramic plaque affixed to the wood frame above the front door that read THE ROOTS, MYRA AND LENNIE.

  Lennie responded to my knock. He was a man in his sixties with a narrow, sagging face and heavy bags beneath his eyes. His bushy gray hair was peppered with tiny specks of dried red paint. Over his chinos and white T-shirt he wore a full-length apron with a ruffle around the bib. He held a wrinkled white dress shirt like an errant tomcat he intended to boot out the door.

  “Mr. Root? My name’s Kinsey Millhone. I’m hoping you can answer a few questions about a former employee. You remember Frankie Miracle?”

  “What makes you ask? Because if you’re working for OSHA or state disability insurance, I want it on record—the injury was fake.”

  “I’m not here about that. I’m actually a private investigator, doing follow-up on a homicide investigation. This was August of ’69. Frankie says he worked for you shortly before that.”

  He blinked. “How much do you know about ironing?”

  “Ironing?”

  “My wife’s out of town at her mother’s until next Monday and I’m supposed to be at my daughter’s for supper tonight. I need to iron this shirt, but I don’t know how. My wife always sprinkles ’em with water and leaves ’em in a wad, but I never paid attention to what comes next. You show me how to do this and I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

  I laughed. “Mr. Root, you’re in luck. You got a deal.”

  He handed me the shirt and I followed him through a modest living room to the kitchen at the rear. There were dirty dishes piled in the sink, and the counter was littered with additional glasses, flatware, and plates. On the breakfast table, there was a large broken-rimmed plastic basket piled with freshly laundered clothes. The door to the utility room stood open and Lennie crossed the kitchen to retrieve an ironing board with a floral padded cover and scratched metal legs. When he opened it, the sustained screech of metal on metal sounded like the mating call of an exotic bird. He plugged in the iron. I moved the setting to Cotton and waited for the iron to heat.

  “My aunt Gin taught me to do this when I was seven years old, primarily because she hated to do the ironing herself.” I licked an index finger and touched it to the hot iron. It made a spatting sound. “Watch this.” I took the dampened shirt by the yoke, holding it between my hands, and straightened the puckered seams with one efficient snap.

  “That’s first?”

  “Unless your shirt doesn’t have a yoke. Then you start with the collar.” I placed the shirt on the ironing board and explained the strategy: the yoke, followed by the collar, then the cuffs, the two sleeves, and finally the body of the garment.

  He watched with care until I’d finished the shirt and buttoned it onto a wire hanger. I handed him a second shirt from the basket and had him try his hand. He was slow and a bit clumsy, but he did a credible job for his first time out. He seemed pleased with himself, and I had a brief vision of him whipping through the entire basket of ironing as the afternoon wore on. He turned off the iron, moved the basket aside, and gestured me into a chair.

  As soon as we were seated, he said, “Now. What can I tell you about Frankie, aside from the fact he’s the biggest punk who ever lived?”

  “How long did he work for you?”

  “Six months. Drunk most days; incompetent the rest.”

  “Did you hire him or did your business partner?”

  “I don’t have a partner.”

  “I thought your company was called R&R Painting. I figured it was your brother, your son, or your dad.”

  “No, no. It’s just me. I put that other R in there to reassure the public. One-man painting company, people worry you don’t have the manpower to get the job done. This way I give the estimate and get the contract signed and then when it turns out it’s just me, well, what’s it to them. I’m fast, I’m thorough, and I’m meticulous.”

  “How’d you end up hiring Frankie?”

  “Did someone a favor. Biggest mistake I ever made. This fellow knew Frankie’s brother and he asked me if I’d give him a job. He’d just gotten out of jail and no one else would take a chance. I wasn’t all that crazy about the idea myself, but I’d just taken on a big project and I was desperate for help.”

  “What year was this?”

  “Between Christmas of ’68 and the summer of ’69. He claimed he had experience but that was a lie. Worst excuse for a helper you ever saw, him and that friend of his. It’s people like that give prison a bad name.”

  “What friend?”

  “Clifton. Big guy. Had a funny first name…”

>   “Pudgie.”

  Lennie pointed at me. “Him.”

  “I didn’t realize Frankie and Pudgie were such buddies back then.”

  “Were when they worked for me.”

  That was an unexpected nugget of information. I couldn’t wait to tell Stacey, though for the moment I wasn’t sure what it meant—if anything. “From what you said earlier, I gather Frankie filed some kind of worker’s comp claim. Was he injured on the job?”

  “Said he was. Oh, sure. Said he fell off a scaffold, but he was working by himself and it was bull. I got notice of the claim and next thing I knew, he was back in jail, this time on a murder rap. Is that the homicide you mentioned?”

  “This was a second murder—a young girl stabbed to death within days of the first. Her body was dumped in Lompoc, which is where he was arrested. You remember when he left your employment?”

  “June. How I know is because Myra’s and my twenty-fifth wedding anniversary fell on the fifteenth and he was gone by then.”

  “How’d he end up in Venice?”

  “I heard he got a job in Blythe, doing landscape work—in other words, a grown man cutting grass for minimum wage. He met some sixteen-year-old girl and three weeks later, the two of them got married. He was fired from that job so they moved up to Venice, where he did some painting for a friend.”

  “Got it.”

  “That other homicide you mentioned, is he a suspect in that?”

  “Let’s put it this way. The cops have been taking a long, hard look at him. Unfortunately, at this point, there’s no proof he even knew the victim and nothing to link him to the crime itself.”

  “How’d you end up at my door?”

  “A drop cloth at the scene was made by the Diamond Custom Canvas Company in Quorum. I was over there a while ago looking at their tarps when I remembered mention of a painting contractor on his arrest sheet. He listed you as his employer.”

  “Nah, he was long gone by then. I was all set to fire his butt if he hadn’t quit, which I’m sure he knew. Shortly afterward, the project I was working on went belly-up. It was a bad year for me.”

  “I don’t suppose you’d recognize the drop cloth if you saw it again.”

  “Should. I’ve used the same ones for years. I buy them in Quorum at the hardware store on Main. You have it with you?”

  “I wish I did. It’s in the property room at the Santa Teresa County Sheriff’s Department.”

  “Well, you might have ’em check for paint spots. During the time Frankie worked for me, the only exterior color we used was something called Desert Sand. I forget the company—Porter most likely, though it might have been Glidden. Get a match on the paint and it might help tie the tarp to him. I’d be willing to testify.”

  “Thanks. I’m impressed. You’ve got a good memory.”

  “Desert Sand turned out to be a bad luck color. Biggest job I ever bid. At least to that point,” he said. “I’d’ve made thousands if the complex hadn’t gone in the tank.”

  I felt a minor jolt in my chest. “Are you by any chance talking about the Tuley-Belle?”

  “How’d you hear about that?”

  “Ruel McPhee mentioned it earlier today.”

  “Oh, I know Ruel. I’ve done many jobs for him over the years.”

  “Where is this place? I’d like to take a look.”

  “You passed it on your way in. It’s on 78, halfway between here and Quorum. On the west side of the road. From a distance, it looks like a prison. You can’t miss it.”

  21

  The faded billboard on the side of the road read THE TULEY-BELLE LUXURY CONDOMINIUMS—TOMORROW’S LIVING FOR TODAY. The project had been ambitious, accompanied by hype designed to create a buying frenzy. The banner pasted across one corner of the sign trumpeted ONLY TWO UNITS LEFT UNSOLD! If true, the lawsuits were doubtless still in the courts. I slowed and turned off the highway, following the deteriorating four-lane blacktop that was divided by concrete planting beds as empty as the surrounding landscape. The builders must have intended to create a lavish entrance with lush grass and palm trees lining the parkway, but the project had been abandoned long before the plans were executed. Vegetation was minimal. The flat terrain gave way to foothills stretching upward to form the Palo Verde Mountains. Distances were deceptive, the clear, dry air apparently functioning as an atmospheric zoom lens. The complex, which appeared to be a short quarter mile away, turned out to be closer to a mile and a half.

  When I finally pulled into the dirt parking area and cut the engine, the silence enveloped the car like an invisible shield. In the harsh afternoon light, the partially constructed buildings looked as bleak as cliff dwellings. Piles of trash had blown up against the edifices. The surrounding acreage was flat and still. Dolan had told me that despite torrential desert rains, the runoff is usually swift and results in little saturation. Even from the car, I could see numerous deep channels cut into the porous soil, where flash floods had carved runnels, baked now to the hardness of poured concrete.

  I got out and slammed the car door. The sound was muffled, as though absorbed by the very air itself. The subdivision was sprawling. Some portions had been completed; others had been framed in and deserted where they stood. Farther out, I could see where a series of foundations had been poured but the slabs remained untouched. There were numerous tire tracks, and I pictured a steady stream of teenagers slipping through the darkness, escaping from the raw night into the relative warmth of insulated walls. Out here, the wind was constant—a strong, whistling presence that whipped my hair across my face. Behind me, sand gusted across the road.

  Two hundred feet away, a gaunt gray dog was stretched out on its belly, lazily tearing flesh from the carcass of a recent kill. It took me a moment to realize I was looking at a coyote. He regarded me without interest, but he did rise and pick up his prized bone before he trotted off. His coloring was so close to the muted desert hues that he vanished like a wraith.

  I turned back to the nearest building and went in. The windows were gone and the doors had been removed from their hinges. The squatters hadn’t penetrated far. In what must have been intended as a lobby, mattresses now lined the walls like a hospital ward. Some sported ratty blankets, but most were bare. Cardboard boxes had been carted in and now served as bed tables for an assortment of ashtrays, drug paraphernalia, and empty beer cans. I toured, checking out the pharmaceutical fare. These kids were doing grass, hash, and cocaine, but the addiction of choice was still nicotine, with cigarette butts outnumbering the roaches four to one. A used rubber, draped across the toe of a lone high-top basketball shoe, just about summed it up. I tried to imagine the poor teenaged girls whose introduction to sex took place under such sorry circumstances. Maybe they were too drunk or too stoned to care what they were doing or what was being done to them.

  Outside, I heard a racket like a flock of birds lifting into the air. I listened, struggling to identify the noise. It sounded like plastic flapping, as though a dust barrier had torn loose and was being blown by the wind. The rattle was unsettling, like someone shaking open a fresh garbage bag after taking out the trash. I crossed to the nearest doorway and ventured down the corridor, peering in all directions. There was no sign of the errant sheeting, only rooms opening off rooms, filled with merciless sunlight. I stopped, my senses acute. It occurred to me then what I should have realized right away: The Tuley-Belle was the ideal setting for a murder. The cries of the victim wouldn’t carry a hundred yards. If the killing took place outside, any blood could be concealed by turning the soil under with a spade. And if the killing took place inside, the floors could be swabbed down and the rags subsequently buried like strange soil amendments.

  The Tuley-Belle reminded me of grand and ancient ruins, as though some savage civilization had inexplicably come and gone. Even in broad daylight, I could smell defeat. I knew I was alone. Because of the isolation, anyone approaching by car would be visible for miles. As for vagrants, they might be anywhere on the premises. T
here were countless places to hide, ways to remain concealed if the necessity should arise. I retraced my steps, trying not to run, scarcely drawing a breath until I’d tucked myself safely in the car. Stacey had to see this.

  When I got back to the motel, he was pacing up and down in front of my door. I figured he was ready for another fast-food binge because I couldn’t think what else would generate such excitement. The minute he saw me, he scurried to the car. I rolled down my window. He leaned on the sill while he grinned and pointed to his face. “Well, am I glad to see you! I thought you’d never get here. Know what this is? This is me being as happy as I’m ever going to get.”

  “What’s up?”

  He stepped back, opening the car door so I could emerge. “Joe Mandel called. The fingerprint techs are working overtime. I told you, it looks like someone made an effort to wipe down the Mustang? Well, it turns out the job wasn’t very thorough because the techs picked up two sets of prints: one on the emergency brake, the gas cap, the inner rim of the spare tire, and the outside of the glove compartment. Looks like the driver leaned over to get something out and then pushed it shut. They lifted the second set of latents from a California road map shoved under the front seat.”

  “They managed to get good prints after all these years?”

  Stacey gestured dismissively. “These guys can do anything. It helps that the car’s been out of circulation and locked in that shed.”

  “Whose prints?”

  Stacey’s expression was pained. “Quit being so pushy and let me tell it my way. They compared both sets of prints with Charisse’s, but no luck on that score. It’s my theory she was already dead and in the trunk by then. The spare tire had been removed, probably stowed in the backseat to make room for her. Whoever wiped down the car actually did us a favor. All the incidental prints were eliminated and the ones he overlooked were as clear as a bell. Mandel got a pop on the first set within minutes. Guess who? You’ll never guess. This is so good.”

  “Frankie Miracle.”

  “That’s what I said, but I was wrong. Guess again.”