by Sue Grafton
“According to the police report, you were at fault.”
“I know that’s what it says, but that’s ridiculous. The way the law’s written, they had the right-of-way so I’m technically the guilty one. When I first saw the van it was creeping along. I swear he wasn’t going more than three miles an hour. He must have floored it when he realized he could catch me before I finished the turn.”
“You’re saying he hit you deliberately?”
“Why not? He had the opportunity of a lifetime staring him in the face.”
I shook my head. “I don’t understand.”
“To collect the insurance money,” she said impatiently. “Check it out for yourself. She’s essentially self-employed. She works as an independent contractor, so she probably doesn’t have long-term medical coverage and no disability insurance. What a great way to support themselves in their retirement years, suing the shit out of me.”
“You know that for a fact?”
“What, her having no disability insurance? No, I don’t know it for a fact, but I’d be willing to bet.”
“I can’t picture it. How could Millard be sure she’d survive the crash?”
“Yeah, well, he wasn’t going that fast. Relatively speaking. I mean, he wasn’t driving sixty miles an hour. He must have known neither one of us would die.”
“Risky nonetheless.”
“Maybe that depends on the stakes.”
“True, but auto insurance fraud is usually highly organized and involves more than one person. The ‘mark’ might be maneuvered into rear-ending another vehicle, but it’s all a setup. The ‘victim,’ the lawyer, and the doctor are in cahoots on the claim. I can’t believe Gladys or Millard are part of anything like that.”
“They don’t have to be. He might have read about it in a book. It wouldn’t take a genius to figure how to set it up. He saw a chance for big bucks and acted on the spur of the moment.”
“How are we going to prove that?”
“Find the old guy and he’ll tell you.”
“What makes you so sure he saw the accident?”
“He must have because I remember catching sight of him as I approached the exit to the parking lot. I didn’t pay much attention because I was focused on the street ahead.”
“You saw him where?”
“On the far side of Palisade.”
“Doing what?”
“I don’t know. I guess he was waiting to cross the street, so he must have seen the van about the same time I did.”
“What age would you say?”
“What do I know about old guys? He had white hair and his jacket was brown leather, sort of dry-looking and cracked.”
“Can you recall anything else? Did the old guy wear glasses?”
“I don’t remember.”
“What about the shape of his face?”
“Kind of long.”
“Clean shaven?”
“I think so. For sure, he didn’t have a beard, but he might’ve had a mustache.”
“No moles or scars?”
“Can’t help you there. I was upset so I didn’t pay much attention.”
“What about height and weight?”
“He seemed taller than me and I’m five-six, but he wasn’t heavy or rail thin or anything like that. I’m sorry I can’t be more specific.”
“What about his hands?”
“Nope, but I remember his shoes. They were those old-time black leather lace-up shoes like the kind my granddad wore to work. You know the ones with holes punched around the instep?”
“Wing tips?”
“Yeah, them. They needed polishing and the sole on his right shoe was coming loose.”
“Did he have an accent?”
“Not one that I noticed.”
“What about his teeth?”
“A mess. Kind of yellow like he smoked. I’d forgotten about that.”
“Anything else?”
She shook her head.
“What about your injuries, aside from whiplash?”
“I had headaches at first, but those have gone away. My neck’s still sore and I guess that’s what’s throwing my back out of alignment. I lost two days at work, but nothing beyond that. If I sit for any length of time, I have to get up and walk around for a while. I guess I’m lucky things weren’t worse.”
“You got that right,” I said.
During that next week, I didn’t have occasion to talk to Melanie, but Henry kept me informed about her hassles with Gus, whose prickly disposition had resurfaced. Twice, in the early morning, I saw her arrive from the motel. I knew she stayed late, looking after him. I suppose I could have invited her to my place for a glass of wine or reminded her of her offer to buy dinner. Better yet, I could have put together a nourishing casserole, thus providing a meal for the two of them in the manner of a kindly neighbor. But does that sound like me? I didn’t extend myself for the following reasons:
(1) I can’t cook.
(2) I’d never been close to Gus, and I didn’t want to get caught up in the turbulence surrounding him.
In my experience, the urge to rescue generates aggravation for the poor would-be heroine without any discernible effect on the person in need of help. You can’t save others from themselves be-cause those who make a perpetual muddle of their lives don’t appreciate your interfering with the drama they’ve created. They want your poor-sweet-baby sympathy, but they don’t want to change. This is a truth I never seem to learn. Problematic in this case was that Gus hadn’t generated his troubles. He’d opened a window and in they’d crept.
Henry told me that the first weekend Gus was home, the Rolling Hills nursing director had recommended a private-duty nurse who was willing to work an eight-hour shift on Saturday and again on Sunday. This relieved Melanie of the more odious of medical and personal hygiene responsibilities while simultaneously providing Gus with someone else to abuse when his mood went sour, which it did on an hourly basis.
Henry had also told me Melanie had had no response from the classified ad she’d run. She’d finally contacted an agency and had been interviewing home companions, hoping to find someone to step into the breach.
“Has she had any luck?” I asked.
“I wouldn’t call it luck exactly. She’s hired three so far, and two didn’t make it to the end of the day. The third fared better, but not by much. I could hear him blasting her from across the back hedge.”
I said, “I guess I should have offered to help, but I decided I’d be better off if I learned to cope with my guilt.”
“How’re you doing with it?”
“Pretty well.”
10
SOLANA
Solana parked the car and rechecked the ad in the “Personals,” making sure the address was correct. There was no phone number listed, which was just as well. The last classified ad she’d responded to had been a dead end. The patient was an elderly woman living in her daughter’s house, confined to a hospital bed that had been installed in the dining room. The house was lovely, but the makeshift sick bay ruined the overall effect. High ceilings, light pouring in, all the furnishings done in exquisite taste. There was a cook and a housekeeper on the premises, and that put a damper on Solana’s enthusiasm.
Solana was interviewed by the daughter, who wanted someone to attend to her mother’s needs but felt she shouldn’t be required to pay private-duty rates since she would be present in the home as well. Solana would be expected to bathe, feed, and diaper the senile mother, change linens, do her laundry, and administer medication. These were responsibilities she was capable of handling, but she didn’t like the daughter’s attitude. She seemed to view a nursing professional as a household servant, on a par with a laundress. Solana suspected that the housekeeper would be treated better than she.
The haughty daughter made notes on her clipboard notepad and said she had several other job applicants to interview, which Solana knew was a bald-faced lie. The daughter wanted her to feel competitive,
as though she’d be fortunate to be offered the position, which consisted of nine-hour days, one day off a week, and no personal calls. She’d be allowed two fifteen-minute coffee breaks, but she was expected to provide her own meals. And with a cook working right there in the next room!
Solana asked a good many questions, showing how interested she was, making sure the daughter spelled out particulars. In the end she agreed to everything, including the low wages. The daughter’s manner went from cold to prim to pleased with herself. It was clear she felt smug for having talked someone into accepting such ridiculous terms. Solana noticed there was no further mention of the other candidates.
She explained she didn’t have time just then to do the paperwork, but she’d bring the completed application with her when she came to work the next morning at eight. She jotted down her phone number in case the daughter thought of anything else she wanted to discuss. By the time Solana left, the daughter was falling all over herself, relieved that she’d managed to solve her problem at so little cost. She shook Solana’s hand warmly. Solana returned to her car, knowing she’d never see the woman again. The phone number she’d provided rang through to the psychiatric ward in a Perdido hospital, where Tiny had once spent a year.
Now Solana sat across the street and a few doors down from the address she’d been looking for. This was in response to an ad she’d seen over the weekend. She’d dismissed the possibility at first since there wasn’t a telephone number listed. As the week went on and no other jobs of interest appeared, she’d decided the house might be worth a quick look. The setting didn’t seem promising. The place had a neglected air, especially compared with the other houses on the block. The neighborhood was close to the beach and consisted almost entirely of single-family dwellings. Sandwiched here and there, between the small depressing houses, she could see a new duplex or fourplex in the Spanish-style architecture common to the area. Solana’s guess was that many of the residents were retired, which meant fixed incomes and little in the way of discretionary spending.
To all appearances, she was of a similar economic status. Two months before, one of her brothers had given her a banged-up convertible he was eager to junk. The car she’d been driving had thrown a rod, and the mechanic told her the repair bill would be two thousand dollars, which was more than the car was worth. At the time, she had no cash to spare, and when her brother offered her the 1972 Chevrolet, she’d accepted—though not without a certain sense of humiliation. Clearly, he thought the junker was good enough for her. She’d had her eye on a better car and she’d even been tempted to take on the hefty payments, but good sense prevailed. Now she was grateful she’d settled for the secondhand Chevrolet, which resembled so many other cars parked along the street. A newer model would have sent the wrong message. No one was interested in hiring help who appeared to be more prosperous than they.
So far she had no information about the patient beyond the brief clues in the ad. It was good he was eighty-nine years old and tottery enough to fall and hurt himself. His need for outside help suggested there weren’t any close relatives willing to pitch in. These days, people were self-centered—impatient about anything that interfered with their own comfort or convenience. From her perspective, this was good. From the patient’s, not so much. If he were surrounded by loving kids and grandkids, he’d be no use to her at all.
What worried her was his ability to pay for the in-home care. She couldn’t bill through Medicare or Medicaid because she’d never survive official scrutiny, and the chances of his having adequate private insurance didn’t look good. So many of the elderly made no provision for long-term disability. They drifted into their twilight years as though by mistake, surprised to discover themselves with limited resources, unable to cover the monstrous medical bills that accrued in the wake of acute, chronic, or catastrophic illness. Did they think the necessary funds would fall from the sky? Who did they imagine would shoulder the burden for their lack of planning? Fortunately, the last patient she’d taken on had ample means, which Solana had put to good use. The job had ended on a sour note, but she’d learned a valuable lesson. The mistake she’d made there was one she wouldn’t make again.
She debated the wisdom of inquiring about a job in such a modest neighborhood, but finally decided she could at least knock on the door and introduce herself. Since she’d driven in from Colgate, she might as well explore the possibility. She knew certain wealthy types took pride in maintaining a humble facade. This fellow might be one. Just two days before, she’d read an article in the paper about an elderly woman who’d died and left two million dollars to an animal shelter, of all things. Friends and neighbors had been stunned because the woman had lived like a pauper, and no one suspected she had so much money tucked away. Her prime concern was for her six ancient cats, which the estate attorney had ordered euthanized before the woman was even cold in her grave. This freed up thousands of dollars to pay the subsequent legal bills.
Solana checked her reflection in the rearview mirror. She was wearing her new glasses, a cheap pair she’d found that were a close match to the glasses on the Other’s driver’s license. With her hair dyed dark, the resemblance between them was passable. Her own face was thinner, but she wasn’t worried about that. Anyone comparing her face to the photo would simply think she’d lost weight. The dress she’d chosen for the occasion was a crisply ironed cotton that made a comforting rustling sound when she walked. It wasn’t a uniform per se, but it had the same simple lines and it smelled of spray starch. The only jewelry she wore was a watch with big numbers on the face and a sweeping second hand. A watch like that implied a quick and professional attention to vital signs. She took out her compact and powdered her nose. She looked good. Her complexion was clear and she liked her hair in this new darker shade. She tucked her compact away, satisfied that she looked the part—faithful companion to the old. She got out of her car and locked it behind her, then crossed the street.
The woman who answered the door was in her thirties and had a gaudy look about her—bright red lipstick, dark red hair. Her skin was pale, as though she seldom exerted herself and never went outdoors. She was definitely not a California type, especially with those eyebrows plucked to thin arches and darkened with pencil. She wore black boots and a narrow black wool skirt that hit her midcalf. Neither the shape nor the length was flattering, but Solana knew it was the current rage, as were the dark red nails. The woman probably thought she had an eye for high fashion, which wasn’t the case. She’d picked up the “look” from the latest magazines. Everything she wore would be dated and out of style before the new year rolled around. Solana smiled to herself. Anyone who had so little self-awareness would be easy to manipulate.
She held the paper up, folded so that the ad was in view. “I believe you placed an ad in the paper.”
“I did. Oh, how nice. I was beginning to think no one would ever respond. I’m Melanie Oberlin,” she said, and extended her hand. Solana might as well have been a fly-fisherman, casting out her line.
“Solana Rojas,” she replied, and shook Melanie’s hand, making sure her grip was strong. The articles she’d read all said the same thing. Keep the handshake firm and look your prospective employer in the eye. These were tips Solana committed to memory.
The woman said, “Please come in.”
“Thank you.”
Solana stepped into the living room, taking in the whole of it without any visible evidence of curiosity or dismay. The house smelled sour. The wall-to-wall carpet was beige, shabby and stained, and the upholstered furniture was covered in a dark brown crepey fabric she knew would be gummy to the touch. The lamp shades were tinted a deep parchment color by the infusion of large quantities of cigarette smoke over a long period of time. She knew if she put her nose against the drapes, she’d inhale decades’ worth of secondhand tar and nicotine.
“Shall we sit down?”
Solana took a seat on the sofa.
This was a place where a man had lived alo
ne for many years, indifferent to his surroundings. A superficial order had been imposed, probably quite recently, but the rooms would have to be gutted to eliminate the many layers of grime. She knew, sight unseen, that the kitchen linoleum would be a dead gray and the aged refrigerator would be small and hunched. The interior light would be out and the shelves would be crusty with years of accumulated food spills.
Melanie looked around, seeing the place through her visitor’s eyes. “I’ve been trying to tidy up since I got into town. The house belongs to my uncle Gus. He’s the one who fell and dislocated his shoulder.”
Solana loved her apologetic tone because it signified anxiety and a desire to please. “And your aunt is where?”
“She died in 1964. They had one son who was killed in World War Two and a daughter who died in a traffic accident.”
“So much sadness,” Solana said. “I have an uncle in much the same situation. He’s eighty-six and living in isolation after the loss of his wife. I’ve spent many weekends with him, cleaning, running errands, and preparing food for the coming week. I think it’s the company he enjoys more than anything.”
“Exactly,” Melanie said. “Uncle Gus seems grumpy, but I’ve noticed how his mood improves with company. Would you like a cup of coffee?”
“Thank you, no. I had two cups this morning and that’s my limit.”
“I wish I could say the same. I must go through ten cups a day. In the city, we think of it as the addiction of choice. Are you a native of California?”
“Fourth generation,” Solana said, amused at the roundabout way the woman had come up with to ask if she was Mexican. She hadn’t actually said she was, but she knew Melanie Oberlin would imagine a once wealthy Spanish family. Solana said, “You yourself have an accent, no?”
“Boston.”
“I thought so. And this is ‘the city’ you referred to?”