by Sue Grafton
“You mean, right this minute?”
“Well, yes, if you wouldn’t mind. I stopped by to talk to the building manager, but she’s not here.”
I could hear a murmur of conversation and then the door buzzed at me by way of consent. I had to jump to catch it while the lock would still open. I took the elevator up a floor. Apartment 10 was just across from me when the elevator door slid open. Hoover was standing in the hall in a short blue terry-cloth robe with snags. I estimated his age at thirty-four, thirty-five. He was slight, maybe five foot six, with slim, muscular legs faintly matted with down. His dark hair was tousled and he looked as if he hadn’t shaved for two days. His eyes were still baggy from sleep.
“Oh God, I woke you up,” I said. “I hate to do that to people.”
“No, I’ve been up,” he said. He ran a hand across his hair, scratching the back of his head while he yawned. I had to clamp my teeth so I wouldn’t yawn in response. Barefoot, he moved back into the apartment and I followed him.
“I just put some coffee on. It’ll be ready in a sec. Come on in and have a seat.” His voice was light and reedy.
He indicated the kitchen to the right. His apartment was the flip image of Elaine’s and my guess was that their two master bedrooms shared a wall. I glanced at the living room which, like hers, opened off the entryway and also looked down on the Grices’ property next door. Where Elaine’s apartment had a view of the street, this one didn’t have much to recommend it ��� only a glimpse of the mountains off to the left, partially obscured by the two rows of Italian stone pines that grow along Via Madrina.
Hoover adjusted his short robe and sat down on a kitchen chair, crossing his legs. His knees were cute. “What’s your name again? I’m sorry, I’m still half-unconscious.”
“Kinsey Millhone,” I said. The kitchen smelled of brewing coffee and the fumes of unbrushed teeth. His, not mine. He reached for a slim brown cigarette and lit it, hoping perhaps to mask his morning mouth with something worse. His eyes were a mild tobacco brown, his lashes sparse, face lean. He regarded me with all the boredom of a boa constrictor after a heavy meal of groundhog. The percolator gave a few last burps and subsided while he reached for two big blue-and-white mugs. One had an overall design of bunny rabbits humping. The other portrayed elephants similarly occupied, I tried not to look. The thing I’ve worried about for years is how dinosaurs mated, especially those great big spiny ones. Someone told me once they did it in water, which helped support all that weight, but I find it hard to believe dinosaurs were that smart. It didn’t seem likely with those tiny pinched heads. I shook myself back to reality.
“What do you call yourself? William? Bill?”
“Wim,” he said. He fetched a carton of milk from the refrigerator and found a spoon for the sugar bowl. I added milk to my coffee and watched with interest while he added two heaping tablespoons of sugar to his. He caught my look.
“I’m trying to gain a little weight,” he said. “I know the sugar’s bad for my teeth, but I’ve been doing up these torturous protein drinks in the morning ��� you know the kind ��� with egg and banana and wheat germ thrown in. Ugh. The aftertaste just cannot be disguised. Besides, I hate to eat before two in the afternoon so I guess I should resign myself to being thin. Anyway, that’s why I load up my coffee. I figure anything’s bound to help. You look a little on the Twiggy side yourself.”
“I run every day and I forget to eat.” I sipped my coffee, which was scented faintly with mint. It was really very good.
“How well did you know Elaine?” I asked.
“We spoke when we ran into one another in the hall,” he said. “We’ve been neighbors for years. Why do you want her? Did she run out on her bills?”
I told him briefly about her apparent absence, adding that the explanation didn’t have to be sinister, but that it was puzzling nevertheless. “Do you remember when you saw her last?”
“Not really. Sometime before she went off. Christmas, I guess. No, I take that back. I did see her New Year’s Eve. She said she was staying home.”
“Do you happen to know if she had a cat?”
“Oh sure. Gorgeous thing. A massive gray Persian named Mingus. He was actually my cat originally, but I was hardly ever home and I thought he should have company so I gave him to her. He was just a kitten at the time. I had no idea he’d turn out to be such a beauty or I never would have given him up. I mean, I’ve kicked myself ever since, but what can one do? A deal’s a deal.”
“What was the deal?”
He shrugged indifferently. “I made her swear she’d never change his name. Charlie Mingus. After the jazz pianist. Also she had to promise not to leave him by himself, or what was the point in giving him away? I might as well have kept him myself.”
Wim took a careful drag of his cigarette, resting his elbow on the kitchen table. I could hear the shower running somewhere in the back of the apartment.
“Did she take him with her to Florida every year?”
“Oh sure. Sometimes right up in the cabin if the airline had the space. She said he loved it down there, thought he owned the place.” He picked up a napkin and folded it in half.
“Well, it’s curious he hasn’t shown up someplace.”
“He’s probably still with her, wherever she is.”
“Did you talk to her after that murder next door?”
Wim shook his head, neatly flicking ash into the folded napkin. “I did talk to the police, or rather they talked to me. My living-room windows look right down on that house and they were interested in what I could have seen. Which was nothing, I might add. That detective was the biggest macho asshole I’ve ever met and I didn’t appreciate his antagonistic attitude. Can I warm that up for you?”
He got up and fetched the coffee.
I nodded and he topped off both our mugs, pouring from a thermos. The sound of running water had abruptly ceased and Wim took note of it, just as I did. He went back to the sink and extinguished his cigarette by running it under the tap and then he tossed it in the trash. He got out a frying pan and took a package of bacon from the refrigerator. “I’d offer you breakfast, but I don’t have enough unless you want to join me in a protein drink. I’m going to make that up in a minute, disgusting as it is. I’m doing real food for a friend of mine.”
“I’ve got to go shortly anyway,” I said, getting up.
He waved at me impatiently. “Sit down, sit down. Finish your coffee at any rate. You might as well ask whatever you want as long as you’re here.”
“What about a vet for the cat? Did she have someone in the neighborhood?”
Wim peeled off three strips of bacon and laid them in the pan, flipping on the gas. He leaned over, peering at the low blue flame. He had to tug his robe down in back.
He said, “There’s a cat clinic around the corner on Serenata Street. She used to take Ming over in one of those cat carriers, howling like a coyote. He hated the vet.”
“You have any guesses about where Elaine might be?”
“What about her sister? Maybe she’s gone down to L.A. to see her.”
“The sister was the one who hired me in the first place,” I said. “She hasn’t seen Elaine in years.”
Wim looked up sharply from the bacon pan and laughed. “What a crock of shit! Who told you that? I met her up here myself not six months back.”
“You met Beverly?”
“Sure,” he said. He took a fork and pushed the bacon strips in the pan. He went back to the refrigerator and got out three eggs. I was starving to death just watching this stuff.
He continued chattily. “She was maybe four years younger than Elaine. Black hair, cut gamin-style, exquisite skin.” He looked at me. “Am I right or am I not?”
“Sounds like the woman I met,” I said. “But I wonder why she lied to me.”
“I can probably guess,” he said. He tore off some paper toweling and folded it, putting it near the frying pan. “They had that nasty falling-ou
t, you know, at Christmastime. Beverly probably doesn’t want the word to get out. They positively shrieked and threw things, doors slamming. Oh my God! And the language they used. It was obscene. I had no idea Elaine could swear like that, though I must say the other one was worse.”
“What was it about?”
“A man, of course. What else do any of us fuss about?”
“You have any idea who it was?”
“Nope. Frankly, I suspect Elaine’s one of those women who’s secretly thrilled with widowhood. She gets a lot of sympathy, tons of freedom. She has all that money and no one to hassle with. Why cut some guy in on a deal like that? She’s better off by herself.”
“Why quarrel with Beverly if that’s the case?”
“Who knows? Maybe they thought it was fun.”
I finished my coffee and got up then. “I better scoot. I don’t want to interrupt your breakfast, but I may want to get back to you. Are you listed in the book?”
“Of course. I do work… tending bar at the Edgewood Hotel near the beach. You know the place?”
“I can’t afford it, but I know which one you mean.”
“Pop in and visit sometime. I’m there from six until closing every night except Monday. I’ll buy you a drink.”
“Thanks, Wim. I’ll do that. I appreciate your help. The coffee was a treat.”
“Anytime,” he said.
I let myself out, catching a glimpse of Wim’s breakfast mate, who looked like something out of Gentlemen’s Quarterly: sultry eyes, a perfect jawline, collarless shirt, and an Italian cashmere sweater tossed across his shoulders with the sleeves folded into a knot in front.
In the kitchen, Wim had started to sing a version of “The Man I Love.” His singing voice sounded just like Marlene Dietrich’s.
When I reached the lobby I ran into Tillie, who was pushing a wire cart in front of her like a stroller. It was loaded with brown paper bags.
“I feel like I go to the market twice a day,” she said. “Are you here looking for me?”
“Yes, but when you weren’t in, I went up and had a brief chat with Wim instead. I didn’t realize Elaine Boldt had a cat.”
“Oh, she’s had Ming for years. I don’t know why I didn’t think to mention that. I wonder what she did with him?”
“You said she had some carry-on luggage that night going out to the cab. Could it have been Mingus in the cat carrier?”
“Well, it must have been. It was certainly big enough and she did take the cat with her everywhere she went. I guess he’s missing too. Isn’t that what you’re getting at?”
“I don’t know yet, but probably. Too bad he’s not suffering from some rare cat disease so I could track him down through a veterinarian someplace,” I said.
She shook her head. “Can’t help you there. He’s in good health, as far as I ever knew. He’d be easy to recognize. Big old gray long-haired thing. He must have weighed almost twenty pounds.”
“Was he purebred?”
“No and she’d had him neutered early on, so he wasn’t used for breeding purposes or anything like that.”
“Well,” I said, “I may as well start checking up on him too, since I don’t have anything else at this point. Did you talk to the police yesterday?”
“Oh yes, and told ‘em we thought the woman might have stolen Elaine’s bills when she broke in. The officer looked at me like he thought I was nuts, but he did write it down.”
“I’ll tell you something else Wim brought up. He swears Elaine’s sister Beverly was up here at Christmastime and got into a big fight with her. Were you aware of that?”
“No I wasn’t, and Elaine never mentioned anything about it either,” she said, shifting restlessly. “I’ve got to go in, Kinsey. I’ve got some sherbet that’ll leak right out if I don’t pop it in the freezer soon.”
“All fight. I’ll get back to you later if I need anything else,” I said. “Thanks, Tillie.”
Tillie went on through the lobby, lugging her grocery cart and I went back to my car and unlocked it. I glanced over at the Grices’ house as usual, my attention drawn almost irresistibly to that half-charred ruin where the murder had taken place. On impulse, I locked my car again and trotted up to the Snyders’ front door. He must have spotted me through the window because the door opened just as I raised my hand to knock. He stepped out on the porch.
I saw you coming up the walk. You’re the one was here yesterday,” he said. “I don’t remember your name.”
“Kinsey Millhone. I talked to Mr. Grice out at his sister’s house yesterday. He said you had a key to his place and would let me in so I could take a look around.”
“Yes, that’s right. I got it here somewhere.” Mr. Snyder seemed to frisk himself and then fished a key ring out of his pocket. He sorted through the keys.
“This’s it,” he said. He wrestled the key off the ring and handed it to me. “That’s to the back door. Front’s all boarded up as you can see. For a time there, they had the whole place cordovaned off ‘til them fellas from the crime-scene unit could go over everything.”
From the rear, I heard, “What is it, Orris? Who’s that you’re talking to?”
“Hold your horses! Y’old coot. I got to go,” he said, his jowls atremble.
“I’ll bring this back when I’m done,” I said, but he was already lumbering off toward the back of the house in a snit. I thought she could hear remarkably well for someone he claimed was as deaf as a loaf of bread.
I cut across the Snyders’ yard, the ivy rustling under my feet. The Grices’ front lawn was dead from neglect and the sidewalk was littered with debris. It didn’t look as if it had been cleaned up since the fire trucks departed, and I was crossing my fingers that the salvage crew had never gone in to clear the place out. I went around the side, passing the padlocked double doors that were slanted up against the house and led down into the basement. At the rear of the house, I climbed five crumbling steps onto a small back porch. The back door had a big glass window in the upper half and I could see into the kitchen through ruffled curtains that were dingy now and hung crookedly.
I unlocked the door and let myself in. For once, I was in luck. The floor was covered with rubble, but the furniture was still in place; kitchen table filthy, chairs knocked askew. I left the door open behind me and surveyed the room. There were dishes on the counter, shelves of canned goods visible through an open pantry door. I was feeling a faint thrill of uneasiness as I always do in situations like these.
The house smelled richly of scorched wood and there was a heavy layer of soot on everything. The kitchen walls were gray with smoke and my shoes made a gritty sound as I moved through the hallway, crushing broken glass to a sugary consistency underfoot. As nearly as I could tell, the interior of the Grices’ house was laid out like the Snyders’ house next door and I could identify what I guessed was the dining room just off the kitchen, with a blackened swinging door between. This must be the counterpart to the room in the Snyders’ house that Orris had now outfitted as a bedroom for his wife. There was a half-bath across the hall, just the toilet and sink. The old linoleum had blistered and buckled, showing blackened floorboards beneath. The window in the hallway was broken now, but it looked out onto a narrow walkway between the two houses and right into May Snyder’s converted bedroom. I could see her clearly, lying on a hospital bed that had been cranked up to a forty-five-degree angle. She seemed to be asleep, looking small and shrunken under a white counterpane. I moved away from the window and down the hall toward the living room.
The fire had leached the color out of everything and it looked now like a black-and-white photograph. The char patterns ��� like dark stretches of alligator hide ��� covered doorframes and window sashes. The destruction became more pronounced as I moved toward the front of the house. As I passed the stairs leading to the half-story up above, I could see where the flames had chewed the treads and part of the wooden banister. The wallpaper in the stairwell was as tattered and i
nky as an old treasure map.
I moved on, trying to get my bearings. There was an ominous patch of missing floorboards near the front door where I imagined Marty Grice’s body had been found. Flames had eaten up the walls, leaving pipes and blackened beams exposed. Across the floor here, and extending back down the hall and up the stairs, there were irregular burned trails where an accelerant of some kind had been splashed. I bypassed the gaping hole in the floor and peered into the living room, which looked as if it had been outfitted with avant-garde “works of furniture” made entirely of charcoal briquettes. Two chairs and a couch were still arranged in a conversational grouping, but the fire had gnawed the upholstery right down to the bare springs. All that remained of the coffee table was a burned frame.
I went back to the stairs and crept up with care. The fire had taken the bedroom in whimsical bites, leaving a stack of paperback books untouched while the footstool nearby had been almost completely consumed. The bed was still made, but the room had been drenched by the fire hoses and smelled now of rotting carpet fiber and soggy wallpaper, mildewed blankets, singed clothing, and clumps of insulation that had boiled out through the fire-bared lath and plaster here and there. On the bed table, there was a framed photograph of Leonard with an appointment card for a teeth cleaning and exam tucked in the edge of the glass.
I moved the card aside, peering closely at Leonard’s face. I thought about the snapshot I’d seen of Marty. Such a dumpy little thing: overweight, plastic eyeglass frames, a hairdo that looked like a wig. Leonard was much more attractive and in happier times presented a trim appearance, a rather distinguished face, graying hair, a steady gaze. His shoulders were rounded, possibly because of his back problems, but it gave the impression of something weak or apologetic in his nature. I wondered if Elaine Boldt had found him appealing. Could she have come between these two?
I put the picture back and picked my way down the stairs. As I moved along the hall toward the kitchen, I noticed a door ajar and I pushed it open gingerly. Before me yawned the basement, looking like a vast, black pit. Shit. In the interest of being thorough, I knew I’d have to check it out. I made a face to myself and went out to my car to get the flashlight out of the glove compartment.