by Sue Grafton
There’s nothing as conspicuous as someone sitting alone in a parked car in a residential neighborhood. With any luck, some worried homeowner would spot me and call the cops and then I could have a nice chat with someone in uniform. Mentally, I organized a condensed version of the murder plot so I could tell it succinctly when the time came. The house was quiet. An hour and forty-five minutes passed and the gathering darkness gradually reduced visibility to mush. Lights in houses all up and down the street came on, including Lily Howe’s. Somebody sprayed the neighborhood with barbecue cologne. I was hungry and I wanted to take a leak and I couldn’t decide if I should risk squatting down behind someone’s bush. I don’t feel I suffer from penis envy, but in moments like this, I do yearn for the anatomical advantages.
At 9:23, Lily’s front door opened and Leonard and Marty came out. I leaned forward, squinting. There weren’t any lingering farewells. The two of them got in the car, slammed the doors, and backed out of the drive. I waited until their car had disappeared and then approached the house. The porch light had gone off. I knocked. There was a moment of silence and then I heard the chain slide into place. Lily had read all the manuals on rape prevention. Good for her.
“Who is it?” came the muffled voice from inside.
I reduced my voice to a whisper. “It’s me. I forgot my handbag.”
The burglar chain slid back and Lily opened the door a crack. I pushed forward so fast, the door almost broke her nose. There was a clunk and she cried out, but by then I’d closed the door behind me again.
“We have to talk,” I said.
She had a hand to her face and tears had risen in her eyes, not because of any damage I’d done, but because she was upset to begin with. “She said she’d kill me if I said anything.”
“She’s going to kill you anyway, you twit. What do you think ��� she’s going to walk off and leave you around to spill the beans? Did she tell you what she did to Wim Hoover? She put a bullet right behind his ear. You’re dog meat. You don’t stand a chance/’
Lily paled. A sob broke the surface like a bubble of air from the bottom of a pond, and then she seemed to collect herself. She closed her eyes and shook her head, like a prisoner faced with the rack. She didn’t care what I did to her, she was not going to talk.
“God damn it! Tell me what’s going on!”
Her expression hardened and I got a sudden glimpse of what she must have been like as a kid. Leonard’s sister knew how to deal with bullies like me. She became stubborn, passive, a defensive stance she’d apparently perfected over the years as a way of warding off attack. She simply withdrew, pulling in on herself like a mollusk. She must have been threatened routinely as a child with everything from tetanus shots if she didn’t wash her hands every time she peed, to police arrest if she didn’t look both ways before she crossed the street. Instead of learning the rules, she’d learned to disappear.
To my amazement, she crossed to one of the turquoise chairs and sat down without another word. She picked up the remote control and flicked the television on, moving through six channels until she found a sitcom she liked. She was going to tune me out. I went over to the chair and hunkered beside her, talking earnestly while she kept her face to the screen. She watched intently as a buxom platinum blonde in a tank top proceeded to put together a birthday cake.
“Mrs. Howe, I’m not sure you understand what’s going on here. Your sister-in-law has killed two people and no one seems to be aware of it but us.”
Flour puffed up in a big cloud, obscuring the blonde’s baby face. Befuddled, she’d apparently used baking powder and yeast, causing the dry flour to explode. The laugh track was cranked up to “hilarious.” Oh that gal! Wasn’t she a screech! Lily smiled faintly, reminded perhaps of baking disasters of her own.
I touched her arm. “We’re running out of time, Lil, because know what? I think Marty Grice is going to double back and kill us too. She’ll have to.”
No response. Maybe what I said had no more reality for her than this bimbo with the birthday cake. She was cracking eggs now, getting splatted in the face with yolks. Simple laws of nature were being violated here and she was the butt of the joke. In walked the husband. His mouth fell open at the mess she’d made. New paroxysms of laughter erupted. I wondered if anything in the real world had ever struck me with such force.
I said, “Where did they go just now? Are they leaving town?”
Lily laughed aloud. The blonde had turned the mixing bowl upside down on her husband’s head. She showed him. A few bars of the show’s dizzy theme song played and the station cut away to the commercial. I reached over and pressed the volume button, extinguishing the sound. In silence, a dog skidded across the linoleum with a can of chopped liver in pursuit.
“Hey,” I said, “Leonard’s in trouble. Are you going to help him or not?”
She glanced over at me, and I saw her lips move. I leaned closer.
“Excuse me. What?”
The strain was showing in her face and her eyes seemed unfocused. She watched me with all the concentration of a drunk, dependent and out of control. “Leonard never hurt anyone,” she said. “He had no idea what she was doing ‘til it was too late.”
I thought about Mike’s report of Leonard’s passion for his wife. I didn’t see him as an innocent victim in all of this, but I kept my big mouth shut. “As long as he knows anything, he’s in danger. If you’ll tell me where they’re going, I can get him out of it.”
She spoke in a whisper. “Just to Los Angeles ‘til the new passport for Marty comes through, and then they’re flying to South America.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I might never see him again,” she said. “And we were always so close. I can’t turn him in. I can’t betray him, don’t you see?”
“You’re trying to do what’s best for him, Lily. He’ll understand.”
“It’s been awful. It’s been a nightmare. When you showed up, I thought he’d die of fright. He nearly had a heart attack and that’s when she came back. She thinks you took Elaine’s passport and she’s furious at the delay. He’s afraid of her. He’s always been frightened by the fits she throws.”
“Of course he has. I’m afraid of her myself. She’s nuts. Do they have the bags in the car with them?”
She was breaking down now, caving in. The notion of Leonard’s desertion caused too much pain and the image of packed suitcases cracked her heart. It was all too much. What difference did any of it make now that he was leaving her? “They’ve gone off to pack,” she said. Her voice came out in a gasp and her nose had started to run. “That’s were they went. The motel out by the pass and then the house. They fought about it, but she wouldn’t leave it behind, because it was evidence.”
“Leave what?”
“The… uh… you know…”
“The murder weapon?”
Lily nodded and nodded again. I didn’t think she could stop. It was as if the cords in her neck had come loose and her head was destined to wag indefinitely. She looked like one of those bobble-head dogs people have perched up in the back windows of their cars.
“Lily, listen to me. I want you to call the police. Go to a neighbor’s house and stay there until somebody comes. Do you understand? Come on. Do you need anything? A sweater, a handbag?” I wanted to scream at her to hurry, but I didn’t dare.
She was looking at me with washed-out, worried blue eyes, her gaze as trusting as a dog’s. I got her to her feet and flipped the TV off, and then bundled her out the front. I scanned the street, but there was no one in sight. I couldn’t believe Leonard would let Marty hurt her, but we all knew who was in charge. In some ways I felt as if I was wasting time, but I had to make sure Lily Howe was safe. We went up to the first house that showed a light, a cedar-shingle place two doors down.
I rang the bell. Some man opened the door and I pushed her forward, explaining that there was trouble and she needed some help. I urged Lily to call the cops and then I left. I wasn’t sure if she’d do it or not.
I got in my car and squealed out, burning rubber as I skidded around the corner two blocks down. I drove tensely, sliding through stop signs, bypassing traffic any way I could. I had to get to the house before they did. I got stuck at a light and used the time to paw through my glove compartment, looking for the flashlight. I pulled it out and checked the batteries. They seemed fine. The signal changed to green and I took off again.
Belatedly, I realized my gun was still locked in the file cabinet at the office. I nearly slammed the brakes on and went back for it, but I didn’t have time. If they went to the motel first, packed, checked out, and loaded the car up, I might have time to get to the murder weapon before they did. If they beat me to the punch, I was going to head straight for Tillie’s and call the police. I had no intention of taking on Marty Grice all by myself.
I could feel a big rush of adrenaline and my neurons fired up, completing a circuit with a joyous leap. An answer to an old question popped into my head and I suddenly knew how they’d maneuvered the stomach contents. Marty had stolen Elaine’s kitchen trash. It wasn’t any more complicated than that. The brown grocery bag Mike had seen in the hall was Elaine Boldt’s garbage, containing the empty tuna can and the soup can that comprised her supper that night. Marty had had hours to set it up and I could visualize the scenario as though I had powers of clairvoyance. Leonard went out to dinner with Lily and Marty gave Elaine a call, inviting her over on some casual pretext. Elaine stopped by and at some point was bashed in the face until dead. Marty took the keys and went over to Elaine’s as soon as it was dark. She retrieved the kitchen garbage and took it back to her house, leaving it in the hall for a minute while she went down to the basement for the kerosene. That’s when Mike had appeared, opening the front door and closing it again when he realized that something was desperately wrong. Marty finished dousing the place with kerosene and sat back to wait for Leonard’s prearranged call at nine, reporting by phone what Elaine had eaten so he could later mention it to the police. A tuna sandwich and tomato soup. Maybe Marty stuck the leftovers on her own refrigerator shelf so it would all tally up and look legitimate. Marty set the fire and then slipped over to Elaine’s where she holed up in comfort until her flight to Florida the following Monday night. My guess was that she’d dyed her hair before she left and I suspected that the fine clump of gray-brown hair I’d seen in Elaine’s bathroom wastebasket during my initial search was, in fact, additional evidence that Marty Grice had been there.
I reached the Grices’ house and pulled up across the street, taking a moment to study the house and yard. In the darkness, the fire damage was hidden, but the place still exuded that aura of ruin and abandonment. There was no sign of the car out front. No lights anywhere in the house. No pedestrians on the street.
I left the keys in the ignition and got out of the car, leaving the door ajar. I wanted to be able to ease back in and take off without a lot of fumbling around, if it came to that. I opened the trunk and took out the tools I thought I’d need. As soon as I determined that nobody was coming, I crossed the street and cut through the Grices’ side yard.
I moved quietly along the walk, surveying windows as I passed. Most of the windows at the front of the house had been broken out by the fire and boarded back up again, but there were two near the back of the house that were still intact. I chose one and jimmied it open. It was pitch-black, and the neighborhood was quiet except for crickets chirring in the grass. I knew I should give myself an escape route, but I couldn’t take the chance. If the two of them showed up, they’d spot any open windows or doors. I’d just have to work fast and hope my guess about the murder weapon was correct. I didn’t have time for mistakes.
I climbed into the kitchen and pulled the window shut. The floor crackled with broken glass as I passed through. My flashlight streaked across blackened doorframes, smoke-tinged walls, into a hallway dense with shadow. I held my breath, listening. The silence was flat, one-dimensional. The electricity was turned off and I missed the soft hum of machinery. No refrigerator, no furnace, no wall clock, no water heater ticking from the other room. Some vague phrase about the silence of the tomb came to mind, but I pushed it away.
I moved forward, startled as a shard of glass popped underfoot. Was someone moving around upstairs? I swung the light across the ceiling, half expecting footsteps to appear up there like visible dents. The imagination has primitive, cartoonlike qualities, as any child can testify. I moved again. There was some illumination farther on, a pale light spilling in from the house next door. I paused at the window that looked directly into the living room across the way. Mr. Snyder was watching a television show, images flickering silently. The only other window on this side of the house was a small one just off the kitchen near the rear. I had a theory now about the banging May Snyder heard that night and I was about to test it out. I glanced toward the room where she slept, but it was already dark. I wondered if that’s what old age is about ��� sleeping longer and longer hours until one day you simply don’t bother to wake.
I ran my fingers along the window frame, shining the light across the fire-warped paint, a shriveled and puckered white, like dead skin. I could see where the wood had been damaged before. I could see where it had been secured with nails again: bang-bang-bang. I propped the flashlight on the window sill. It took me a few minutes to get the flashlight angled properly so I could see what I was doing and still have both hands free to work. I edged the narrow curve of the crowbar into the window frame and pried it loose with a crack so deafening it made my heart skip. I believed Elaine had been killed with a sash weight that had been tucked back in the window frame and nailed into place. The notion had come to me in one of those flashes of insight when I heard the weights in my own bathroom window thump dully against the studs.
It was nice. It had a certain domestic tidiness about it that Marty must have liked. If the house had burned down entirely that night, then who would ever have figured it out? The bulldozers would have mowed down what was left of the house, rubble loaded into high-siders, hauled off to the dump. Even now, even as it was, who was going to know? In a way, she was foolish to come back for it. Why not just leave it where it was? She was being pushed into a panic, probably anxious to tie up loose ends so that she could feel safe wherever she went. They might catch her, but what could they prove? The murder weapon probably had her prints all over it. Maybe it still bore strands of Elaine’s hair or fragments of broken teeth and bones, microscopic particles of flesh. I wondered what she planned to do with the grisly thing. Bury it somewhere perhaps… toss it off the end of a pier. I jammed a big screwdriver into the tight crack between the framing and the strip of wood that held it in place. Window parts must have names, I thought, but I didn’t know what they were. I was just imitating Becky’s carpentry. The result was the same. I had the frame dismantled, exposing both sets of weights, the cord connecting them, and the pulleys that regulated the raising and lowering of the sash. I hauled both sets into view, four weights all together, careful not to touch anything. Shit, prints weren’t going to show up on these things. The metal was covered with a thin film of sawdust and grime. Moisture in the wall had generated so much rust that any latent prints had probably been obliterated now. It wasn’t going to help that six months had passed. Flecks of dried blood would still show up on a microscopic exam, but I wasn’t sure what else. I shone the flashlight along the sash. At the tip were two glinting blond hairs caught in a knot of dark brown. I could feel my lips purse with distaste. I eased a small plastic Baggie over the tip and secured it with tape. I advanced the blade in the utility knife I’d brought with me and slashed through the cords, clanging the weights together inadvertently as I lowered them into a big plastic bag. Lieutenant Dolan and his trusty crime-scene crew would have fits if they saw me manhandling evidence this way, but I didn’t have any choice. I tossed the utility knife in the plastic bag along with the rest of my tools, plastic rustling with my every move ��� which is why I didn’t hea
r Leonard and Marty until they had already reached the back steps.
Chapter 26
*
The key rattled in the lock and my head whipped up. Fear shot through me like a jolt of electricity and my heart started thudding so hard it made my whole neck pulse. My single advantage was that I knew about them before they knew about me. I snatched up the flashlight, tucking the plastic-wrapped packet of weights under my arm. I was already on the move, assessing my options with a brain that felt slow and cold, as though plunged in an icy surf. My temptation was to head up to the second floor, but I scotched the impulse. There was no cover up there and no access to the roof.
I eased to my left, toward the kitchen, my hearing opened to the full. I could pick up low conversational tones out there. They were probably trying to get their bearings just shining a flashlight here and there. If Marty hadn’t been in the house since the night of the fire, she might be reacting to the damage, momentarily repelled as I had been by the charring, decay, and ruin. They hadn’t figured it out yet, but soon they would. The minute they saw that window frame, they’d start looking for me.
The basement door was ajar, a vertical black slot against the gloom of the hallway. I allowed myself one flicker of light from the flashlight and slipped through the crack, descending as quickly as I could without making noise. I knew the slanted basement doors leading out to the side yard were padlocked shut, but at least I’d find someplace to hide down there. I hoped.
Down I went, pausing at the bottom of the stairs so that I could orient myself. Above me, I heard the snap and crunch of footsteps. It was pitch-bloody-black where I was. It felt like the darkness was lying on the surface of my eyes, a thick, black mask that no light could penetrate. I had to risk the flashlight again. Even after so short a time, I felt myself recoil from the glare, turning my head abruptly to shield my eyes. I blinked, willing my eyes to adapt. Oh God, how was I going to get out of this?