C Is for Corpse

by Sue Grafton

  "What?"

  She narrowed her eyes, pushing her face toward mine. "Now don't you play dumb with me. Two hundred dollars a month! My stars. Do you know what studio apartments are renting for in this neighborhood? Three hundred. That's a hundred dollars you take away from him every time you write him a check. Disgraceful. It's just a disgrace!"

  "Oh now, Lila," Henry broke in. He seemed nonplussed that she'd launched into this, but it was clearly something they'd discussed. "Let's don't get into this now. She's on her way out."

  "You can spare a few minutes, I'm sure," she said with a glittering look at me.

  "Sure," I said faintly and then glanced at him. "Have you been unhappy with me?" I felt the same sick combination of heat and cold that Chinese-food syndrome produces. Did he really feel I'd been cheating him?

  Lila cut in again, answering before he could even open his mouth. "Let's not put Henry on the spot," she said. "He thinks the world of you, which is why he hasn't had the heart to speak up. You're the one I'd like to spank. How could you take an old softie like Henry and twist him around your finger that way? You should be ashamed."

  "I wouldn't take advantage of Henry."

  "But you already have. How long have you been living here at that same ridiculous rent? A year? Fifteen months? Don't tell me it never occurred to you that you were getting this place dirt-cheap! Because if you say that, I'll have to call you a liar right to your face and embarrass us both."

  I could feel my mouth open, but I couldn't say a word.

  "We can talk about this later," Henry murmured, taking her by the arm. He was steering her around me, but her eyes were still fixed on mine and her neck and cheeks were now blotchy with rage. I turned and stared as he moved her toward his back stairs. She was already starting to protest in the same irrational tone I'd heard the other night. Was the woman nuts?

  When the door closed behind them, my heart began to thump and I realized I was damp with sweat. I tied my door key to my shoelace and then I took off, breaking into a trot long before I'd had a chance to warm up. I ran, putting distance between us.

  I did three miles and then walked back to my place, letting myself in. Henry's back shades were down and his windows were shut. The rear of his house looked blank and uninviting, like a beachfront park after closing time.

  I showered and threw some clothes on, and then took off, fleeing the premises. I still felt stung, but I was getting in touch with some anger too. What business was it of hers anyway? And why hadn't Henry leapt to my defense?

  When I pushed into Rosie's, it was late afternoon and there wasn't a soul in sight. The restaurant was gloomy and smelled of last night's cigarette smoke. The TV set on the bar was turned off and the chairs were still upside down on the tabletops, like a troupe of acrobats doing tricks. I crossed to the rear and opened the swinging door to the kitchen. Rosie glanced up at me, startled. She was sitting on a tall wooden stool with a cleaver in her hand, chopping leeks. She hated anyone intruding on her kitchen, probably because she violated health codes.

  "What happened?" she said when she saw my face.

  "I had an encounter with Henry's lady friend," I replied.

  "Ah," she said. She whacked a leek with the cleaver, sending hunks flying. "She don't come in here. She knows better."

  "Rosie, the woman is crazy as a loon. You should have heard her the other night after you tangled with her. She ranted and raved for hours. Now she's accusing me of cheating Henry on the rent."

  "Take a seat. I got some vodka somewhere." She crossed to the cabinet above the sink and stood on tippytoe, tilting a vodka bottle into reach, She broke the seal and poured me a hit in a coffee cup. She shrugged then poured herself one too. We drank and I could feel the blood rush back to my face.

  I said, "Woo!" involuntarily. My esophagus felt scorched and I could sense the contours of my stomach outlined in alcohol. I always pictured my stomach much lower down than that. Weird. Rosie placed the chopped leeks in a bowl and rinsed the cleaver at the sink before she turned back to me.

  "You got twenty cents? Give me two dimes," she said, holding a hand out. I fished around in my handbag, coming up with some loose change. Rosie took it and crossed to the pay phone on the wall. Everybody has to use that pay phone, even her.

  "Who are you calling? You're not calling Henry," I said, with alarm.

  "Ssss!" She held a hand up, shushing me, her eyes focusing in the way people do when someone picks up the phone on the other end. Her voice got musical and syrupy.

  "Hello, dear. This is Rosie. What are you doing right this minute. Uh-hun, well I think you better get over here. We have a little matter to discuss."

  She clunked the receiver down without waiting for a response and then she fixed me with a satisfied look. "Mrs. Lowenstein is coming over for a chat."

  Moza Lowenstein sat on the chrome-and-plastic chair that I'd brought in from the bar. She is a large woman with hair the color of a cast-iron skillet, worn in braids wrapped around her head. There are strands of silver threaded through like tinsel, and her face, with its pale powder, has the soft look of a marshmallow. Generally, she likes to hold on to something when she talks to Rosie: a bouquet of pencils, a wooden spoon, any talisman to ward off attack. Today, it was the dish towel she'd brought with her. Apparently, Rosie had interrupted her in the middle of some chore and she'd hurried right over, as bid. She's afraid of Rosie, as anyone with good sense would be. Rosie launched right in, skipping all the niceties.

  "Who is this Lila Sams?" Rosie said. She took up her cleaver and began to pound on some veal, making Moza flinch.

  Her voice, when she found it, was trembly and soft. "I don't really know. She came to my door, she said in response to an ad in the paper, but it was all a mistake. I didn't have a room for rent and I told her as much. Well, the poor thing burst into tears and what was I to do? I had to ask her in for a cup of tea."

  Rosie paused to stare in disbelief. "And then you rented her a room?"

  Moza folded the towel, forming a lobster shape like a napkin in a fancy restaurant. "Well, no. I told her she could stay with me until she found a place, but she insisted that she pay her own way. She didn't want to be indebted, she said."

  "That's called room rent. That's what that is," Rosie snapped.

  "Well, yes. If you want to put it that way."

  "Where does this woman come from?"

  Moza flapped the towel out and dabbed it against her upper lip, blotting sweat. She laid it out on her lap and pressed it with her hand, keeping her fingers together in a wedge like an iron. I saw Rosie's flinty gaze follow every movement and I thought she might give Moza's hand a smack with the cleaver. Moza must have thought so too because she quit fiddling with the towel and looked up at Rosie with guilt. "What?"

  Rosie enunciated carefully, as though speaking to an alien. "Where does Lila Sams come from?"

  "A little town in Idaho."

  "What little town?"

  "Well, I don't know," Moza said defensively.

  "You have a woman living in your house and you don't know what town she comes from?"

  "What difference does it make?"

  "And you don't know what difference it makes?" Rosie stared at her with exaggerated astonishment. Moza broke eye contact and folded the towel into a bishop's miter.

  "You do me a favor and you find out," Rosie said. "Can you manage that?"

  "I'll try," Moza said. "But she doesn't like people prying. She told me that and she was quite definite."

  "I'm very definite too. I'm definite about I don't like this lady and I want to know what she's up to. You find out where she comes from and Kinsey can take care of the rest. And I don't have to tell you, Moza, I don't want Lila Sams to know. You understand?"

  Moza looked cornered. I could see her debate, trying to decide which was worse: infuriating Rosie or getting caught spying on Lila Sams. It was going to be a close contest, but I knew who I was betting on.

  Chapter 16

  * * *<
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  I went back to my office late in the day and typed up my notes. There wasn't much, but I don't like to get behind. With Bobby dead, I intended to write regular reports and submit itemized bills at intervals, even if it was just to myself. I had tucked his file back in the drawer and I was tidying up my desk when there was a tap at the door and Derek Wenner peered in.

  He said, "Oh. Hello. I was hoping I'd catch you here."

  "Hi, Derek. Come on in," I said.

  He stood for a moment, undecided, his gaze tracing the perimeters of my small office space. "Somehow I didn't picture this," he said. "Nice. I mean, it's small, but efficient. Uh, how'd you do with Bobby's box? Any luck?"

  "I haven't had a chance to look closely. I've been doing other things. Have a seat."

  He pulled a chair up and sat down, still looking around. He was wearing a golf shirt, white pants, and two-tone shoes. "So this is it, huh?"

  This was his version of small talk, I assumed. I sat down and let him ramble briefly. He seemed anxious and I couldn't imagine what had brought him in. We made mouth noises at each other, demonstrating goodwill. I'd just seen him a few hours earlier and we didn't have that much to talk about.

  "How's Glen doing?" I asked.

  "Good," he nodded. "She's doing pretty well. God, I don't know how she's gotten through, but you know she's made of substantial stuff." He tended to speak in doubtful tones, as if he weren't absolutely certain he was telling the truth.

  He cleared his throat and the timbre of his voice changed.

  "Say, I'll tell you why I stopped in," he said. "Bobby's attorney gave me a call a little while ago just to talk about the terms of Bobby's will. Do you know Varden Talbot?"

  "We've never met. He sent me copies of the reports on Bobby's accident, but that's the extent of it."

  "Smart fellow," Derek said. He was stalling. I thought I better goose him along or this could take all day.

  "What'd he have to say?"

  Derek's expression was a wonderful combination of uneasiness and disbelief "Well, that's the amazing thing," he said. "From what he indicated, I guess my daughter inner – , its the bulk of Bobby s money."

  It took me a moment to compute the fact that the daughter he referred to was Kitty Wenner, cokehead, currently residing in the psycho ward at St. Terry's. "Kitty?" I said.

  He shifted in his seat. "I was surprised too, of course. From what Varden tells me, Bobby made out a will when he came into his inheritance three years ago. At that point, he left everything to Kitty. Then sometime after the accident, he added a codicil, so that a little money would go to Rick's parents as well."

  I was about to say "Rick's parents?" as if I were suffering from echolalia, but I clamped my mouth shut and let him continue.

  "Glen won't be back until late, so she's not aware of it. I'd imagine she'll want to talk to Varden in the morning. He said he'd make a copy of the will and send it over to the house. He's going to go ahead and file it for probate."

  "And this is the first anybody's heard of it?"

  "As far as I know." He went on talking while I tried to figure out what it meant. Money, as a motive, always seems so direct. Find out who benefits financially and start from there. Kitty Wenner. Phil and Reva Bergen.

  "Excuse me," I said, cutting in. "Just how much money are we talking about?"

  Derek paused to run a hand up along his jaw, as though deciding if he was due for a shave. "Well, a hundred grand to Rick's parents and gee, I don't know. Kitty probably stands to gain a couple mill. Now, you're going to have inheritance tax..."

  All of the little zeros began to dance in my head like sugar plums. "Hundred grand" and "couple mill," as in a hundred thousand dollars and two million of them. I just sat and blinked at him. Why had he come in here to tell me this stuff?

  "What's the catch?" I asked.

  "What?"

  "I'm just wondering why you're telling me about it. Is there some problem?"

  "I guess I'm worried about Glen's reaction. You know how she feels about Kitty."

  I shrugged. "It was Bobby's money to do with as he saw fit. How could she object?"

  "You don't think she'd contest it?"

  "Derek, I can't speculate about what Glen might do. Talk to her."

  "Well, I guess I will when she gets back."

  "I'm assuming the money was put in some kind of trust fund since Kitty's just seventeen. Who was named executor? You?"

  "No, no. The bank. I don't think Bobby had a very high opinion of me. To tell you the truth, I'm a little worried about how this might look. Bobby claims someone's trying to kill him and then it turns out Kitty inherits all this money when he dies."

  "I'm sure the police will have a chat with her."

  "But you don't think she had anything to do with Bobby's accident, do you?"

  Ah, the subtext of his visit.

  I said, "Frankly, I'd find it hard to believe, but Homicide might see it differently. They might also want to take a look at you while they're at it."

  "Me?!" He managed to pack a lot of punctuation into one syllable.

  "What if something happens to Kitty? Who gets the money then? She's not exactly in the best of health."

  He looked at me uncomfortably, probably wishing he'd never come in. He must have harbored the vague notion that I could reassure him. Instead, I'd only broadened the basis for his anxieties. He wound up the conversation and got up moments later, telling me he'd be in touch. When he turned to go, I could see that the golf shirt was sticking to his back and I could smell the tension in his sweat.

  "Oh, Derek," I called after him. "Does the name Black-man mean anything to you?"

  "Not that I know. Why?"

  "Just curious. I appreciate your coming in," I said. "If you find out anything else, please let me know."

  "I will."

  Once he was gone, I put in a quick call to a friend of mine at the telephone company and asked about S. Blackman. He said he d check into it and call me back. I went down to the parking lot and hauled out the cardboard box I'd picked up from Bobby's garage. I went back up to the office and checked the contents, taking the items out one by one. It was all just as I remembered it: a couple of radiology manuals, some medical texts, paper clips, ballpoint pens, scratch pads. Nothing of significance that I could see. I hauled the box back out and shoved it into the backseat again, thinking I'd drop it back at Bobby's house next time I was there.

  What to try next? I couldn't think of a thing.

  I went home.

  As I pulled into a parking place out front, I found myself scanning the walk for signs of Lila Sams. For a woman I'd only seen three or four times in my life, she was looming large, spoiling any sense of serenity I'd come to attach to the notion of "home." I locked my car and went around to the backyard, glancing at the rear of Henry s house to see if he was there. The back door was open and I caught the spicy scent of yeast and cinnamon through the screen. I peered in and spotted Henry sitting at the table with a coffee mug and the afternoon paper in front of him.

  "Henry?"

  He looked up. "Well, Kinsey. There you are." He came over and unlatched the screen, holding the door open for me. "Come in, come in. Would you like some coffee? I've got a pan of sweet rolls coming out in a minute."

  I entered hesitantly, still half expecting Lila Sams to jump out like a tarantula. "I didn't want to interrupt anything," I said. "Is Lila here?"

  "No, no. She had some business to take care of, but she should be back by six. I'm taking her out to dinner tonight. We have reservations at the Crystal Palace."

  "Oh, wow, impressive," I said. Henry pulled a chair out for me and then poured me some coffee while I looked around. Lila had apparently taken her fine hand to the place. The curtains were new: avocado green cotton with a print of salt and pepper shakers, vegetable clusters, and wooden spoons, tied back with green bows. There were matching placemats and napkins, with accessories in a contrasting pumpkin shade. There was a new trivet on the counter with a ho
mely saying in wrought-iron curlicue. I thought it said, "God Bless Our Biscuits," but that couldn't have been right.

  "You've fixed the place up," I said.

  His face brightened and he looked around. "You like it? It was Lila's idea. I tell you, the woman has made such a difference in my life."

  "Well, that's good. I'm glad to hear that," I said.

  "She's made me feel... I don't know, vital is the word I guess. Ready to start all over again."

  I wondered if he was going to pass right over her accusations about my cheating him. He got up and opened the oven door, checking the sweet rolls, which he apparently decided were not quite done. He shoved them back and shut the oven, leaving the pumpkin-colored mitt on his right hand like a boxing glove.

  I shifted uncomfortably on the stool where I was perched. "I thought maybe you and I should have a talk about Lila's accusations about the rent."

  "Oh, don't worry about it," he said. "She was just in one of her moods."

  "But Henry, I don't want you to feel like I'm cheating you. Don't you think we should get that ironed out?"

  "No. Piffle. I don't feel you're cheating me."

  "But she does."

  "No no, not at all. You misunderstood."

  "Misunderstood?" I said incredulously.

  "Look, this is all my fault and I'm sorry I didn't get it straightened out at the time. Lila flew off the handle and she realizes that. In fact, I'm sure she means to apologize.

  She and I had a long talk about it afterwards and I know she felt bad. It had nothing to do with you personally. She's a little high-strung, but she's just the dearest woman you'll ever meet. Once you get to know her, you'll see what a wonderful person she is."

  "I hope so," I said. "What worried me is that she and Rosie had that tiff and then she took off after me. I wasn't sure what was going on."