X

by Sue Grafton

  Teddy Xanakis appeared first, decked out in a two-piece red wool suit and a pair of red heels. She was trailed by a small rolling bag that accompanied her like an obedient dog while she approached the front desk and took care of her bill. When Kim and Christian joined her, I could see that Kim wore her black skirt for the second day in a row, this time with a matching black sleeveless top and a wide frothy silver scarf. She was clearly one of those women who knows how to travel with two or three separates she could mix and match, creating countless outfits. Even from a distance, I could see that each coordinating piece could be folded to hankie size and shoved in an overnight case without wrinkling. Christian’s ensemble, on the other hand, must be smelling ripe by now.

  They entrusted their luggage to the bellman and proceeded to the revolving doors that opened onto Wilshire Boulevard. The three disappeared, leaving me blinking rapidly. I’d pictured them driving to Santa Teresa together, so I was expecting Teddy to have her car brought around. It took me to a count of thirty before I realized they weren’t going to reappear. Either her car was being delivered to the front or they were setting off on foot. I slid out of the booth and followed, keeping my pace unhurried so as not to call attention to myself.

  I pushed through the revolving glass doors and reached the walk in front of the hotel in time to see them cross Wilshire Boulevard and continue down Rodeo Drive. I walked to the corner, where I was forced to wait for the light to change. Ahead of me, the three didn’t seem to be in any hurry, and Teddy’s red suit made her easy to track even from a block behind.

  I kept to the opposite side of the street and picked up my pace. Street parking was at a premium and there was a surprising amount of traffic, which afforded me a modicum of cover. Most of the buildings were two stories high, constructed shoulder to shoulder on both sides of the street. The walks were lined with tall palm trees. Islands of pink and red geraniums were planted at every corner. The businesses were a blend of pricy designer boutiques, where shoes, handbags, and clothing were tastefully displayed. I saw the occasional beauty salon, an art gallery, and two jewelry stores.

  The trio paused and peered into the window of a shop called Pour Les Hommes, which I knew from my high school French class meant “For the Men.” So often, foreign-language courses come in handy. Now I wished I’d taken more than the one. I watched them go into the shop and then I checked my immediate surroundings. The store directly behind me was a gourmet food emporium, with a parfumerie on one side and a lingerie shop on the other. I couldn’t imagine loitering inconspicuously in any one of the three. There was a bench near the curb and I took a seat. Someone had left a newspaper, so I picked it up and read the front page while I kept an eye on the men’s shop across the way. Forty-five minutes passed before the trio emerged. Teddy now toted two oversize shopping bags, with Kim and Christian bringing up the rear with one shopping bag apiece. They walked half a block and went into a place called Epiphany. From where I sat, I wasn’t even sure what kind of establishment it was.

  I was not unmindful of the possibility that this expedition might turn out to be a wild-goose chase. I’d launched my surveillance on the basis of a phone call, Detective Nash expressing his belief that something was afoot. He’d been under no obligation to keep me in the loop, so I’d leaped at the idea, intrigued by his suggestion that Satterfield had met with a woman who might be Hallie Bettancourt. That this turned out to be Kim Bass instead made the matter all the more interesting.

  Surveillance work is a commitment. You’re in it for the duration, no ifs, ands, or buts. Half the time there’s no payoff at all, but that’s not the point. This was information-gathering at its most basic, which is to say, boring beyond belief. By 12:30, I was getting restless. I folded the newspaper and tucked it under my arm and crossed the street, approaching Epiphany at an angle. Once in range, I could see that under the name of the shop, in teeny tiny letters were the words STYLISTS TO THE STARS, REVISE, REFRESH, REFINE. This was some sort of beauty spa. Teddy and Kim must have been having their hair and nails done while I sat cooling my heels, reading the same depressing front section of the Los Angeles Times.

  I was almost at the entrance when I caught a splash of red. Teddy exited the store, pausing to hold the door for Kim. This allowed me time to pivot to my right and head toward Wilshire Boulevard. If the two women were returning to the hotel, they’d be walking a path identical to mine. I didn’t dare turn around to confirm. At the next store I passed, I pushed open the door and went in.

  Once inside, I slowed to a stop, shielded by a window display of faceless bone-white mannequins in black leather pants and halters studded with silver nail heads. They stood in various aloof postures that conveyed boredom and superiority, as well they should have, as they were decked out in thousands of dollars’ worth of Italian designer garments.

  Outside, Teddy and Kim sauntered by with Christian tagging behind. As he passed, he stole a look at himself in the glass. I was tucked inside, a good ten feet away, and his attention was focused on his reflection in the plate glass window. He stared at himself while I took in the sight of him as well. He still wore jeans, but this pair was beautifully cut. Instead of the stretched-out gray sweatshirt he’d worn on arrival, he now wore a tan poplin sport coat over a casual pin-striped dress shirt with the collar open. The cut of the sport coat was flattering, nipped in at the waist and perfect across his shoulders.

  Teddy had apparently become aware that Christian had hung back. She appeared beside him and tucked her hand through the crook of his arm in a gesture that was both possessive and companionable. The two moved out of visual range while I was still reacting to the indelible image of the parolee transformed. Not only was he clean-shaven, but his hair had been cut and styled. Gone were the dark clumps he’d sported before. Now the strands appeared silken, laced with blond strands that hinted that he’d just returned from a Caribbean cruise, an illusion further enhanced by his visible tan. More remarkable to my way of thinking was the shift in his bearing. Instead of looking ill at ease and out of place, he carried himself like a man who was just figuring out how good-looking he was.

  21

  I arrived in Santa Teresa at 3:15 Thursday afternoon and found a rare parking spot within steps of my studio apartment. Parking in the neighborhood had become a major pain in the ass. Henry, in shorts and a T-shirt, was at the curb on his hands and knees with his butt in the air. Beside him was the rectangle of concrete that formed the cap for the recessed city water meter. He’d used a screwdriver to lift the cover, which he’d set to one side. He picked up his flashlight and directed the beam at the face of the meter. He recorded the numbers on a scratch pad and then settled the cover into place. He stood and dusted off his bare knees. “This was McClaskey’s suggestion, and I thought the idea was sound. He told me to check the last few water bills for the billing date to determine when the meter reader comes by from month to month. Turns out it’s the twenty-sixth, so now I know my end date. By keeping track of the running numbers, I can monitor my usage.”

  “How often do you have to take a reading?”

  “Twice a day. When I water the shrubs by hand, I can check before and after to see how many HCFs it takes.”

  “I love how casually you toss the terms around. What’s an HCF?”

  “Hundred cubic feet. A cubic foot is seven hundred and forty gallons. Since I have two residential structures on the property, once rationing takes effect, I’d be allowed more than someone with a single-family dwelling, like Joseph and Edna next door. They’d probably be allocated four HCFs where I get five.”

  “So five times seven hundred and forty gallons is . . .”

  “Three thousand seven hundred gallons.”

  “Really? We use thirty-seven hundred gallons of water a month? Doing what?”

  “That’s the question, isn’t it? The low-flow toilets use one-point-six gallons. My dishwasher’s an older model, so it uses six gallons per cycle.
The newer ones use half that amount. Instead of running the dishwasher, McClaskey recommends switching to paper plates and plastic utensils and doing the rest by hand. You might adopt the same plan. Think of all the water you’d save.”

  “I don’t have a dishwasher.”

  “Oh. That’s true, now you mention it. Why didn’t I give you one?”

  “I wasn’t interested.”

  “What about your washing machine?”

  “I only run full loads, and that’s once every two weeks. People complain because I wear the same outfit six days in a row.”

  “Very sensible of you.”

  “Thanks. What’s your average water use?” I asked, and then interrupted my own chain of thought. “I can’t believe we’re seriously discussing this.”

  “It’s high time. Average usage is next on my list. I’ll sit down and compare water bills for the past four months with the same four months last year.”

  “Well, I admire your spirit, but don’t you think your obsession is premature? So far, there’s no water rationing in effect.”

  “I think of this as the fact-finding phase. Once I have my spreadsheet in place, I’ll move on to implementation.”

  “I’ve never known you to be so zealous.”

  “This drought’s serious business. Anyway, enough on the subject. How was your trip to Beverly Hills?”

  “Expensive. I haven’t added it all up yet because I don’t want to know.” I did a brief recap of events, which sounded even more pointless in the telling than it had at the time.

  “Theodora Xanakis? I know the name, but I can’t remember the context.”

  “Doesn’t ring a bell with me. Maybe Detective Nash will know. Not Hallie Bettancourt, that’s for sure.”

  I went on to tell him about my office intruder, the missing box, and the arrival of Taryn Sizemore with all the information she’d laid on me. By the time I’d rounded out the story, the two of us had ambled into Henry’s kitchen, and next thing I knew, I had a glass of wine in hand and he was busy fixing supper while he sipped his Black Jack over ice.

  I was home by 8:30 and went to bed shortly afterward.

  • • •

  Let’s skip the talk about my morning jog, which felt the same as it always did. Good for me, but b-o-r-i-n-g. I showered, ate breakfast, and went into the office, where I spent the morning on the phone, first making an appointment with an S.O.S. technician to come out and talk about installing an alarm system, then talking to the guy who owns the bungalows to ask for his approval. He balked until I said I’d pay for it myself. I pointed out that if I should move, the system would stay in place, providing improved security for anyone who occupied the office after me. He was on board the minute he realized he wouldn’t have to pony up a dime.

  The S.O.S. technician arrived at one o’clock to give me an estimate. Cullen, last name unspecified, was young and earnest and seemed to take his job seriously. He devoted fifteen minutes to “reviewing the site,” though I’m sure he could have designed the whole system in the time it took him to scratch his chin, measure, make notes, and ponder the possibilities. My office is modest and I knew the wiring wasn’t complicated. He filled out the paperwork and gave me a bid for putting contact wires on all the windows and doors, installing two alarm panels, and the monthly monitoring. To his estimate, I added another smoke detector, a motion detector, a glass-break detector, a radon detector, a carbon monoxide detector, and a couple of passive infrared beams for good measure. I noticed he didn’t argue about the redundancies and add-ons, which made me wonder if he was salaried or working on straight commission.

  We scheduled the installation for the following Tuesday at noon, and he made a point of mentioning the fact that payment in full was due on completion. There was something obnoxious about his saying so, as though I might be the type who’d hold out on him. I made a mental note to pop by the bank and move sufficient funds into my checking account to cover the expense. Now that I was accustomed to spending money, there didn’t seem to be an end in sight. This is how lottery winners end up broke. He did say he knew a locksmith who could rekey my door locks at the same time.

  Late in the afternoon, I called Ruthie. “Drinks and dinner at Rosie’s tonight?”

  “What time?”

  “How about six o’clock?”

  “Sounds good. What’s the occasion?”

  “There isn’t one. I heard a story I’d like confirmed.”

  “Hope it’s juicy.”

  “We’ll see about that,” I said.

  • • •

  At five, I locked the office and I was on my way out to the car when I turned around and went back. I let myself in, set my shoulder bag on the desk, and peeled back a corner of the wall-to-wall carpet. I opened my floor safe and pulled out the mailing pouch, locked the safe again, then headed for home.

  I drove through town, taking State all the way down to Cabana Boulevard, where I turned right. It was one of those perfect Santa Teresa days I sometimes take for granted. The temperature was in the midsixties with clear skies, sunshine, and a light breeze. Nearing Bay, I got caught at the traffic light, and when I glanced to my right, I spotted Edna and Joseph toddling in my direction, he in his wheelchair, she pushing from behind. He had a basket affixed to the front of his chair and he was using it to tote a number of bulging plastic bags. I was momentarily annoyed that Edna intended to impose on Henry to ferry her back and forth on her weekly shopping trips when Joseph was more capable than he let on.

  I kept an idle eye on them as I waited for the light to change. Edna and Joseph were apparently unaware of my observation. I watched her slow and then stop as they reached the motel trash bins set out at the curb. Joseph pulled himself upright, and while she lifted the lid, he removed one plastic bag from his basket and tossed it in. He resumed his seat. She pushed his wheelchair as far as the next bin, where the two of them did it again. The entire transaction took fewer than five seconds, so smoothly accomplished I thought I must be seeing things. Could they possibly be tossing their garbage in other people’s bins?

  The light changed and I turned right onto Bay and then left on Albanil. Trash bins up and down the block had been moved to the curb, including the two Henry used. There was no bin in front of the Shallenbargers’ house, and now that I thought about it, I couldn’t remember seeing a bin out on the curb since the Adelsons had moved. I was still shaking my head when I pulled into Henry’s driveway and parked. Should I mention it to him? He’d as good as adopted them and I knew he’d be reluctant—if not wholly unwilling—to hear petty complaints about the pair.

  Their actions bugged me nonetheless. Parceling trash into other people’s bins, while questionable, doesn’t constitute a crime. If Edna and Joseph chose to sidestep a bill from the waste management company, it was no skin off my nose. I put their cost-cutting measure in the same category as snitching discount coupons from someone else’s mailbox. I wouldn’t have done it myself, but as violations go, it wasn’t that big a deal.

  I should have reminded myself that people willing to cheat a little bit are generally dishonest throughout.

  Once home, I turned on the lights and scanned the living room for a place to hide the mailer. I had no reason to believe Ned Lowe knew where I lived, but he’d managed to find my office, so why not my home address? I stood in the middle of the room and let my gaze move from surface to surface. All the possibilities seemed obvious. I considered locking the package in the trunk of my car, but all he’d have to do then was bash out a window, reach in, and open a door, which would give him access to the lever that opened the trunk.

  I made a detour into Henry’s garage, where I placed the mailer on the shelf where he stores empty paint cans before he drops them off at the nearest hazardous waste collection point.

  • • •

  When I walked into Rosie’s, I headed for an empty four-top, where
I placed my shoulder bag, claiming occupancy on the off chance a flock of hard-partying patrons suddenly rushed the place. William was tending bar in a white dress shirt, red bow tie, black dress pants, and a jaunty pair of red suspenders.

  “Well, look at you,” I said. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you decked out in such finery.”

  “No point in getting complacent at my age. I’ve worn the same three-piece suit for close to fifty years. Not that it’s anything to be embarrassed about. The quality’s excellent and the tailor swore it would wear like iron, but a change now and then is good. The bow tie I knotted myself. I don’t believe in clip-ons, do you?”

  “Definitely not.”

  He reached under the counter and came up with a corksrew and a bottle of Chardonnay sealed with an actual cork. “I bought this for you. I know those screw-top wines make your lips purse. May I pour you a glass?”

  “I would love it. Thanks so much.”

  “I’ll bring it to the table. Are you on your own?”

  “Ruthie’s coming in and we’ll have supper in a bit. Is Rosie cooking anything we should be warned about in advance?”

  His expression showed skepticism. “Carp fillets with sauerkraut, which is actually better than it sounds. She’s making quark, but that won’t be ready for another day.” He held up a hand to forestall my question. “Curdled whole milk with the whey drained away.”

  “Yum.”

  By the time Ruthie appeared, he’d brought a generous pour of Chardonnay for me and an icy vodka martini for her.

  She took a sip and I watched a shiver run down her spine. “I can’t believe you don’t drink these,” she said.

  “No, thanks. Any sign of your intruder?”