D Is for Deadbeat

by Sue Grafton

  His smile faded and his eyes got that look. "She's the one who's talking about an open relationship," he said.

  I laughed. "I'll bet that applies to her, not you."

  "Not anymore," he said.

  His kiss seemed familiar.

  We left soon afterward.

  Chapter 21

  * * *

  I drove to the office at 9:00. The rain clouds were hunched above the mountains moving north, while above, the sky was the blue white of bleached denim. The city seemed to be in sharp focus, as if seen through new prescription lenses. I opened the French doors and stood on the balcony, raising my arms and doing one of those little butt wiggles so favored by the football set. That for you, Camilla Robb, I thought, and then I laughed and went and had a look at myself in the mirror, mugging shamelessly. Amazing Grace. I looked just like myself. Where tears erase the self, good sex transforms and I was feeling energized.

  I put the coffee on and got to work, typing up my case notes, detailing the conversations I'd had with Billy and Coral. Cops and private eyes are always caught up in paperwork. Written records have to be kept of everything, with events set out so that anyone who comes along afterward will have a clear and comprehensive resume of the investigation to that point. Since a private eye also bills for services, I have to keep track of my hours and expenses, submitting statements periodically so I can make sure I get paid. I prefer fieldwork; I suspect we all do. If I'd wanted to spend my days in an office, I'd have studied to be an underwriter for the insurance company next door. Their work seems boring 80 percent of the time while mine only bores me about one hour out of every ten.

  At 9:30, I touched base with Barbara Daggett by phone, giving her a verbal update to match the written account I was putting in the mail to her. The duplication of effort wasn't really necessary, but I did it anyway. What the hell, it was her money. She was entitled to the best service she could get. After that, I did some filing, then locked up again, taking the green skirt and heels with me down the back stairs to my car, heading out to Marilyn Smith's. I was beginning to feel like the prince in search of Cinderella, shoe in hand.

  I took the highway north, driving in the newly washed air. Colgate is only a fifteen-minute drive, but it gave me a chance to think about events of the night before. Jonah had turned out to be a clown in bed... funny and inventive. We'd behaved like bad kids, eating snacks, telling ghost stories, returning now and then to a lovemaking which was, at the same time, intense and comfortable. I wondered if I'd known him in another life. I wondered if I'd know him again. He was so generous and affectionate, so amazed at being with someone who didn't criticize or withhold, who didn't withdraw from his touch as though from a slug's. I couldn't imagine where we'd go from here and I didn't want to start worrying. I'm capable of screwing things up by trying to solve all the problems in advance instead of simply taking care of issues as they surface.

  I missed my off-ramp, of course. I caught sight of it as I sped by, cursing good-naturedly as I took the next exit and circled back.

  By the time I reached Wayne and Marilyn Smith's house, it was nearly 10:00. The bicycles that had been parked on the porch were gone. The orange trees, though nearly leafless with age, still carried the aura of ripe fruit, a faint perfume spilling out of the surrounding groves. I parked my car in the gravel drive behind a compact station wagon I assumed belonged to her. A peek into the rear, as I passed, revealed a gummy detritus of fast-food containers, softball equipment, school papers, and dog hair.

  I cranked the bell. The entrance hall was deserted, but a golden retriever bounded toward the front door, toenails ticking against the bare floors as it skittered to a stop, barking joyfully. The dog's entire body waggled like a fish on a hook.

  "Can I help you?"

  Startled, I glanced to my right. Marilyn Smith was standing at the bottom of the porch steps in a tee shirt, drenched jeans, and a straw hat. She wore goatskin gardening gloves and bright yellow plastic clogs that were spattered with mud. When she realized it was me, her expression changed from pleasant inquiry to a barely disguised distaste.

  "I'm working in the garden," she said, as if I hadn't guessed. "If you want to talk you'll have to come out there."

  I followed her across the rain-saturated lawn. She tapped a muddy trowel against her thigh, distractedly.

  "I saw you at the funeral," I remarked.

  "Wayne insisted," she said tersely, then looked over her shoulder at me. "Who was the drunk woman? I liked her."

  "Lovella Daggett. She thought she was married to him, but it turned out the warranty hadn't run out on his first wife."

  When we reached the vegetable patch, she waded between two dripping rows of vines. The garden was in its winter phase – broccoli, cauliflower, dark squashes tucked into a spray of wide leaves. She'd been weeding. I could see the trampled-looking spikes scattered here and there. Farther down the row, there was evidence that the earth had been turned, heavy clods piled up near a shallow excavation site.

  "Too wet for weeding, isn't it?"

  "The soil here has a high clay content. Once it dries out, it's impossible," she said.

  She shucked the gardening gloves and began to tear widths from an old pillow case, tying back the masses of sweet pea plants that had drooped in the rain. The strips of white rag contrasted brightly with the lime green of the plants. I held up the skirt and shoes I'd brought.

  "Recognize these?"

  She scarcely looked at the articles, but the chilly smile appeared. "Is that what the killer wore?"

  "Could be."

  "You've made progress since I saw you last. Three days ago, you weren't even certain it was murder."

  "That's how I earn my pay," I said.

  "Maybe Lovella killed him when she found out he was a bigamist."

  "Always possible," I said, "though you still haven't said for sure where you were that night."

  "Oh, but I did. I was here. Wayne was at the office and neither of us has corroborating witnesses." She was using that bantering tone again, mild and mocking.

  "I'd like to talk to him."

  "Make an appointment. He's in the book. Go down to the office. The Granger Building on State."

  "Marilyn, I'm not your enemy."

  "You are if I killed him," she replied.

  "Ah, yes. In that case, I would be."

  She tore off another strip of pillow case, the width of cotton dangling from her hand like something limp with death. "Sounds like you have suspects. Too bad you're short on proof."

  "But I do have someone who saw her and that should help, don't you think? This is just preliminary work, narrowing the field," I said. It was bullshit, of course. I wasn't sure the motel clerk could identify anybody in the dark.

  Her smile dimmed by a watt. "I don't want to talk to you anymore," she whispered.

  I raised my hands, as if she'd pulled a gun. "I'm gone," I said, "but I have to warn you, I'm persistent. You'll find it unsettling, I suspect."

  I kept my eyes on her as I moved away. I'd seen the muddy hoe she was using and I thought it best not to turn my back.

  I cruised by the Westfalls on my way into town. I was going to have to show the skirt to Barbara Daggett at some point, but the Close was on my way. The low fieldstone wall surrounding the place was still a dark gray from the passing rain. I drove through the gates and parked along the road as I had before, pulling over into dense ivy. By day, the eight Victorian houses were enveloped in shade, sunlight scarcely penetrating the branches of the trees. I locked the car and picked my way up the path to the front steps. In the yard, the trunks of the live oak were frosted with a fungus as green as the oxidized copper on a roof. Tall palms punctuated the corners of the house. The air felt cool and moist in the wake of the storm.

  The front door was ajar. The view from the hallway was a straight shot through to the kitchen and I could see that the back door was open too, the screen door unlatched. A portable radio sat on the counter and music blasted out, th
e 1812 Overture. I rang the bell, but the sound was lost against the booming of cannons as the last movement rose to a thunder pitch.

  I left the front porch and walked around to the back, peering in. Like the rest of the house, the kitchen had been redone, the owners opting here to modernize, though the Victorian character had been retained. There was a small floral print paper on the walls, lots of wicker, oak, and fern. The cabinet doors had been replaced with leaded glass, but the appliances were all strictly up-to-date.

  There was no one in the room. A door on the left was open, the oblong of shadow suggesting that the basement stairs must be located just beyond. Two brown grocery bags sat on the kitchen table and it looked like someone had been interrupted in the course of unloading them. There was an electric percolator plugged into the outlet on the stove. While I was watching, the ready-light went on. Belatedly, I picked up the smell of hot coffee.

  The music ended and the FM announcer made his concluding remarks about the piece, then introduced a Brahms concerto in E minor. I knocked on the frame of the screen door, hoping someone would hear me before the music started up again. Ramona appeared from the depths of the basement. She was wearing a six-gore wool skirt in a muted gray plaid, with a line of dark maroon running through it. Her pullover sweater was dark maroon, with a white blouse under it, the collar pinned sedately at the throat by an antique brooch. For effect, I decided not to mention the heels and wool skirt I'd brought.

  "Tony?" she said. "Oh, it's you."

  She had an armload of ragged blue bath towels which she dumped on a chair. "I thought I heard someone knock. I couldn't see who it was through the screen." She turned the radio off as she passed and then she opened the screen door to admit me.

  "Tony's bringing groceries in from the garage. We just got back from the market. Have a seat. Would you like a cup of coffee? The pot's fresh."

  "Yes, please. That's nice." I moved the pile of rags out of the chair and sat down, putting the skirt and shoes on the table in front of me. I saw her eyes stray to them, but she made no comment.

  "Isn't this a school day for him?" I asked.

  "They're giving the sophomores some sort of academic placement tests. He finished early so they let him go. He's got an appointment with his therapist shortly anyway."

  I watched her move about the kitchen, fetching cups and saucers. She had one of those hairstyles that settle into perfect shape with a flick of the head. I butcher my own at six-week intervals with a pair of nail scissors and a two-way mirror, causing salon stylists to pale when they see me. "Who did that to you?" they always ask. I wanted perfect waves like hers, but I didn't think I could achieve the effect.

  Ramona poured two cups of coffee. "There's something I probably should have mentioned before," she said. She took a ceramic pitcher from the cupboard and filled it with milk, realizing then that I was waiting for her to continue. Her smile was thin. "John Daggett called here Monday night, asking to talk to Tony. I took his number, but Ferrin and I decided it wasn't a good idea. It might not matter much at this point, but I thought you should be aware."

  "What made you think of it?"

  She hesitated. "I came across the number on the pad by the phone. I'd forgotten all about it."

  I could feel a tingle at the back of my neck – that clammy feeling you get when your body overloads on sugar. Something was off here, but I wasn't sure what it was.

  "Why bring it up now?" I asked.

  "I thought you were tracking his activities early in the week."

  "I wasn't aware that I'd told you that."

  Her cheeks tinted. "Marilyn Smith called me. She mentioned it."

  "How'd Daggett know where to reach you? When I talked to him on Saturday, he had no idea where Tony was and he certainly didn't have your name or number."

  "I don't know how he got it," she said. "What difference does it make?"

  "How do I know you didn't make a date to meet him Friday night?"

  "Why would I do that?" she said.

  I stared at her. A millisecond later she realized what I was getting at.

  "But I was here Friday night."

  "I haven't heard that verified so far."

  "That's ridiculous! Ask Tony. He knows I was here. You can check it out yourself."

  "I intend to," I said.

  Tony thumped up the wooden porch steps, armed with two more grocery bags, his attention diverted as he groped for the screen door handle, missing twice. "Aunt Ramona, can you give me a hand with this?"

  She crossed to the door and held it open. Tony spotted me and the green skirt at just about the same time and I saw his gaze jump to his aunt's face quizzically. Her expression was neutral, but she busied herself right away, pushing canned goods aside so he could set one bag on the table top. The second bag she took herself and placed on the counter. She sorted through and lifted out a carton of ice cream. "I better get this put away," she murmured. She crossed to the freezer.

  "What are you doing here?" Tony said to me.

  "I was curious how you were feeling. Your aunt mentioned that you had a migraine Monday night."

  "I feel okay."

  "What'd you think about the funeral?"

  "Bunch of freaks," he said.

  "Let's get these unloaded, dear," his aunt said. The two of them began to put groceries away while I sipped my coffee. I couldn't tell if she was deliberately distracting him or not, but that was the effect.

  "You need some help?" I asked.

  "We can manage," she murmured.

  "Who was that lady who went nuts?" Tony asked. Lovella had made a big impression on everyone.

  Ramona held up a soft drink in a big plastic bottle. "Stick this in the refrigerator while you're there," she said.

  She released the bottle an instant before he'd gotten a good grip on it and he had to scramble to catch it before it toppled to the floor. Had she done that deliberately? He was waiting for my reply so I gave him a brief rendition of the tale. It was gossip, in some ways, but he was as animated as I'd seen him and I hoped to keep his attention.

  "I don't mean to interrupt, but Tony does have homework to take care of. Finish your coffee, of course," she said. Her tone suggested that I suck it right down and scram.

  "I'm due back at the office anyway," I said, getting up. I looked at Tony. "Could you walk me to my car?"

  He glanced at Ramona, whose gaze dropped away from his. She didn't protest. He ducked his head in assent.

  He held the door for me while I gathered the skirt and shoes and turned back to her. "I nearly forgot. Are these yours, by any chance?"

  "I'm sure not," she said to me, and then to him, "Don't be long."

  He looked like he was on the verge of saying something, but he shrugged instead. He followed me out on the porch and down the steps. I led the way as we circled the house. The path to the street was paved with stepping-stones spaced oddly, so that I had to watch my feet to gauge the distances.

  "I have a question," I said as we reached the car.

  He was watching me warily by then, interested but on guard.

  "I was curious about the migraine you had Friday night. Do you remember how long that one lasted?"

  "Friday night?" His voice had a croak in it from surprise.

  "That's right. Didn't you have a migraine that night?"

  "I guess."

  "Think back," I said. "Take your time." He seemed uncomfortable, casting about for some visual clue. I'd seen him do this before, reading body language so he could adjust his response to whatever was expected of him. I waited in silence, letting his anxiety accumulate.

  "I think that's the day I got one. When I came home from school," he said, "but then it cleared."

  "What time was that?"

  "Real late. After midnight. Maybe two... two-thirty, something like that."

  "How'd you happen to notice the time?"

  "Aunt Ramona made me a couple of sandwiches in the kitchen. It was a real bad headache and I'd been throwing up
for hours so I never had dinner. I was starving. I must have looked at the kitchen clock."

  "What kind of sandwiches?"

  "What?"

  "I was wondering what kind she made."

  His gaze hung on mine. The seconds ticked away. "Meatloaf," he said.

  "Thanks," I said. "That helps."

  I opened the VW on the driver's side, tossing skirt and shoes on the passenger seat as I got in. His version was roughly the same as his aunt's, but I could have sworn the "meatloaf" was a wild guess.

  I started the car and did a U-turn, heading toward the gates. I caught a glimpse of him in the rearview mirror, already moving toward the house.

  Chapter 22

  * * *

  It's a fact of life that when a case won't break, you have to go through the motions anyway, stirring up the waters, rattling all the cages at the zoo. To that end, on my way into town I did a long detour that included a stop at the trailer park, in hopes that Lovella would still be there. It was obvious to me, as I'm not a fool, that toting a green wool skirt and a pair of black suede heels all over town was a pointless enterprise. No one was going to claim them and if someone did, so what? The articles proved nothing. No one was going to break down sobbing and confess at the mere sight of them. The pop quiz was simply my way of putting them all on notice, making the rounds one more time to announce that I was still on the job and making progress, however insignificant it might appear.

  I knocked at the trailer door, but got no response. I jotted a note on the back of a business card, indicating that Lovella should call. I tucked it in the doorjam, went back to my car, and headed for town.

  Wayne Smith's office was located on the seventh floor of the Granger Building in downtown Santa Teresa. Aside from the clock tower on the courthouse, the Granger is just about the only structure on State Street that's more than two stories high. Part of the charm of the downtown area is its low-slung look. The flavor, for the most part, is Spanish. Even the trash containers are faced with stucco and rimmed with decorative tile. The telephone booths look like small adobe huts and if you can ignore the fact that the bums use them for urinals, the effect is quaint. There are flowering shrubs along the walk, jacaranda trees, and palms. Low ornamental stucco walls widen in places to form benches for weary shoppers. Everything is clean, well kept, pleasing to the eye.