by Sue Grafton
The area had been secured. Anyone not directly involved was kept at a distance to preclude contamination of the scene. The coroner’s van was parked close by. Detective Lassiter had organized the deputies and they’d started a grid search, looking for additional bones and body parts as well as the murder weapon and any evidence the killer might have left behind. Deputy Chilton, whom I’d met at the McPhees’, was one of the men combing the surrounding area. Felicia and I sat in Dolan’s car. Technically, she wasn’t required to be there at all, and I suspect the detective would have preferred that I ferry her home. At the station, while we’d waited, they’d sent a unit out to the Tuley-Belle to check my guess. The deputy had spotted Pudgie’s body and called in the report. Felicia had been given a vague accounting, enough to know it was her brother and the condition of his body poor. She’d insisted on coming. He was far beyond rescue, but she kept her vigil nonetheless.
I watched the crime scene activity as if it were a movie I’d already seen. The details sometimes varied, but the plot was always the same. I felt sick at heart. I avoided thinking about the coyotes and the sounds I’d heard on the two occasions I’d been at the Tuley-Belle. There was no doubt in my mind that he was dead by then. I couldn’t have saved him, but I might have prevented some of the mauling that came later. The fact that Pudgie was killed here lent support to my suspicion that Charisse had been killed at this location as well.
At 2:00, Detective Lassiter crossed the wide unpaved parking area and again headed in our direction. I got out of the car and went to meet him midway. “They’re getting ready to transport the body. You might have Felicia call the mortuary in Quorum. Once the autopsy’s done, we’ll release the body to them unless she’s made other arrangements. You might ask if she has a pastor she wants us to notify.”
“Sure. I’ll see what she says.”
“You’re down here with Stacey Oliphant?”
“Right. He and Lieutenant Dolan are on their way back to Santa Teresa. I was scheduled to follow, but under the circumstances, I’ll stay.”
“We’ll operate on the assumption the two murders are related unless we find out otherwise. I imagine Santa Teresa will want to send down a couple of their guys.”
“Most certainly,” I said. I gave him my summary of what had brought us to Quorum and what we’d learned. Since Stacey had relayed much of the same information, I skimmed across events, only filling in details when I came to something he hadn’t heard, Frankie Miracle being prime. I said, “Lieutenant Dolan and I dropped in on his ex-wife in Peaches as we were heading down to the desert. Her name’s Iona Mathis.”
“We’re familiar with her,” he said. “She and my niece belong to the same church, or at least they did.”
“Yeah, well her mom says she drove to Santa Teresa to see Frankie as soon as we left. I thought he drove back with her, but I’m not sure. She claims he was at work Friday night in Santa Teresa.”
“Easy enough to check. You know the company?”
“I don’t, but I’m sure Stacey or Dolan will know. You might want to talk to Iona as well. She called Pudgie Thursday night and was really pissed off, from what Felicia said.” I made a verbal detour, telling him about Iona’s belief that Pudgie’d made a deal for himself at Frankie’s expense. “Felicia doesn’t know if Pudgie went out late Friday night or first thing Saturday morning. She told me a call came in before Iona’s, but she has no idea who it was. He answered that one himself.”
“I’ll talk to Iona soon…maybe later today. Where will you be?”
I told him where I was staying. “I’ll call the guys as soon as I get back to the motel. This business with Pudgie will be a blow. I’m sure Stacey told you they found his prints on the Mustang. We all assumed he either killed her himself or else knew who did. Now it looks like someone killed him to shut him up.”
“The downside of being an accessory,” Lassiter said. “Meanwhile, if anything comes up, let us know.”
I drove Felicia back to the motel. She was quiet, leaning her head against the seat with her eyes half-closed. She had a tissue in one hand, and I could see her dab at her eyes occasionally. Her lids were swollen and her face was splotchy, her red hair lusterless as though dulled by grief. Whatever weeping she did was silent. Now that she knew the worst, there was something passive in her response, a resignation she must have harbored for years, waiting for the blow.
Finally, I said, “If it’s any consolation, people did care about him.”
She turned and smiled wanly. “You think? I hope you’re right about that. He had a sorry life; in jail more times than he was out. Makes you wonder what it means.”
“I’ve given up trying to figure that out. Just don’t blame yourself.”
“I do in some ways. I’ll always think I could have done a better job with him. Trouble is, I don’t know if I was too tough on him or not tough enough.”
“Pudgie made his choices. It’s not your responsibility.”
“You know something? I don’t care what he did. He was decent to me. He might have sponged, but he never ripped me off, you know? He’s my baby brother and I loved him.”
“I know. You belong to a church? I’d be happy to make some calls.”
“In a town this size, the word’s already out. The minister will probably already be there by the time I get home. I just hope I don’t fall apart. This is hard enough.”
At the motel, I parked near her car and the two of us got out. I gave her a hug. She clung to me briefly. Then she pulled back, eyes brimming, and wiped her nose on a tissue. “Don’t be too nice. It only makes it worse,” she said.
“You’re okay to drive?”
“I’ll be fine.”
“I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Thanks. I’d appreciate that.”
I let myself into my room. The maid had come and gone, so my towels were fresh and my bed had been neatly made. I stretched out, reaching for the phone next to my book on the bed table. Stacey’s number was a disconnect. I had to smile at that. Since he’d been convinced he was dying, he probably hadn’t worried much about utility bills. I called Dolan’s number and left a message, asking one or the other of them to give me a call as soon as they rolled in. It was 3:00 by then and even if they’d stopped for lunch, they should arrive in Santa Teresa within the hour. I didn’t dare leave the room, for fear I’d miss their call. I tried reading, but I found myself, not surprisingly, brooding about Pudgie’s death. I thought about my conversation with Iona Mathis, wondering how she’d come up with that cockamamie notion that I’d made a deal with Pudgie to get him out of jail. I hoped her misconceptions hadn’t contributed to his death. If so, then I bore a certain responsibility for what had happened to him. The thought made me ill.
I took my shoes off and slid under the covers, pulling the spread over me. I picked up my book and read for a while, hoping to distract myself. I was warm. The room was quiet. I found myself dipping into sleep so that when the phone finally rang, I jumped, snatching up the handset while my heart thumped. The surge of adrenaline peaked and receded. It was Dolan.
I sat up and trailed my feet over the side of the bed, rubbing my face while I suppressed a yawn. “How was the trip? You sound tired.”
“I’ve felt perkier,” he said. “Stacey dropped me off half an hour ago. He’s taking a run to the Sheriff’s Department to talk to Mandel. On his way back, he plans to stop by his apartment and pick up his things. I guess we’ll think about dinner after that.”
“Is he staying with you?”
“Temporarily. You know the lease is up on his place and he has to be out by the end of the month. He assumed he’d be six feet underground by then, but I guess the gods fooled him. I asked if he wanted to stay here until he finds some place else. I can use the company.”
“Nice. That should benefit both of you if you can keep from quarreling.”
Dolan had the good grace to laugh. “We don’t quarrel. We disagree,” he said. “What about things on your end?
We felt bad you got stuck holding the proverbial bag. Did you manage to amuse yourself?”
“Funny you should ask.” And then I told him about Pudgie’s death, which we discussed in detail. In the midst of dissecting events, Dolan said, “Hang on a second. Stacey just came in. I want to tell him about this.”
He put his hand across the mouthpiece to spare me the replay while he brought Stacey up to speed. Even in its muffled form, I could hear Stacey’s expletives.
He took the handset from Dolan. “That’s the last time I’m leaving you. What the hell’s going on?”
“You know as much as I do.”
He had his own set of questions about Pudgie, and then we chatted about Frankie. He said they’d do what they could to track him down and see if he could account for his whereabouts from Friday morning on. “Good news on this end. Charisse’s dental chart is a match for Jane Doe’s, so at least we nailed that down. Forensics is just about willing to swear the hairs we recovered belong to her as well. Now all we need is a match on that second set of prints and we may be in business. Have the McPhees gone in?”
“I assume so. I’ll check tomorrow morning to make sure,” I said. “When are you planning to drive back?”
“Soon as I can. I’ll hit the road the minute things here are under control.”
I heard Dolan rumbling in the background.
Stacey said, “Oh, right. Dolan left his gun in the trunk of his car. He wants to know if it’s still there.”
“I haven’t had occasion to open the trunk, but I’ll look when I can. What’s he want me to do with it?”
Dolan said something to Stacey.
“He says just make sure you get it back to him as soon as you get home.”
“Of course.”
Dolan said something else to him that I couldn’t make out.
Stacey said, “Hang on a minute.” And to Dolan, “Damn it! Would you quit talking to me when I’m on the phone with her?”
More mumbling from Dolan.
“Horsepucky. You will not.” Stacey returned. “Guy’s driving me nuts. He says he’ll do fine on his own, but he’s full of shit. Minute my back is turned, he’ll run out and buy himself a pack of cigarettes. They oughta lock him up.”
I heard a door slam in the background.
“Same to you, bub!” Stacey yelled. “Anyway, I’ll call and let you know when I’m hitting the road. You can talk to the desk clerk and reserve a room.”
After we hung up, I put a call through to Henry. His machine picked up. I left a message, telling him I missed him and that I’d call back. I read for another hour or so and then ordered a pizza. I didn’t have the heart to go out and eat a proper meal by myself. Ordinarily, I like eating in a restaurant alone. But with Stacey and Dolan gone, the idea seemed alien. Pudgie’s murder had left me spooked. It was one thing dealing with a murder that had happened eighteen years before. Whatever the motivation, time had provided a lengthy cooling-off period. Life had gone on. The killer had managed to strike once and get away with it. I’d assumed there wouldn’t be a reason to kill again, but Pudgie’s death made it obvious how wrong I was. The stakes were still high. In the intervening years, someone had enjoyed a life that was built on a lie. Now we’d come along threatening the status quo.
I ate my supper and tossed the box in the trash. I watched a couple of television shows with annoying laugh tracks. At 9:00, I decided I might as well work. Keeping a systematic set of notes has its soothing side effects. I sat down at the desk and opened the drawer.
Things had been moved.
I stared and I then looked around the room, wondering if someone had come in. Not if. I wondered who’d come in and handled the contents of the drawer. The last time I’d taken notes must have been Saturday afternoon. Stacey and I had been to Creosote, stopping off at the Tuley-Belle on the way home. Once at the motel, we’d decided to take a break. I’d had a phone chat with Betty Puckett from Lockaby and then I’d showered, dressed, and started jotting down the tidbits—events, questions, and conversations. At the end of that session, I’d put a rubber band around my index cards and tossed them in the drawer on top of the murder book. Now they were underneath. It seemed a small matter, but my memory was distinct.
I picked up a pen and used it to lift one corner of the murder book so I could slide the cards out. I held the stack along the edges while I peeled off the rubber band. I’d left the top card upside down as a reminder to myself to have a second chat with Medora Sanders. Now the card was reversed, lined up in the same direction as all the other note cards.
Someone had been in here. Someone had handled the murder book and read my notes.
I got up abruptly, almost as though a shock had been administered through the seat of the chair. I circled the room, carefully scrutinizing every square foot of it. My duffel and the family photo album were in the closet untouched. Except for what was in the drawer, everything else was as I remembered it. Had the maid tidied up? If so, why would she stop and read the index cards? The maid I’d chatted with had barely spoken English. It could have been another employee. There were probably different women who worked weekday and weekend shifts. Maybe the last maid who’d cleaned my room had been curious and had helped herself, thinking I’d never know. I had trouble believing it, but I couldn’t prove otherwise.
I rebanded the cards and returned them, using the tip of my pen to push the drawer shut. I didn’t think it would occur to anyone that I’d have such a clear recollection of how the contents of the drawer had been left. If it wasn’t the maid, then how had entry been effected? The room door was kept locked. I went into the bathroom and pulled a tissue from the box, then moved to the door and used the tissue to turn the knob. I examined the exterior of the door, the escutcheon and the face plate, but there were no gouges or scratches, and no evidence of forced entry. The windows were latched on the inside and showed no indications of tampering.
On the other hand, the means of access could have been simple. While the maid had been cleaning the room on Saturday, she’d left my door propped open with the pile of dirty sheets. She’d had her radio on in the bathroom, music blaring while she cleaned the toilet and the sink. Anyone could have slipped in and searched the desk, which was just inside the door. There wouldn’t have been time to read the murder book itself, but the cards were more important. My notes reflected everything I knew about the case and everything I considered relevant. By perusing my notes, someone could figure out where I’d been, who I’d talked to, and what I intended to do. There was an obvious advantage to anticipating my next move. Someone could step in before I’d had the chance to get the information I needed.
I closed the door and went back to the desk. I studied the stack of cards with Medora’s name on top. I didn’t think she knew anything she hadn’t told me before, but it might be smart to check with her. Briefly, I considered calling Detective Lassiter or someone else at the local Sheriff’s Department, but what was I supposed to say? My stack of index cards has been moved an inch? Gasp! I didn’t think they’d rush right out and dust for prints. At best, they’d come up with the same suggestion I had, that the maid had opened and closed the drawer in the process of cleaning my room. Big deal. Aside from the rearrangement of my belongings (which they’d have to take my word for), there wasn’t any evidence of a break-in. The room hadn’t been vandalized and nothing had been stolen, so from their perspective, no crime had been committed.
I grabbed my bag and my bomber jacket, preparing to leave. I was almost out the door when something occurred to me. I retrieved my family album from the closet and then crossed to the desk drawer and removed the murder book and the index cards. I went out, making sure the door was secured behind me. I locked my armload of valuables in the trunk of Dolan’s car and then headed for Medora’s house. I was heartened by the lingering image of Dolan’s Smith & Wesson in the trunk.
25
The night was cold and windy, but the drive was so brief, there wasn’t time enough for Dola
n’s heater to kick in. There was scarcely a building in Quorum more than two stories tall, so there wasn’t much protection from the blasts of chill air sweeping in off the desert. The sky was a brittle black and the presence of stars wasn’t as comforting as one might hope. Nature has her little ways of reminding us how small and frail we are. Our existence is temporary while hers will go on long after our poor flesh has failed.
I parked in Medora’s driveway. The house was dark except for one lamp in the living room. As I crossed the patchy stretch of grass I realized the front door was standing open. I could see the vertical strip of dull light expand and contract as the wind ebbed and flowed. I hesitated and then knocked on the screen door frame. “Medora?”
There was no sound from inside. I opened the screen door and called through the opening. “Medora?”
I didn’t like the idea of intruding, but this was odd, especially given my suspicions about an intruder of my own. If someone had read my notes and spotted her name, her house might well be the next stop. I pushed the door open and eased in, closing it behind me. The room was dark except for a small table lamp. I could see Medora on the couch, lying on her back, her hands folded across her chest. I drew closer. She was snoring, her every exhalation infused with the fumes of metabolizing alcohol. If she woke to find me hovering she’d be startled, but I didn’t want to leave until I knew she was okay. A half-smoked cigarette, resting on the lip of the ashtray, had burned down to an inch of ash before it had gone out. The ice in her highball glass had long since melted away. Her prescription pill bottles appeared to be full and the caps were in place. At least she hadn’t overdosed in any obvious way, though I knew her practice of mixing whiskey with painkillers was dangerous.
