Three Complete Novels: A Is for Alibi / B Is for Burglar / C Is for Corpse

by Sue Grafton

  I checked the closet, where several empty hangers suggested the number of garments missing—six by my count. Among the articles she’d left behind were a navy blue blazer and a leather bomber jacket, askew on its hanger. I had no way of knowing what she’d packed. I wasn’t even sure the size or the number of suitcases she owned. I sorted through idly, thinking back to the clothes I’d seen her in. I didn’t spot her boots or either of the sweaters I remembered—the one red cotton, the other dark blue with a cowl neck. She’d worn both within the first few days of being home, which meant they might well be her favorites, garments she’d want with her on the road.

  I went into the bathroom, which was close to barren: tawny marble floor tile and countertop, spotless mirrors, and the smell of soap. The medicine cabinet had been emptied of items. No deodorant, cologne, or toothpaste. No prescription drugs. I could see a whitish spot on the marble counter where her toothbrush had lain. The hamper had been stuffed with blue jeans, T-shirts, and underwear; a bath towel, still faintly damp, crowded in on top. The shower pan was dry. Nothing in the trash.

  I went back to the closet and studied the clothes. I took the bomber jacket off its hanger and checked the pockets. I found some loose change and a slip from a generic order pad that showed she’d paid for a cheeseburger, chili fries, and a Coke. No date and the restaurant wasn’t mentioned by name. I slipped the receipt into my jeans pocket and returned the jacket to its hanger. I let myself out of the room and retraced my steps. As I passed Nord’s room, I paused and leaned my head close to the door. I could hear the murmur of voices, primarily Lucinda’s, and she sounded aggrieved. Any further conversation with him would have to wait. I went downstairs and found my way to the back part of the house.

  The housekeeper was sitting at the kitchen table. She’d spread newspapers across the surface, on which she’d laid twelve place settings of sterling silver, two silver water pitchers, and a series of silver beakers. Some of the more ornate pieces had been sprayed with an aerosol polish that was drying to a strange shade of pink. The cloth she used on the flatware was black from the tarnish she’d removed. Her gray hair was wispy, curled and back-combed into a dandelion-like aureole with patches of scalp showing through.

  I said, “Hi, Freddy. I’ve been chatting with Mr. Lafferty. He says you saw Reba last night before she left.”

  “Going out the door,” she said, addressing her remark to the spoon.

  “She took a suitcase?”

  “Two—a black canvas overnight case and a hard-sided gray suitcase on wheels. She was wearing jeans and boots and a leather hat, but no jacket.”

  “Did you have a conversation?”

  “She put a finger to her lips, like this was our little secret. I was having none of that. I’ve worked for Mr. Lafferty forty-six years. We don’t keep secrets from one another. I went straight into the library and spoke to him, but before I managed to get him up from his chair, she was gone.”

  “Did she say anything about her intentions? Any talk of a trip?”

  Freddy shook her head. “There were calls going back and forth, but she was quick to catch the phone so I never heard who it was. I couldn’t even tell if the caller was a man or woman.”

  “You know it’s a parole violation if she leaves the state,” I said. “She could be sent back to prison.”

  “Miss Millhone, as fond as I am of her, I wouldn’t withhold information or cover for her in any way. She’s breaking her father’s heart and the shame’s on her.”

  “Well, if it makes any difference, I know she adores him, which doesn’t change anything, of course.” I took out a card with my home number scribbled on the back. “If you should hear from her, would you call me?”

  She took my card and slipped it into her apron pocket. “I hope you find her. He doesn’t have much time.”

  “I know,” I said. “He told me her car’s still parked in the garage.”

  “Use this back door. It’s closer than going out the front. There’s a set of keys on the hook,” she said, indicating the service porch and mud room visible through the open doorway behind her.

  “Thanks.”

  I snagged the keys and then took a diagonal path across a large brick apron, approaching what must have been the original carriage house, converted now to a four-car garage. Rags appeared from around the corner of the house. Clearly, his job was to oversee arrivals, departures, and all activities involving the property. Above the garage, I could see a stretch of dormer windows with curtains drawn across the glass, which suggested servants’ quarters or an apartment, possibly Freddy’s. One garage was empty, the retractable door standing open. I used it as ingress and quickly spotted Reba’s BMW parked against the far wall. I felt obliged to explain myself to Rags as he followed in my tracks. I got in on the driver’s side and slid under the wheel. I put the key in the ignition and checked the gas gauge. The arrow jumped to the top, indicating a full tank of gas.

  I leaned over and popped the door to the glove compartment and then spent a few minutes sorting through the accumulation of gasoline receipts, outdated registration slips, and an owner’s manual. In the side pocket to my left, I found another handful of gasoline receipts. Most were dated three to four months before Reba went to prison. The single exception was a receipt dated July 27, 1987—Monday. She’d bought gas at a Chevron station on Main Street in Perdido, twenty miles to the south. I added the receipt to the other one in my pocket. I checked under the front seats, the backseat, the floorboards, and the trunk, but found nothing else of interest. I left the garage and returned the keys to the hook in the mud room, then collected my car. Last I saw of Rags, he was sitting on the porch, calmly grooming himself.

  I returned to the 101 and made a speedy round-trip to my apartment, stopping off long enough to pick up the photograph of Reba her father had given me. I folded it and eased it into my shoulder bag before I headed for Perdido. The four-lane highway follows the coastal contours with the foothills on one side and the Pacific Ocean on the other. The concrete seawall all but disappears in places, and waves crack up along the rocks in an impressive display of power. Surfers park their cars on the berm and tote their surfboards down to the beach, looking as sleek as seals in their form-fitting black wetsuits. I counted eight of them in the water, straddling their boards, faces turned toward the waves as they waited for the surf to mount the next assault on the shore.

  To my left, the steeply rising foothills were bare of trees and thick with chaparral. Paddle-shaped cactus had taken over large patches of eroding soil. The lush green, encouraged by the winter rains, had given way to spring wildflowers, and then died back to this tinderbox of vegetation, ripe for the autumn fires. The railroad tracks ran sometimes on the mountain side of the road and sometimes crossed under the highway and tracked the surf.

  On the outskirts of Perdido, I took the first off-ramp and proceeded toward town on Main, checking addresses along the way. I spotted the Chevron station on a narrow spit of land that bordered the Perdido Avenue off-ramp. I pulled in and parked on the side of the station nearest the restrooms. A uniformed attendant was standing at the rear of a station wagon, topping off the tank. He spotted me, eyes lingering briefly before returning to his task. I waited until the customer had signed the credit card slip and the wagon had pulled away before I crossed to the pumps. I pulled out the photograph of Reba, intending to inquire if he’d worked on Monday and if so, if he remembered her. As I approached, however, something else occurred to me. I said, “Hi. I need directions. I’m looking for a poker parlor called the Double Down.”

  He turned and pointed. “Two blocks down on the right. If you get to the stoplight, you’ve gone too far.”

  It was close to two in the afternoon when I pulled into the one remaining space in the parking lot behind a low cinder-block building painted an unprepossessing beige. The sign in front flashed a red neon spade, a heart, a diamond, and a club in succession. The Double Down was written out in blue neon script across the face of the
building. In lieu of stairs, a wheelchair ramp angled up to a windowless entrance, approximately four feet above ground. I climbed the ramp to the heavy wooden door with its rustic wrought iron hinges. A sign indicated that the hours ran from 10:00 A.M. until 2:00 A.M. I pushed my way in.

  There were four large tables, covered in green felt, each with eight to ten poker players seated in wooden captain’s chairs. Many turned and looked at me, though no one questioned my presence. Along the rear wall there was a galley-style kitchen with a menu posted above the service window. The selections were listed in removable black letters mounted in white slots: breakfast dishes, sandwiches, and a few dinner items. I was already partial to the scrambled egg and sausage breakfast burrito. I checked the receipt I’d found in Reba’s jacket pocket—cheeseburger, chili fries, and Coke. The same items were listed on the board and all the prices matched.

  The walls were paneled in pine. Along the acoustical-tile ceiling, a picture rail was festooned with strands of fake ivy and hung with framed reproductions of sports art, football dominant. The lighting was flat. All the players were men except for a woman at the back who was probably in her sixties. A chalkboard mounted on the side wall bore a list of names, presumably guys waiting for an open seat. To my surprise, there was no cigarette smoke and no alcohol in sight. Two color television sets mounted in opposing corners flickered silently with two different baseball games. There was scarcely any conversation, only the sound of plastic chips clicking together softly as the dealer paid off the winners and pulled in the losing bets. As I looked on, the dealers changed tables and three guys took advantage of the break to order something to eat.

  There was a counter to my left and behind it, in a cubbyhole, a fellow was sitting on a stool. “I’m looking for the manager,” I said. I was wondering, of course, if poker parlors had managers, but it seemed like a safe bet, so to speak. The guy said, “Yo,” raising his hand without lifting his gaze from his book.

  “What’s the book?”

  He held it up, turning the cover into view as though wondering himself. “This? Poetry. Kenneth Rexroth. You know his work?”

  “I don’t.”

  “The guy’s awesome. I’d lend you this, but it’s the only copy I have.” He put his finger between the pages, marking his place. “You want chips?”

  “Sorry, but I’m not here to play.” I took Reba’s picture from my bag, unfolded it, and held it out to him. “Look familiar?”

  “Reba Lafferty,” he said, as though the answer was self-evident.

  “You remember when you saw her last?”

  “Sure. Monday. Night before last. She sat at that table. Came in about five and stayed until we closed the place at two. Played Hold ’Em most of the night and then switched to Omaha, for which she has no feel whatever. Had a roll of bills about like this,” he said, making a circle of his thumb and middle finger. “Chick’s been out of prison a week, or that’s the scuttlebutt. You her parole officer?”

  I shook my head. “A personal friend. I was the one who went down to Corona and drove her home.”

  “Should have saved yourself the trip. Before you know it, she’ll be on the sheriff’s bus, heading the other way. Too bad. She’s cute. About the way a raccoon’s cute before it bites the shit out of you.”

  I said, “Yeah, well, there you have it. She took off last night and we’re trying to track her down. I don’t suppose you know where she went.”

  “Off the top of my head? I’d say Vegas. She dropped a bundle in here, but you could tell she was on a roll. She had that look in her eye. Bad luck or good, she’s the kind who keeps going till all the money’s gone.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “You don’t gamble?”

  “Not at all.”

  “My theory? Chick runs on empty. She gambles for the hype, thinking she can use that to fill herself up. Ain’t never gonna happen. She needs help.”

  “Don’t we all,” I said. “By the way, why the Double Down? I thought the term was blackjack.”

  “We used to have blackjack until the owner phased it out. The locals prefer poker—skill over luck, I guess.”

  As soon as I reached my office, I grabbed a pencil and notepad, hauled out the phone book, and chose a travel agent at random. I dialed and when she answered, I told her I needed information about a trip to Las Vegas.

  “What day?”

  “Don’t know yet. I work until five and I’m not sure what day I want to go. What flights do you show for weekdays after six P.M.?”

  “I can check,” she said. I heard tappity-tap-tap in the background and after a silence, “I see two. USAir at 7:55 P.M. by way of San Francisco, arriving Las Vegas at 11:16, or United Airlines 8:30 through Los Angeles, arriving LV at 11:17 P.M.”

  “Where else would I find poker parlors?”

  “Say again?”

  “Card parlors. Poker.”

  “I thought you wanted to go to Las Vegas.”

  “I’m looking at all the options. Anything closer to home?”

  “Gardena or Garden Grove. You’d have to fly to LAX and find ground transport.”

  “That sounds doable. What flights do you have to Los Angeles after six P.M.? I know about the United flight at 8:30. Is there anything else?”

  “I show a United at 6:57, arriving in Los Angeles at 7:45.”

  I was taking notes as she spoke. “Oh wow, thanks. This is great.”

  Somewhat testily, the travel agent said, “You want to book one of these or not?”

  “I’m not sure. Let’s try this. Say I had a few bucks in my hot little hand. Where else could I go?”

  “After six P.M. weekdays?” she said, drily.

  “Exactly.”

  “You could try Laughlin, Nevada, though there aren’t any flights into Laughlin-Bullhead unless you want to fly charter.”

  “Don’t think so,” I said.

  “There’s always Reno–Lake Tahoe. The same airport services both.”

  “Could you…”

  “I’m doing it,” she sang, and again I could hear her tapping her computer keys. “United Airlines departing Santa Teresa at 7:55, arrives San Fran 9:07 P.M., departs 10:20, arriving in Reno at 11:16. That’s all there is.”

  “I’ll call you back,” I said, and hung up. I circled the word “Reno,” thinking about Reba’s former cellmate, Misty Raine, allegedly living up there. If Reba were on the run, it might make sense to try connecting with a friend. Of course, consorting with a known felon was a parole violation, but she was already racking them up, so what was one more to her?

  I dialed directory assistance in Reno, the 702 area code, and asked the operator for a listing under the last name Raine. There was one: first initial M, but with no address listed. I thanked her and hung up. I drew a second circle around the word “Raine,” wondering if Reba had been in touch with Misty since her release. I picked up the phone again and dialed the number I’d been given for M. Raine. After four rings, a mechanical male voice said, “No one is home. Please leave a number.” So uninformative. I really hate that guy.

  At 4:30, I drove back to the Lafferty estate. As I pulled into the parking pad, I was happy to note Lucinda’s car was gone. Rags was asleep in a wicker chair, but he roused himself to greet me, sitting at my feet politely while I rang the bell. When Freddy let me in, Rags took the opportunity to slip inside. He followed as Freddy led me to the library where Nord was entrenched on the sofa, propped up against a mass of bed pillows and covered with a throw. He said, “I had Freddy bring me down. I couldn’t stand another minute upstairs.” Rags jumped up on the sofa, walked the length of Nord’s body, and sniffed at his breath.

  I said, “You look better. You have some color in your cheeks.”

  “It’s temporary, but I’ll take what I can get. I’m assuming you’ve learned something or you wouldn’t be back so soon.”

  I told him about the gasoline receipt and my drive to Perdido, where I’d been directed to the card parlor. I related the repo
rt I’d had about her poker losses Monday night. I couldn’t see any point in plaguing him with the suspicion that she’d stolen twenty-five thousand dollars so I left that part out. “Reba mentioned a stripper named Misty Raine, a former cellmate of hers. Apparently, Misty moved to Reno after she got off parole. I’m thinking if Reba’s caught up in gambling, it’d be smart to scout out a place where she could also lay low—”

  “In which case she might try hooking up with this friend,” Nord said, idly stroking the cat.

  “Right. That way, instead of laying out money for a room, she could drop it all at the tables and hope for some return. According to directory assistance, there is an ‘M. Raine’ in Reno, with no published address.”

  “But wouldn’t traveling to Reno be a violation of her parole?”

  “So’s the gambling,” I said. “There’s always the possibility she’ll come back before she’s missed, but I hate to see her take the chance. Has she been to Reno before?”

  “Often,” Nord said. “But how can you be sure she’s there? Her friend isn’t likely to admit to it.”

  “That’s my thought, too. Reba didn’t mention Reno?”

  “She never said a word.”

  “What about the phone company? I’ve been wondering if you could ask about any long-distance calls in the past seven days. A match on Misty’s number would at least suggest the two have been in touch.”

  “I can try.”

  I rounded up the phone book and dialed the number for him, taking him as far as the billing department before I handed him the phone. He identified himself by name and phone number and explained what he wanted. In the most glib and convincing manner imaginable, he spun a tale of an out-of-town visitor who’d made some long-distance calls but neglected to ask for time and charges. After chatting with the woman, he jotted a number in the 702 area code to which three calls had been made. He thanked her for her help, hung up, and handed me the slip. “I’m afraid this still doesn’t give you an address.”