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

by Sue Grafton

  I perched on a low fieldstone wall and watched cars speed by. There was a smattering of foot traffic to and from the campus. Most pedestrians were students or working moms there to pick up kids from a college-run day-care facility on the far corner, near the bus stop. I gathered the day-care operation had no parking spots of its own, so the moms took advantage of the City College lots when picking up their tots. Where possible, I engaged these hapless passersby in conversation, detailing my search for the man with white hair. The moms were polite but distracted, barely responding to my questions before they hurried away, anxious to avoid being dinged with after-hours charges. As the afternoon wore on, there was a steady stream of moms with their little tykes in tow.

  Of the first four students I approached, two were new to the college and two had left town that Memorial Day weekend. A fifth wasn’t even a student, just a woman out looking for her dog. None had anything useful to contribute, but I learned a lot about the intelligence and superiority of the standard poodle. The campus security officer stopped to chat, probably concerned that I was homeless, casing the joint, or flogging designer drugs.

  While he was busy quizzing me, I quizzed him in return. He had a dim recollection of the man with white hair but couldn’t remember when he’d seen him last. At least his response, though vague, gave me a modicum of hope. I handed him a flyer and asked him to get in touch if he should spot the guy again.

  I continued in this manner until 5:15, two hours beyond the time when the accident had occurred. In May, it would have been light until eight. Now the sun set at five. In the back of my mind I was hoping the man had routine business that brought him to the neighborhood the same time each day. I planned to swing by again on Saturday and do a second neighborhood canvass. Weekends I might have better luck finding folks at home. If there was no response to my newspaper ad, I’d return on Thursday of the following week. I abandoned the project for the day and headed home, feeling tired and out of sorts. In my experience, loitering is an enervating act.

  I turned onto my street and made the usual quick search for the parking spot closest to my studio apartment. I was puzzled to see that a bright red Dumpster had been unloaded at the curb. It was easily twelve feet long and eight feet wide, and might have served as housing for a family of five. I was forced to park around the corner and walk back. In passing, I peered over the five-foot-high rim and into the empty interior. What was that about?

  I pulled the mail out of my box, went through the gate, and around the side of my studio apartment, which was once a single-car garage. Seven years before, Henry had relocated his driveway, constructed a new two-car garage, and converted the original garage into a rental, which I’d moved into. Three years later, an unfortunate incident with a bomb had flattened the structure. Henry had taken advantage of the free demolition and he’d rebuilt the studio, adding a half story that contained a sleeping loft and bath. The last Dumpster I’d seen on our block was the one he rented to accommodate the construction debris.

  I dropped my bag inside my apartment and left the door ajar while I crossed the patio to Henry’s. I rapped on his kitchen door and he appeared moments later from his living room, where he was watching the evening news. We chatted briefly about inconsequential matters and then I said, “What’s the deal with the Dumpster? Is that ours?”

  “Gus’s nurse ordered that.”

  “Solana? That’s a bold move on her part.”

  “I thought so, too. She stopped by this morning to let me know it was being delivered. She’s getting rid of Gus’s junk.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I’m not. She cleared it with Melanie, who gave her the go-ahead.”

  “And Gus agreed?”

  “Looks that way. I called Melanie myself just to make sure it was legitimate. She said Gus went through a rough patch and Solana stayed two nights, thinking he shouldn’t be alone. She ended up sleeping on the couch, which was not only too short but smelled of cigarettes. She asked Melanie for permission to move in a cot, but there wasn’t space for one. His second and third bedrooms are wall-to-wall junk and that’s what she intends to toss.”

  “I’m surprised he said yes.”

  “He didn’t have much choice. You can’t expect the woman to make up a pallet on the floor.”

  “Who’s going to haul the stuff out? Must be half a ton of newspapers in that one room alone.”

  “She’s doing most of it herself, at least as much as she can manage. For the bulkier items, I guess she’ll hire someone. She and Gus went through everything and he decided what he was willing to part with. He’s hanging on to the good stuff—his paintings and a few antiques—the rest is history.”

  “Let’s hope she pulls up the crappy carpet while she’s at it,” I remarked.

  “Amen to that.”

  Henry invited me in for a glass of wine, and I would have taken him up on the offer but my phone started ringing.

  “I better get that,” I said, and took off at a trot.

  I caught the call just before my answering machine picked up. It was Melanie Oberlin.

  She said, “Oh good. I’m glad I caught you. I was afraid you weren’t home. I’m just about to dash out, but I have a question for you.”

  “Sure.”

  “I called Uncle Gus earlier today and I don’t think he knew who I was. It was the oddest conversation. Kind of goofy, you know? He sounded drunk or confused, or maybe both.”

  “That’s not like him. We all know he’s crabby, but he always knows exactly where he is and what’s going on.”

  “Not this time.”

  “Maybe it’s his meds. They’ve probably got him on pain pills.”

  “At this late date? That doesn’t sound right. I know he was on Percocet, but they pulled him off that as soon as they could. Have you talked to him lately?”

  “Not since you left, but Henry’s been to see him two or three times. If there was a problem, I’m sure he’d have mentioned it. You want me to look in on him?”

  “If you don’t mind,” she said. “After he hung up, I called back and spoke to Solana, hoping to get her assessment of the situation. She thinks he may be showing early signs of dementia.”

  “Well, that’s worrisome,” I said. “I’ll go over in the next couple of days and have a chat with him.”

  “Thanks. And could you ask Henry if he’s noticed anything?”

  “Sure. I’ll get back to you as soon as I have something to report.”

  Tuesday morning, I set aside an hour to serve a three-day pay-or-quit notice on a tenant in a Colgate apartment building. Ordinarily, Richard Compton, the owner of the building, would have delivered the eviction notice himself in hopes of goosing the renter into catching up. Compton had owned the property for less than six months and he’d been busy booting out the deadbeats. People who decline to pay their rent can sometimes be a surly lot and two had offered to punch his lights out. He decided it’d be smart to send someone in his place, namely me. I personally thought it was cowardly on his part, but he’d offered me twenty-five bucks to hand someone a piece of paper, and it seemed like adequate recompense for two seconds’ worth of work. Traffic was light and I made the fifteen-minute drive with my radio tuned to one of those talk shows where listeners call in to ask advice about marital and social woes. I’d become a big fan of the hostess and found it entertaining to test my reactions against hers.

  I spotted the street number I was looking for and pulled in at the curb. I folded the eviction notice and tucked it in my jacket pocket. As a general rule, in serving papers of any kind, I don’t like to show up waving official-looking documents. Better to get the lay of the land before making my purpose clear. I hefted my bag from the passenger seat as I emerged and locked the car behind me.

  I took a minute to scan the premises, which looked like a movie version of a prison. I was staring at four three-story buildings, arranged to form a square with the corners open and walkways between. Twenty-four apartments were lumped
together in each unadorned block of stucco. Junipers had been planted along the foundations, perhaps in an attempt to soften the facade. Unfortunately, most of the evergreens had suffered a blight that left the branches as sparse as last year’s Christmas trees and the remaining needles the color of rust.

  Across the front of the nearest building, I could see a short row of slab porches, one step high, furnished with the occasional aluminum lawn chair. An apologetic inverted V of roof had been tacked above each front door, but none were large enough to offer protection from the elements. In the rainy season, you could stand there, house key in hand as you fumbled to get in, and by the time the door finally swung open, you’d be drenched. Summer sunlight would beat down unrelentingly, converting the front rooms into small toaster ovens. Anyone climbing to the third tier would suffer heart palpitations and shortness of breath.

  There was no yard to speak of, but I suspected if I went into the interior courtyard, I’d see covered barbecue grills on the second- and third-floor loggias, clotheslines and children’s playthings in the grassy patches at ground level. The garbage cans were standing in a ragtag line at one end of the structure that housed empty carports in lieu of closed garages. The complex had a curious unoccupied air, like housing abandoned in the wake of calamity.

  Compton had nothing but complaints about his tenants, who were sorry sunza-bitches (his words, not mine). According to him, at the time he’d purchased the property, the units were already overcrowded and ill used. He’d made a few repairs, slapped a coat of paint on the exterior, and raised all the rents. This had driven out the least desirable of the occupants. Those who remained were quick to bellyache and slow to pay.

  The tenants in question were the Guffeys, husband and wife, Grant and Jackie respectively. The previous month, Compton had written them a nasty letter about their failure to pay, which the Guffeys had ignored. They were already two months in arrears and perhaps intent on garnering another rent-free month before responding to his threats. I crossed the dead grass, went around the corner of the building, and up a flight of outside stairs. Apartment 18 was on the second floor, the center one of three.

  I knocked. After a moment the door was opened to the length of the burglar chain and a woman peered out. “Yes?”

  “Are you Jackie?”

  A pause. “She’s not here.”

  I could see her left eye, blue, and medium-blond hair caught up on rollers the size of frozen orange juice cans. I could also see her left ear, which had sufficient small gold hoops stuck through the cartilage to mimic a spiral-bound notebook. Compton had mentioned the piercings in his description of her, so I was reasonably certain this was Jackie, lying through her teeth. “Do you know when she’ll be back?”

  “What makes you ask?”

  Now I was the one who hesitated, trying to decide on my approach. “Her landlord asked me to stop by.”

  “What for?”

  “I’m not authorized to discuss the matter with anyone else. Are you related to her?”

  A pause. “I’m her sister. I’m from Minneapolis.”

  The best thing about lying are the flourishes, I thought. I myself am a world-class practitioner. “And your name is?”

  “Patty.”

  “Mind if I write that down?”

  “It’s a free country. You can do anything you want.”

  I reached into my shoulder bag and found a pen and a small lined notebook. I wrote “Patty” on the first page. “Last name?”

  “I don’t have to tell.”

  “Are you aware that Jackie and her husband haven’t paid rent for the past two months?”

  “Who cares? I’m visiting. It’s got nothing to do with me.”

  “Well, maybe you could pass along a message from the guy who owns the place.”

  I handed her the eviction notice, which she took before she realized what it was. I said, “That’s a three-day pay or quit. They can pay in full or vacate the premises. Tell ’em to pick one.”

  “You can’t do that.”

  “It’s not me. It’s him and he warned them. You can remind your ‘sister’ of that when she gets home.”

  “How come he doesn’t have to live up to his side of the deal?”

  “As in what?”

  “Why should they be prompt when the son of a bitch takes his time about making repairs, assuming he gets to them at all. She’s got windows won’t open, drains backed up. She can’t even use the kitchen sink. She has to do all the dishes in the bathroom basin. Take a look around. The place is a dump and you know what the rent is? Six hundred bucks a month. It cost a hundred and twenty dollars to get the wiring fixed or they’d’ve burned the building down. That’s why they haven’t paid, because he won’t reimburse ’em for the money they spent.”

  “I can sympathize, but I can’t give you legal advice even if I had any to offer. Mr. Compton’s acting within his rights and you’ll have to do that, too.”

  “Rights, my ass. What rights? I stay here and put up with his crap or I have to move out. What kind of deal is that?”

  “The deal you signed before you moved in,” I said. “You want your side heard, you can join a tenants association.”

  “Bitch.” She slammed the door in my face, at least so far as she could manage with the burglar chain in place.

  I got back in my car and headed for the notary’s office, so I could dot all my i’s and cross my t’s.

  15

  When I got back to the office after lunch, the message light was blinking on my answering machine. I pushed the Play button.

  A woman said, “Hello? Oh. I hope this is the right number. This is Dewel Greathouse. I’m calling in regard to a flyer I found in my door yesterday? The thing is, I’m almost sure I’ve seen that gentleman. Could you give me a call when you get this? Thanks. Oh. I can be reached at…” She rattled off the number.

  I snatched up a pen and a pad of paper, and jotted down what I remembered, then replayed the message to verify the information. I punched in the number, which rang half a dozen times.

  The woman who finally answered was clearly out of breath. “Hello?”

  “Mrs. Greathouse? Is that Dewel, or did I misunderstand the name?”

  “That’s right. Dewel with a D. Hang on a second. I just ran up a flight of steps. Sorry.”

  “Not a problem. Take your time.”

  Finally, she said, “Whew! I was on my way back from the laundry room when I heard the phone. Who’s this?”

  “Kinsey Millhone. I’m returning your call. You left a message on my machine in response to one of the flyers I distributed in your neighborhood.”

  “I sure did. I remember now, but I don’t believe you gave your name.”

  “Sorry about that, but I appreciate your calling.”

  “I hope you don’t mind my asking, but why are you looking for this gentleman? I wouldn’t want to get anyone in trouble. The flyer said something about an accident. Did he hit someone?”

  I went back through my explanation, making it clear that the man didn’t cause or contribute to the accident. I said, “He was more the Good Samaritan. I’m working for an attorney who’s hoping he can give us a report of what went on.”

  “Oh, I see. Well, that’s all right then. I don’t know that I can be much help, but when I read the description, I knew exactly who you meant.”

  “Does he live in the area?”

  “I don’t think so. I’ve seen him sitting at the bus stop at Vista del Mar and Palisade. You know the one I mean?”

  “At City College?”

  “That’s it, only on the opposite side.”

  “Okay. Right.”

  “I’ve noticed him because that’s my street and I pass him as I’m driving home. I have to slow to make the turn and I’m looking in that direction.”

  “How often do you see him?”

  “Couple of afternoons a week for the past year I’d say.”

  “And this is since last May?”

  “Oh y
es.”

  “Can you tell me which days of the week?”

  “Not offhand. I moved to my apartment in June of ’86 after I took a new part-time job.”

  “What sort of work do you do?”

  “I’m in the service department at Dutton Motors. What’s nice is I’m only ten minutes from work, which is why I took this apartment to begin with.”

  “What time of day, would you say?”

  “Midafternoon. I get home at two fifty pretty much without fail. I’m just half a mile away so it doesn’t take me long once I’m on the road.”

  “You know anything about him?”

  “Not really. It’s mostly what you said. He’s got thick white hair and he wears a brown leather jacket. I only see him in passing so I really couldn’t guess age or eye color or anything like that.”

  “You think he works in the neighborhood?”

  “That’d be my guess. Maybe as a handyman or something of that nature.”

  “Could he be employed at City College?”

  “I suppose it’s possible,” she said, sounding skeptical. “He looks too old to be a student. I know a lot of older people are going back to school, but I’ve never seen him with a backpack or briefcase. All the college kids I see carry something of the sort. Books at the very least. If you want to talk to him, you might catch him at the bus stop.”

  “I’ll try that. In the meantime, if you see him again, could you let me know?”

  “Certainly,” she said, and with a click she was gone.

  I circled her name and number on the desk pad and put it in the file. I was excited to have even a sketchy confirmation of the man’s existence. Like a sighting of the Loch Ness Monster or the Abominable Snowman, the report gave me hope.

  I worked late that day, paying bills and generally getting my life in order. By the time I got home it was 6:45 and fully dark. The temperature had dropped into the forties from a daytime high of sixty-two degrees, and my turtleneck and blazer offered no protection from the wind picking up. The damp fog emanating from the beach amplified the chill. I knew once I was safely indoors, I wouldn’t want to venture out again. I saw lights on at Gus’s house and decided it was as good a time as any to pay a visit. I was hoping the supper hour was through so I wouldn’t be interrupting his meal.