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

by Sue Grafton

  She’d called the gallery owner every day for a week, asking if she’d located a buyer for the paintings. She suspected the woman was just putting her off, but she couldn’t be sure. In any event, Solana couldn’t afford to alienate her. She wanted the money. Gus’s antique furniture she’d sold piece by piece to various high-end dealers around town. He spent his days in the living room or his bedroom and didn’t seem to notice that the house was slowly being stripped. From those sales she’d netted a little over $12,000, which was not as much as she’d hoped. Adding that sum to the $26,000 the old man still had tucked away in combined savings, plus the $250,000 she was borrowing from the local bank as a loan against the house, she’d have $288,000, plus the 30 grand in her private account. The $250,000 wasn’t in her hands quite yet, but Mr. Larkin at the bank had told her the loan was approved and it was only a matter now of picking up the check. Today she had personal shopping to do, leaving Tiny to babysit Gus.

  Tiny and the old man got along well. They liked the same television shows. They shared the same thick pizzas, loaded with junk, and the plastic tubs of cheap cookies she bought at Trader Joe’s. She’d taken lately to letting them smoke in the living room though it annoyed her no end. They both were hard of hearing, and when the high volume on the TV started wearing on her nerves she banished them to Tiny’s room, where they could watch the old TV set she’d brought from the apartment. Unfortunately, living with the two of them had spoiled the joys of the house, which now felt small and claustrophobic. Mr. Vronsky insisted on keeping the thermostat set at seventy-four degrees, which made her feel as though she were suffocating. It was time to disappear, but she hadn’t quite decided what to do with him.

  She packed the cash in a duffel that she kept in the back of her closet. Once she was dressed, she checked her reflection in the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door. She looked good. She was wearing a business suit, dark blue and plain, with a simple blouse underneath. She was a respectable woman, interested in settling her affairs. She took her purse and paused in the living room on her way to the front door.

  “Tiny.”

  She had to say his name twice because he and the old man were engrossed in a TV show. She picked up the remote and muted the volume on the set. He looked up with surprise, irritated at the interruption. She said, “I’m going out. You stay here. Do you understand me? Don’t go anywhere. I’m counting on you to look after Mr. Vronsky. And keep the door locked unless there’s a fire.”

  He said, “Okay.”

  “Don’t answer the door to anyone. I want you here when I get back.”

  “Okay!”

  “And no back talk.”

  She took the freeway out to La Cuesta, to the shopping mall she liked. She was especially fond of Robinson’s Department Store, where she bought her makeup, her clothing, and occasional household goods. Today she was shopping for suitcases for her upcoming departure. She wanted new luggage, handsome and expensive to mark the new life she was entering. It was almost like a trousseau, which she didn’t think young women set much store by these days. Your trousseau was everything fresh, carefully assembled and packed before you left on your honeymoon.

  As she entered the store, there was a young woman coming out who held the door politely, allowing Solana to pass through. Solana glanced at her and then looked away, but not quickly enough. The woman’s name was Peggy something—maybe Klein, she thought—the granddaughter of a patient Solana had cared for until she died.

  The Klein woman said, “Athena?”

  Solana ignored her and walked into the store, heading for the escalator. Instead of letting the matter drop, the woman followed her in, calling after her in a strident voice. “Wait just a minute! I know you. You’re the woman who looked after my grandmother.”

  She moved swiftly, hard on Solana’s heels, grabbing at her arm. Solana turned on her savagely. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. My name is Solana Rojas.”

  “Bullshit! You’re Athena Melanagras. You stole thousands of dollars from us and then you—”

  “You’re mistaken. It must have been somebody else. I never laid eyes on you or anybody else in your family.”

  “You fucking liar! My grandmother’s name was Esther Feldcamp. She died two years ago. You raided her accounts and you did worse, as you well know. My mother filed charges, but you were gone by then.”

  “Get away from me. You’re delusional. I’m a respectable woman. I’ve never stolen a cent from anyone.” Solana got on the escalator and faced forward. The moving stairs carried her upward as the woman hung on to her from one step down.

  The Klein woman was saying, “Someone help! Call the police!” She sounded deranged and others had turned to stare.

  “Shut up!” Solana said. She turned and shoved her.

  The woman stumbled down another step but clung to Solana’s arm like an octopus. At the top of the escalator, Solana tried to step away, but she ended up dragging the woman through the sportswear department. A clerk at the cash register watched with mounting concern as Solana took the Klein woman’s fingers and prized them off one by one, bending her index finger back until she shrieked.

  Solana punched her once in the face, then shook herself free and hurried away. She tried not to run because running would only call greater attention to herself, but she needed to put as much distance as she could between herself and her accuser. She was frantic to locate an exit, but there was no sign of one, which meant it was probably behind her somewhere. Briefly she thought about finding a hiding place—one of the dressing rooms perhaps—but she was worried she’d be trapped. Behind her the Klein woman had persuaded the clerk to call security. She could see the two of them huddled together at the counter while over the intercom a voice intoned a store code that signified god knew what.

  Solana scurried around the corner where she spotted the down escalator. She held on to the moving rail and took the steps down two at a time. People opposite her on the up escalator turned to look at her idly, but they didn’t seem to grasp the drama taking place.

  Solana looked behind her. The Klein woman had trailed her and she was coming down the escalator steps at a pace that had her breathing down Solana’s neck. At ground level, as the woman drew close, Solana hauled back with her purse, swinging it hard until it caught the woman on the side of the head. Instead of backing off, the woman grabbed the purse and gave it a yank. The two wrestled with the bag, which was now hanging open. The Klein woman snatched her wallet, and Solana yelled, “Thief!”

  A male customer in the men’s department moved in their direction, uncertain whether the situation required intervention. Everyone was fearful these days, reluctant to get involved. Suppose one of the struggling parties had a gun and a Good Samaritan was killed while trying to be of help? It was a stupid way to die and no one wanted to take the chance. Solana kicked the Klein woman twice in the shins. She went down, crying out in pain. The last flash Solana had of the woman, there was blood running down her legs.

  Solana moved away as swiftly as she could. The woman had her wallet, but she still had everything else she needed: house keys, car keys, compact. The wallet she could do without. Thankfully she carried no cash, but it wouldn’t take the woman long to check the address listed on her driver’s license. She should have left the Other’s address as it was, but it seemed wiser at the time to change it to the apartment where she herself had been living. Once before, she’d applied for a job, retaining the Other’s address instead of substituting her own. The patient’s daughter had gone to the real address and knocked on the door. It didn’t take a minute for her to realize the woman she was talking to was someone other than the woman who was caring for her aged mother. Solana’d been forced to abandon that job, leaving behind additional precious cash she’d hidden in her room. Even the late-night trip back had netted her nothing since the locks had been changed.

  She pictured the Klein woman talking to the police, weeping hysterically and babbling the story of h
er grammy and the larcenous companion hired to care for her. Solana didn’t have a record, but Athena Melanagras had been arrested once for drug possession. Just her bad luck. If she’d known, she never would have borrowed the woman’s identity. Solana knew complaints had been filed against her under her various aliases. If the Klein woman went to the police, the descriptions would add up. In the past, she’d left fingerprints behind. She knew now that was a terrible mistake, but it hadn’t occurred to her until later that she should have wiped down each place thoroughly before she moved on.

  She hurried through the parking lot to her car and headed back to the freeway, taking the 101 south now to the Capillo off-ramp. The bank was downtown and despite the upsetting incident at the store, she wanted her money in hand. Luggage she could buy somewhere else. Or maybe she wouldn’t bother. Time was running short.

  When she reached the intersection of Anaconda and Floresta, she circled the block, making sure no one was following her. She parked and went into the bank. Mr. Larkin, the manager, greeted her warmly and showed her to his desk, where he seated her graciously, treating her like a queen. Life was like this with money, people fawning; bowing and scraping. She held her purse in her lap like a prize. It was an expensive designer bag and she knew it made a good impression.

  Mr. Larkin said, “Will you excuse me for just one second? I have a phone call.”

  “Of course.”

  She watched him cross the bank lobby and disappear through a door. While she waited she took out her compact and powdered her nose. She looked calm and confident, not like someone who’d just been attacked by a lunatic. Her hands were shaking, but she breathed deeply, working to appear nonchalant and unconcerned. She closed the compact.

  “Ms. Tasinato?”

  A woman had appeared behind her unannounced. Solana jumped and the compact flew out of her hand. She watched the arc of its descent, time slowing as the plastic casing hit the marble floor and bounced once. The refillable disk popped out and the hard circle of compressed powder broke into several pieces. The mirror in the lid of the compact shattered as well and fragments littered the floor. The one shard of mirror that remained in the case looked like a dagger, pointed and sharp. She pushed the broken compact aside with her foot. Someone else would have to clean up the mess. A broken mirror was bad luck. Breaking anything was bad, but a mirror was the worst.

  “I’m so sorry I startled you. I’ll have someone take care of that. I don’t want you cutting your hand.”

  “It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it. I can get another one,” she said, but the heaviness had descended. Things had already gone wrong and now this. She’d seen it happen before, calamity piling on calamity.

  She turned her attention to the woman, trying to suppress her distaste. This was no one she knew. She appeared to be in her thirties, definitely pregnant and probably in her seventh month, judging by the taut mound under her maternity smock. Solana checked for a wedding ring, which the woman wore. She disapproved nonetheless. She should quit her job and stay home. She had no business working in a bank, flaunting her condition without a hint of embarrassment. In three months’ time, Solana would see the ad she placed in the classifieds: Working mom needs experienced and reliable baby nurse. References required. Disgusting.

  “I’m Rebecca Wilcher. Mr. Larkin was called away and asked me to assist you.” She sat down in his place.

  Solana didn’t like doing business with women. She wanted to protest, but she held her tongue, anxious to get the transaction over with.

  “Let me just take a quick look to familiarize myself with your loan papers,” she said. She began to flip pages, reading much too carefully. Solana could see her eyes tracing every line of print. She looked up and smiled briefly at Solana. “I see you were appointed Mr. Vronsky’s conservator.”

  “That’s correct. His home is in desperate need of attention. The wiring’s old, the plumbing’s bad, and there’s no wheelchair ramp, which keeps him a virtual prisoner. He’s eighty-nine years old and unable to care for himself. I’m all he has.”

  “I understand. I met him when I first started working here, but we haven’t seen him for months.” She set the file on the desk. “Everything seems to be in order. This will be submitted to the court for approval and once that’s done, we’ll be funding the loan. It looks like we’ll need one more form filled out, if you don’t mind. I have a blank one here you can complete and return.”

  She reached in the drawer, checked through the files, and came up with a paper that she passed across the desk.

  Solana looked at it with irritation. “What’s this? I filled out all the forms Mr. Larkin asked for.”

  “It must have been an oversight. I’m sorry for the inconvenience.”

  “What’s the problem with the forms I gave you?”

  “There’s no problem. This is something new the government requires. It shouldn’t take long.”

  “I don’t have time for this. I thought everything was done. Mr. Larkin said all I had to do was stop by and he’d issue a check. That’s what he told me.”

  “Not without the court’s approval. That’s standard procedure. We need a judge’s okay.”

  “What are you saying, you doubt I’m entitled to the funds? You think the house doesn’t need work? You should come and see for yourself.”

  “It’s not that. Your plans for the house sound wonderful.”

  “The place is a fire hazard. If something isn’t done soon, Mr. Vronsky could burn to death in his bed. You can tell Mr. Larkin I said so. It will be on his head if anything happens. And yours, too.”

  “I apologize for any misunderstanding. Perhaps I can have a quick word with the bank manager and we can straighten this out. If you’ll excuse me…”

  The minute she’d moved away from her desk, Solana stood up, clutching her bag. She reached across the desk and picked up the manila folder containing all the paperwork. She moved toward the entrance, being careful to behave like someone with a legitimate purpose. Nearing the door, she looked down, holding up the file to conceal her features from the surveillance camera she knew was there. What was the matter with the woman? She hadn’t done anything to warrant suspicion. She’d been cooperative and agreeable, and this was how she was treated? She’d call later. She’d talk to Mr. Larkin and raise a fuss. If he insisted on her filling out the form, she’d do so, but she wanted him to know how annoyed she was. Maybe she’d take her business elsewhere. She’d mention that to him. Court approval could take a month and there was always the chance the transaction would come under scrutiny.

  She retrieved her car from the parking lot and made a beeline for home, too upset to worry about the paintings in the trunk. She noticed other drivers glancing at the word DEAD scratched on her driver’s-side door. Maybe that hadn’t been such a good idea. The little hooligan she’d hired had done a good job, but now she was stuck with the damage. She might as well have been toting a banner, LOOK AT ME. I’M STRANGE. Her parking place was still available out in front of the house. She pulled in nose-first and then had to maneuver until the car was properly lined up with the curb.

  It wasn’t until she got out and locked the car door behind her that she realized something was wrong. She stood stock-still and searched the street, her gaze moving from house to house. She tracked the scene to the corner and then her gaze slid back. Henry’s station wagon was parked on the far side of the street, three doors down, a silver sunscreen against the windshield, blocking any view of the interior. Why had he taken it out of the garage and left it on the street?

  She watched the dappled sunlight reflecting off the glass. She thought she discerned small irregular shadows on the driver’s side, but at this remove, she wasn’t sure what she was looking at. She turned away, debating whether to cross the street and take a closer look. Kinsey Millhone wouldn’t dare defy the court order, but Henry might be watching her. She couldn’t think why he would, but it was wiser to behave as though she didn’t suspect.

 
She went into the house. The living room was empty, which meant that Tiny and Mr. Vronsky had gone down for their naps like good little boys. She picked up the telephone and dialed Henry’s number next door. After two rings, he picked up, saying, “Hello?”

  She lowered the handset to the cradle without saying a word. If it wasn’t Henry, then who? The answer was obvious.

  She went out the front door and down the steps. She crossed the street at an angle and walked directly to his car. This had to stop. She couldn’t have people spying on her. The rage rising in her throat threatened to choke her. She could see the door locks were up. She yanked open the driver’s-side door.

  No one.

  Solana took in a deep breath, her senses as keen as a wolf’s. Kinsey’s scent hung in the air—a light, but distinct mix of shampoo and soap. Solana put her hand on the seat, which she could have sworn was still warm. She’d missed her by moments and her disappointment was so sharp she nearly wailed aloud. She had to get herself under control. She closed her eyes, thinking, Calm. Be calm. No matter what was going on, she was still in charge. So what if Kinsey’d watched her getting out of her car? What difference did that make?