by Sue Grafton
“Don’t be silly, Selma. It isn’t your fault. If nothing else it gives credence to your hunch about Tom’s ‘secret,’ if you want to call it that.”
“But I never dreamed it’d be dangerous.”
“Life is dangerous,” I said. I was feeling oddly impatient, ready to move on to the job at hand. “Look, we can sit here and commiserate, but I’d much prefer to use the time constructively. I’ve got a big pile of phone bills. Let’s sit down together and see how many numbers you recognize. Any that seem unfamiliar, I can check from Santa Teresa.”
Which is what we’d done, eliminating slightly more than three-quarters of the calls listed for the past ten months. Many were Selma’s, related to her church work, charity events, and assorted friendships outside the 619 area code. Some of the remaining numbers she’d recognized as business calls, a fact confirmed by judicious use of Tom’s Rolodex. I’d placed the entire file of last year’s phone bills in my duffel and then I’d gone down to the basement to take a look at the storage boxes I’d seen previously. There, in the dry, overheated space that smelled of ticking furnace and hot paper, a curious order prevailed.
Despite the fact that both Tom’s desk and his den upstairs were an ungodly mess, Tom Newquist was systematic, at least where work was concerned. On a shelf to my left was a series of cardboard boxes where he’d placed bundles of field notes going back twenty-five years, including his days at the academy. Once a notebook had been filled, his method was to remove the six-hole lined pages, apply a wrapper showing the inclusive dates, and then secure them with a rubber band. Many times several bundles of notes pertained to the same case and those tended to be packed in separate manila envelopes, again labeled and dated. I could walk my fingers back through his investigations, year after year, without gaps or interruptions. Occasionally, on the outside of an envelope he’d penned a note indicating that a call or teletype had come through regarding the particulars of a case. He would then type an update and include a copy with his notes, indicating the agency making the call, the nature of the inquiry, and the details of his response. He was clearly prepared to substantiate his findings with court testimony where required, on every investigation he’d done since he’d been in Nota Lake. The last of the bundled notes were dated the previous April. Missing were notes from May and June of last year until the time of his death. I had to assume the missing notebook covered the previous ten months. There was no other gap in his records of that magnitude.
I went back upstairs, through the kitchen, and into the garage, where I searched the truck again ��� more thoroughly than I had the first time around. I even eased onto one shoulder so I could shine a flashlight up under the seats, thinking Tom might have secured his notebook in the springs. There was no sign of it, so essentially I was back to square one. My only consolation was knowing I’d left no stone unturned ��� as far as I could tell. Clearly, I’d overlooked something or I’d have his notes in hand.
The rain increased as I drove south. At Rosamond, I found a McDonald’s and stopped to use the restroom. I picked up a big cola, a large order of fries, and a QP with cheese. I downed a painkiller while I was at it. Twelve minutes later, I was on the road again. The closer I came to Los Angeles, the more my spirits lifted. I hadn’t even realized how depressed I was until my mood began to improve. The rain became my companion, the windshield wipers keeping a steady rhythm as the highway sizzled under my tires. I turned on the radio and let the drone of bad music fill the car.
When I reached Highway 5, I turned north as far as the junction with Highway 126, where I cut west again through Fillmore and Santa Paula. Here the landscape was made up of citrus and avocado groves, the roadway populated with produce stands, beyond which tracts of houses stretched out as far as the eye could see. Route 126 spilled into 101 and I nearly whimpered aloud at the sight of the Pacific. I rolled the window down and tilted my head sideways, letting raindrops blow on my face. The scent of the ocean was dense and sweet. The surf made its relentless approach and retreat, soft pounding at the shoreline, where occasional sea birds race-walked along the hard-packed sand. The water was silken, endless reams of gray taffeta-churning lace at the edge. I’m not fond of mountains, in part because I have so little interest in winter sports, especially those requiring costly equipment. I avoid activities associated with speed, cold, and heights, and any that involve the danger of falling down and breaking significant body parts. As fun as it all sounds, it’s never appealed to me. The ocean is another matter, and while I can spend brief periods in land-locked locations, I’m never as happy as I am when close to deep water. Please understand, I don’t go in the water because there are all manner of biting, stinging, tentacled, pincered, slimy things down there, but I like to look at the water and spend time in its immense, ever-changing presence. For one thing, I find it therapeutic to consider all the creatures not devouring me at any given moment.
Thus cheered, I powered through the final few miles into Santa Teresa. I took the Cabana off-ramp and turned left, passing the bird refuge on my right and shortly thereafter, the volleyball courts on the sand at East Beach. By that time, I’d been on the road for five hours, so focused on home that my foot felt as if it was welded to the accelerator. I was exhausted. My neck was stiff. My mouth tasted like hot metal. My bruised fingers were deadened by drugs yet somehow managed to throb with pain. Also, my butt hurt along with everything else.
My neighborhood looked the same, a short residential street a block from the beach: palms, tall pines, wire fences, crooked sidewalks where tree roots had buckled the concrete. Most houses were stucco with aging red-tile roofs. An occasional condominium appeared between single-family dwellings. I found a parking spot across the street from my apartment, once a singlecar garage, now a two-story hideaway attached by a sunporch to the house where my landlord lives. This month marked the fifth anniversary of my tenancy and I treasure the space I’ve come to think of as mine.
It took me two trips to unload the rental car, passing in and out of Henry’s squeaking gate. I made a pile on the small covered porch, unlocked the front door, left the typewriter by the desk, went back for my duffel, and hauled it up the spiral stairs. I stripped off my clothes, removed the bandages from my hand, and treated myself to a long hot shower wherein I washed my hair, did a lefthanded leg shave, and sang a medley of show tunes with half the lyrics consisting of dahdah-dab. The luxury of being clean and warm was almost more than I could bear. I skipped my flossing for once, did a lefthanded toothbrushing, and anointed myself with an inexpensive drugstore cologne that smelled like lilies of the valley. I put on a fresh turtleneck, a fresh pair of jeans, clean socks, Reeboks, and a touch of lipstick. I checked my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Nah, that looked dumb. I rubbed off the lipstick on a piece of toilet paper and pronounced myself whole. After that, all I had to do was spend approximately twenty minutes trying to get my fingers splinted and retaped. This was going to be obnoxious.
I ducked out my door and splashed across the patio in the rain. Henry’s garden was just coming to life again. The weather in Santa Teresa is moderate all year long, but we do enjoy a nearly indiscernible spring in which green shoots nudge through the hard ground as they do every place else. Henry had begun to clear the flower beds where his annuals and a few tomato plants would eventually go. I could smell the wet walkways, bark mulch, and the few narcissus that must have opened in the rain. It was quarter to five and the day was gloomy with approaching twilight, the light a mild gray from the rain clouds overhead.
I peered through the window in Henry’s back door while I rapped on the glass. Lights were on and there was evidence he was in the midst of a cooking project. For many years, Henry Pitts earned his living as a commercial baker and now that he’s retired, he still loves to cook. He’s lean-faced, tanned, and long-legged, a gent with snowy white hair, blue eyes, a beaky nose, and all of his own teeth. At eighty-six, he’s blessed with intelligence, high spirits, and prodigious energy. He came into the
kitchen from the hallway carrying a stack of the small white terrycloth towels he uses when he cooks. He usually has one tucked in his belt, another resting on his shoulder, and a third that occasionally serves as an oven mitt. He was wearing a navy T-shirt and white shorts, covered by a big baker’s apron that extended past his knees. He set the towels on the counter and hurried to unlock the door, his face wreathed in smiles.
“Well, Kinsey. I didn’t expect you back today. Come on in. What happened to your hand?”
“Long story. In a minute, I’ll give you the abbreviated version.”
He stepped aside and I entered, giving him a hug as I passed. On the counter I could see a tall Mason jar of flour, a shorter jar of sugar, two sticks of butter, a tin of baking powder, a carton of eggs, and a bowl of Granny Smith apples; pie tin, rolling pin, grater.
“Something smells wonderful. What’s cooking?”
Henry smiled. “A surprise for Rosie’s birthday. I’ve got a noodle pudding in the oven. This is a Hungarian dish I hope you won’t ask me to pronounce. I’m also making her a Hungarian apple pie.”
“Which birthday?”
“She won’t say. Last I heard, she was claiming sixty-six, but I think she’s been shaving points for years. She has to be seventy. You’ll be joining us, I hope.”
“I wouldn’t miss it,” I said. “I’ll have to sneak out and find a gift. What time?”
“I’m not going over ‘til six. Sit, sit, sit and I’ll fix a pot of tea.”
He settled me in his rocking chair and put the kettle on for tea while we filled each other in on events during the weeks I’d been gone. In no particular order, we went through the usual exchange of information: the trip, Dietz’s surgery, news from the home front. I laid out the job as succinctly as I could, including the nature of the investigation, the players, and the attack the night before, a process that allowed me to listen to myself. “I have a couple of leads to check. Apparently, Tom was in touch with a local sheriff’s investigator, though, at this point, I’m not sure if the contact was personal or professional. The way I heard it, they had their heads bent together and the woman’s manner was noticeably flirtatious. Strictly rumor, of course, but it’s worth looking into.”
“And if that doesn’t pan out?”
“Then I’m stumped.”
While I finished my tea, Henry put together the pie crust and began to peel and grate apples for the filling. I washed my cup and saucer and set them in his dish rack. “I better whiz out and find a present. Are you dressing for the party?”
“I’m wearing long pants,” he said. “I may rustle up a sports coat. You look fine as you are.”
As it turned out, Rosie’s entire restaurant had been given over to her birthday party. This tacky neighborhood tavern has always been my favorite. In the olden days (five years ago), it was often empty except for a couple of local drunks who showed up daily when it opened and generally had to be carried home. In the past few years, for reasons unknown, the place has become a hangout for various sports teams whose trophies now grace every available surface. Rosie, never famous for her good humor, has nonetheless tolerated this band of testosterone-intoxicated rowdies with unusual restraint. That night, the ruffians were out in full force and in the spirit of the occasion had decorated the restaurant with crepe paper streamers, helium balloons, and hand-lettered banners that read WAY TO GO ROSIE! There was a huge bouquet of flowers, a keg of bad beer, a stack of pizza boxes, and an enormous birthday cake. Cigarette smoke filled the air, lending the room the soft, hazy glow of an old tintype. The sportsers had seeded the jukebox with high-decibel hits from the 1960s and they’d pushed all the tables back so they could do the twist and the Watusi. Rosie looked on with an indulgent smile. Someone had given her a coneshaped hat covered with glitter, a strand of elastic under her chin, and a feather sticking out the top. She wore the usual muumuu, this one hot pink with a three-inch ruffle around the low-cut neck. William looked dapper in a dark three-piece suit, white dress shirt, and a navy tie with red polka dots, but there was no sign of anyone else from the neighborhood. Henry and I sat to one side, he in jeans and a denim sports coat, I in jeans and my good tweed blazer ��� like spectators at a dance contest. I’d spent the better part of an hour at a department store downtown, finally selecting a red silk chemise I thought would tickle her fancy.
We ducked out at ten and scurried home through the rain.
I locked the door behind me and moved through the apartment, marveling at the whole of it: the porthole window in the front door, walls of polished teak and oak, cubbyholes of storage tucked into all the nooks and crannies. I had a sofa bed built into the bay window for guests, two canvas director’s chairs, bookshelves, my desk. Up the spiral stairs, in addition to the closet built into one wall, I had pegs for hanging clothes, a double-bed mattress laid on a platform with drawers built into it, and a second bathroom with a sunken tub and a window looking out toward the ocean. I felt as if I were living on a houseboat, adrift on some river, snug and efficient, warm, blessed with light. I was so thrilled to be home I could hardly bear to go to bed. I crawled, naked, under a pile of quilts and listened to the rain tapping on the Plexiglas skylight. I felt absurdly possessive ��� my pillow, my blanket, my secret hideaway, my home.
The next thing I knew, it was Six A.M. I hadn’t set my alarm, but I woke automatically, reverting to habit. I tuned into the sound of rain, bypassed the thought of jogging, and went back to sleep again. I roused myself at eight and went through my usual morning ablutions. I had breakfast, read the paper, and then set the typewriter case on the desk top. I paused, making a quick trip upstairs where I retrieved my notes from the duffel. My first chore of the morning would be to return the rental car. That done, I’d take a cab to the office, where I’d put in an appearance and catch up with the latest lawyerly gossip. I still hadn’t decided whether to work from the office or home. I’d either stay where I was or bum a ride home from someone at Kingman and Ives.
In the meantime, I thought I’d get my typewriter set up and begin the painful hunt-and-peck addition to my progress report. It wasn’t until I opened the typewriter case that I saw what I’d missed in the process of packing to leave Nota Lake. Someone had taken the middle two rows of typewriter keys and twisted the metal into a hopeless clot. Some of the keys had been broken off and some were simply bent sideways like my fingers. I sat down and stared with a sense of bafflement. What was going on?
Chapter 13
*
I decided to skip the office and concentrate on running down the few leads I had. In my heart of hearts, I knew perfectly well the trashing of my typewriter had taken place in Nota Lake before I’d left. Nonetheless, the discovery was disconcerting and tainted my sense of security and well-being. Annoyed, I opened my bottom desk drawer and took out the Yellow Pages, flicked through to TYPEWRITERS-REPAIRING, and made calls until I found someone equipped to handle my vintage Smith-Corona. I made a note of the address and told the shop owner I’d be there within the hour.
I took out my notes and found the local numbers I’d cribbed from the surface of Tom Newquist’s blotter. When I’d dialed the one number from Tom’s den, the call had been picked up by an answering machine. I was operating on the assumption that the woman I’d heard was the same female sheriff’s investigator Phyllis claimed she’d seen flirting with Tom. If I could have a talk with her, it might go a long way toward cleaning up my questions. I punched in the number. Once again a machine picked up and the same throaty-voiced woman told me what I could do with myself at the sound of the beep. I left my name, my home and office numbers, and a brief message indicating that I’d like to talk to her about Tom Newquist. Next, I called the Perdido Sheriff’s Department, saying: “I wonder if you could help me. I’m trying to get in touch with a sheriff’s investigator, a woman. I believe she’s in her forties or fifties. I don’t have her name, but I think she’s employed by the Perdido County Sheriff’s Department. Does any of this ring a bell?”
“What division?”
“That’s the point. I’m not sure.”
The fellow on the phone laughed. “Lady, we’ve got maybe half a dozen female officers fit that description. You’re going to have to be more specific.”
“Ah. I was afraid of that,” I said. “Well, I guess I’ll have to do my homework. Thanks anyway.”
“You’re entirely welcome.”
I sat there, mentally chewing on my pencil. What to do, what to do. I dialed Phyllis Newquist’s number in Nota Lake and naturally got an answering machine into which I entrusted the following: “Hi, Phyllis. This is Kinsey. I wonder if you could give me the name of the female sheriff’s investigator Tom was in touch with down here. I’ve got a home telephone number, but it would help if you could find out what her name is. That way, I can try her at work and maybe speed things along. Otherwise, I’m stuck waiting for this woman to call back.” Again, I left both my home and office numbers and moved down my mental list.
The second number I’d picked up from Tom’s blotter was for the Gramercy Hotel. I thought that one deserved my personal attention. I tucked Tom’s photograph in my handbag, grabbed my jacket and an umbrella, and headed out into the rain. My fingers, though bruised and swollen, were not throbbing with pain and for that I was grateful. I used my left hand where I could, fumbling with car keys, transferring items from one hand to the other. The simplest transactions were consequently slowed since the splint on my right hand forced me to proceed by awkward degrees. I made a second trip for the typewriter, which I placed on the front seat.
