V is for Vengeance

by Sue Grafton

  I circled back to State Street and turned right, rolling past a short stretch of businesses, most of which were closed. Streetlights shone bleakly on a barbershop, a darkened hardware store, a Thai restaurant, and a hair salon. I remembered a small bar along here somewhere because I’d seen it in passing.

  I went around the block and spotted it on my return. I’d missed it the first time because the signage was poor. The name of the bar, Down the Hatch, was painted on the front of the narrow yellow building, which was modestly illuminated. The point was apparently not to attract new patrons, but to cosset the loyal, long-term clientele. The door stood open, revealing a comforting darkness within, relieved by a blue-neon beer sign on the back wall. I parked on the nearest side street and approached on foot. I picked up the smell of cigarette smoke from a hundred yards away. A haze of tar-and-nicotine residue hovered in the doorway like a curtain one had to pass through to gain entry. This meant a trip to the cleaners where I’d picked up my denim jacket the day before. I deserved far more money than I was being paid.

  Once inside, I was assailed by odors of beer, bourbon, and sour dish towels. Two tall clear-glass cylinders with glass lids had been set side by side at the near end of the bar, one holding a murky liquid, brandy perhaps, in which peaches or apricots had been submerged. The other was half filled with pineapple rings and maraschino cherries. The heady scent of fermentation lent an aura of Christmas to the atmosphere. As in many bars, there were assorted television sets mounted across the room, no two tuned to the same channel. One choice was an old black-and-white gangster movie with lots of guys in fedoras toting tommy guns. Option two was a boxing match, and three was a night baseball game probably being played in the Midwest. Rounding out the selection was a home-improvement show in case you were unsure how to use a miter box.

  Marvin stood at the bar, where guys were layered two deep, crowded against the knees of drinkers who’d staked out the black leather bar stools. Marvin wore charcoal dress pants and a sport coat over an open-collared polo shirt. He had a martini glass in one hand and in his other a lighted cigarette. His gaze flicked to me, veered off, and returned. He smiled and raised his glass.

  “Hey, guys, look who’s here. This is that private detective I was telling you about.”

  His coterie of stalwart drinkers turned as one, five pairs of eyes fixed on mine, some more focused than others. There were introductions all around. I made a quick study of the women, easy since there were only two of them. Geneva Beauchamp was in her late fifties, heavyset, with shoulder-length gray hair, bangs cut severely across her forehead. The other woman, Earldeen Rothenberger, was tall, thin, and round-shouldered, with a long neck, slightly undercut chin, and a nose that might have benefited from the gentle adjustments of a plastic surgeon. I had to chide myself. These days when so many women have undergone correction, refinement, and reconstruction, you have to admire those who accept what they were given at birth.

  The men were more difficult to sort out, primarily because there were three of them, and the names came so rapidly I hardly had time to separate them. Clyde Leffler to my immediate left was clean-shaven with a sparse gray pompadour, bony shoulders, and a sunken chest, accentuated by a green V-neck acrylic sweater, which he wore with jeans and running shoes. Buster Somebody, his physical opposite, had a big chest, heavy arms, and a bushy black mustache. The third fellow, Doyle North, had probably been handsome in his twenties, but he hadn’t aged well. The fourth fellow of the sixsome had gone off “to see a man about a dog.” He’d be back shortly and Marvin said he’d introduce him.

  I said, “Don’t worry about it. I’m never going to remember who’s who anyway.” I leaned closer to Marvin so I could make myself heard. “I didn’t know you smoked.”

  “I don’t except occasionally when I drink. Speaking of which, can I buy you one?”

  “No, thanks. I’m a working girl. I have to keep my wits about me.”

  “Come on. A little something. A glass of white wine?”

  I declined, but the words were lost in a momentary outcry of excitement and dismay. I looked up in time to catch a replay of the last few seconds of a prize fight in which one fellow hit the other so hard, you could see his jaw dislocate. Marvin was already inching toward the waitress, who was picking up a tray of drinks at the far end of the bar. I saw him lean in and say something to which she nodded before heading to a table. Marvin made his way back, holding his drink aloft to avoid an errant elbow knocking into it. His cigarette he also held above the fray lest he sear small holes in the clothing of those he sidled past.

  When he reached me, he gave the bartender the high sign, and I watched the man amble over to our end of the bar. Raising his voice, Marvin said, “This is Ollie Hatch. He owns the place. Ollie, this is Kinsey. Anything she wants, she gets.”

  “My pleasure,” Ollie said. He reached across the bar and the two of us shook hands.

  Marvin turned to me. “You have business cards?”

  “I do.” I searched the depths of my shoulder bag and came up with the little metal case in which I carry my cards. I gave him six and he held them up, saying, “Listen, gang. You think of anything that might be useful, Ollie’s got a bunch of Kinsey’s cards. She’d appreciate any help she can get.”

  This did not generate an outpouring of pertinent information, but perhaps the timing was off. He passed the cards across the bar to the owner and then took my arm and steered us to one side. The noise level made it impossible to converse. If he lifted his voice and I tilted my head, I could still pick up only disjointed portions of what he said. “Apologize again for that business with the newspaper gal. Guess I got carried away …”

  “She set you up. She’s done it to me too.”

  “Say again?” Marvin put a finger behind the flange of one ear, pressing the rim forward as though to capture more sound.

  I was about to raise my voice and repeat myself when I decided what I’d said wasn’t worth the effort. I pointed at the door and he pointed quizzically at his chest. I nodded and moved toward the exit with Marvin close behind. I more or less fell through the open door. The fresh air was so chill and clean, it felt like I’d stepped into a refrigerator. The noise level dropped to a blessed hush.

  I said, “I don’t know how you stand it in there. You can’t hear a thing.”

  “You get used to it. Crazy bunch. We call the place the Hatch. We’re Hatchlings. Most of them have been coming here for years. Place is open seven days a week. Tonight was rowdy for some reason. Lot of times it’s dead. You take it as it comes.”

  He glanced down. “Hey now, the waitress never brought your drink. Hang on and let me see if I can catch her …”

  “I’m not here to drink. I’m hoping to pick up the key to Audrey’s house in San Luis. I’ve got time in the morning to make the round-trip drive.”

  “Yeah, well that’s just it. I don’t have a key. All I have is the address, which I don’t remember offhand. You have a minute to stop by? I live a block from here.”

  “I don’t want you cutting your evening short.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’m here three, four nights a week as it is, so it’s not like I’m in danger of missing anything fun.”

  “Such as what,” I asked.

  “Oh, you know. Sometimes Earldeen topples backward off her bar stool, but she usually doesn’t hurt herself. You have a car?”

  “Parked around the corner. Don’t you want to settle your bill first?”

  “Nah. I keep a running tab and pay at the end of the month.”

  We walked the half block to my car and I ferried him from there to his house, which was literally one block away. I parked out front and followed him up the walk, waiting while he sorted through his ring of keys and unlocked the front door. He reached around the frame and switched on the overhead lights. He went in first and made a quick circuit through the living room, turning on table lamps. The living room and dining L were both tidy and there was no reason to believe the rest of
the house was any different.

  I said, “So tidy.”

  “Place was a mess before Audrey moved in. She talked me into a cleaning lady, which I never bothered with. I figured it was me on my own and what difference did it make? She set me straight on that score.”

  “Women tend to do that.”

  “Not my wife. Margaret wasn’t much of a housekeeper. She was more the creative type. She was a daydreamer. Most of the time she walked around in a fog. She just didn’t see the chaos. She saw what she meant to do with it, but hadn’t gotten around to yet. Kitchen looked like a bomb hit it, but in her mind’s eye she was getting everything under control. Company showed up, she’d shove dirty dishes and all the bric-a-brac in the oven to get it out of sight. Then she’d forget and preheat the oven and the place would fill with smoke and the alarm would go off. What did I know? My mother was the same way so I thought that was normal.”

  While he talked, he crossed to a small rolltop desk and opened the middle drawer in a bank of cubbyholes. He took out a notepad and leafed through it until he found what he was looking for. “Address is 805 Wood Lane. A piece of mail showed up here for her and I made a note. I guess in case I wanted to send flowers or something. What a laugh.” He ripped off the leaf and handed it to me. “Audrey mentioned her landlady lived right next door so maybe you can get a key from her.”

  “Worth a try,” I said. “Something I need to ask you. I have a friend who’s a cop, and he told me Audrey’s body was still at the coroner’s office. So what was with the coffin if she wasn’t in there?”

  “Mr. Sharonson provided one if I promised to have her buried in it once the body was released. It just seemed fitting, you know? Someone dies, you have a visitation. You think that was bad?”

  “Of course not. It just took me by surprise.”

  “Sorry if it seemed dishonest. I wanted to do right by her.”

  “I understand,” I said. “While I’m here, would you mind my taking a look at her things?”

  “You can do that. Sure. Doesn’t amount to much. The desk was hers. My office is in the second bedroom. I cleared two drawers of a chest of drawers in the master. In the bathroom, she’s got the usual shampoo, deodorant, that kind of thing.”

  “Let’s start there.”

  “You want me to hang around or make myself scarce?”

  “Come with me. That way, if anything comes up, I can ask questions while I search.”

  He showed me into the bathroom off the master bedroom. “Margaret and I remodeled fifteen years ago. Tore out a wall here and opened these two bedrooms to form a master suite. Doesn’t look like much compared to new houses these days, but we were happy. We did a bump out in the kitchen to make like a breakfast nook and then added a screened-in porch.”

  I made what I hoped were appropriate responses while I sorted through the medicine cabinet and the vanity drawers she’d been allotted. He was right about her medications—no prescriptions at all. Sixty-three years old, you’d think she’d be into hormone-replacement therapy or thyroid medication, pills for high blood pressure or elevated cholesterol levels. Her personal hygiene products were just what you’d expect. Nothing exotic. I’d have been happy to see a tube of Mary Kay lipstick, just for the chance to track it back to the local rep.

  “The police still have her purse,” he said apropos of nothing.

  “Doesn’t surprise me. Too bad she didn’t take prescription meds. We might have tracked down her doctor and learned a thing or two.”

  When he saw that I’d run out of drawers to tackle, he said, “Bedroom’s this way.”

  I followed him into the bedroom where he pointed out the drawers she used. When I opened the first, I was greeted by a soft cloud of fragrance—lilac, gardenia, and something else.

  Marvin took a step back. “Whoa …”

  “What?”

  “That’s the White Shoulders I gave her on our six-month anniversary. It was like her signature perfume.” He shook his head once and his eyes flooded with tears.

  “Are you okay?”

  He gave his eyes a quick swipe. “Took me by surprise is all.”

  “You can wait for me in the other room if it’s easier.”

  “No need.”

  I went back to my search. Audrey’s tidiness extended to her lingerie. In both drawers, she was using fabric-covered boxes to store her neatly folded underpants, bras, and panty hose. I felt my way through the items without discovering anything. I pulled the drawers all the way out and checked for papers or other items taped under them or on the back. Zip.

  I crossed to the closet and opened the door. There were rods for double hanging, cubbyholes, shelf dividers, wire baskets, and cedar-lined shelves tucked away behind clear Lucite doors. Her wardrobe struck me as skimpy for a working woman. Two suits, two skirts, and a jacket. Of course, this was California, and work clothes were more casual and relaxed than in other places.

  Marvin’s side of the closet was as organized as hers. I said, “You guys are something else. She must have had a closet company come in and do this.”

  “Matter of fact, she did.”

  I removed stacks of folded sweaters, felt along the seams for anything hidden. I checked the pockets in her slacks and jackets, opened shoe boxes, and rooted through the laundry hamper. There was nothing of interest.

  I returned to the small desk in the living room, where I sat down and worked my way through the drawers he’d cleared for her. No address book, no month-at-a-glance calendar, no appointment book. It was possible her route was preset and she had no need to make penciled reminders to herself. But what about the ordinary day-to-day transactions? Everyone has to-do lists, scraps of paper, scratch pads with scribbled notes. There was none of that here. Which meant what? If Audrey had decided to kill herself, she might have systematically deleted anything of a personal nature. I wasn’t sure why she’d be that secretive unless she was paranoid about anything connected to her shoplifting extravaganzas. She’d been working with a younger woman. If the two were linked to a larger retail-theft ring, even a fragment of information might be telling. So maybe the other woman was the one who kept track of their activities.

  The flip side of the issue was just as troubling. What if she hadn’t killed herself? If she’d been murdered, she probably didn’t have warning and therefore she’d have had no opportunity to erase personal or professional references. Did she tidy up after herself as she went along? I had to credit her with a job well done. So far, she was invisible.

  I sat in her desk chair and pondered the situation. Marvin had been good about keeping his comments to a minimum. I turned and looked at him. “When it came to business travel, what was the pattern?”

  “She was usually gone three days a week.”

  “The same three days or did it vary?”

  “It was pretty much the same. She’d be gone Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, and every other Saturday. With outside sales, you usually have a regular route for customers you visit or stores you service. Plus, you make a certain number of cold calls, developing new contacts.”

  “Was she in town last Friday when she was ordinarily gone?”

  “I have no idea. She said she’d be away the usual three days. She worked from home on Monday and Tuesday and then took off, saying she’d be back first thing Saturday morning.”

  “In time for her regular hair appointment.”

  “Right. That and the real estate agent.”

  I changed my focus. “Did she have hobbies? It may sound irrelevant, but I’m looking for any kind of crack in the wall.”

  “No hobbies. No exercise program, no sports, and she didn’t cook. She used to make jokes about what a rube she was in the kitchen. If I didn’t do the cooking myself, we went to restaurants, did takeout, or ordered in. She liked anything that could be delivered. Lot of times we ate at the Hatch, which has a limited menu of bar food—burgers and fries, nachos, chili, and these premade burritos you can heat in the microwave.”

 
I was already thinking about whizzing back over to the Hatch to catch a bite to eat before the kitchen closed for the night. I returned my focus to the job at hand. “Where did she do her banking?”

  “No idea. I never saw her write a check.”

  “Did she cover her share of the living expenses?”

  “Sure, but she paid me in cash.”

  “No checking account?”

  “Not as far as I know. She might have had a checkbook in her purse, but the cops still have that and I doubt they’d provide us an inventory.”

  “Did she pitch in on groceries?”

  “When she was in town. I covered the household because my name’s on the mortgage and I have to pay water and electric whether she’s here or not.”

  “What about when you went out to dinner?”

  “I’m old-school. I don’t believe a lady should pay. If I invited her for a meal, it was my treat.”

  “Did she explain her reliance on cash? Seems quirky to me.”

  “She said she got into debt at one point, overdrawing her account, and the only way she could curb her spending was to switch to all cash.”

  “What about credit card statements?”

  “No cards.”

  “Not even a credit card for gas when she was on the road?”

  “Not that I ever saw.”

  “How about telephone bills? Surely, she made business calls on days she worked from home.”

  He considered the question. “You’re right. I should have thought of that myself. I’ll pull the phone bills for the months she was living here and mark any numbers I don’t recognize.”

  “Don’t worry about it until I’ve checked the house in San Luis. That might be a gold mine of information.”