Several minutes later Klump entered the room carrying the silver tea service. Around the neckline of her dress she had attached some sort of frilly collar with brightly colored glass gems. Her cheek glowed with a florid rouge.
Justin stood, took the tray from her hands. "You live alone, don't you, Miss Klump?"
"Yes. And it can be scary at times. With that man coming and going so freely into Mrs. Carlson's home, I don't mind telling you that every little noise gives me the willies. My word, you're not going to stand there holding the tray, are you, Sergeant? Put it down on the table."
"Maybe the intruder is not a man." Justin put down the tray.
"Not a man? You believe a woman would — ? Well, I wouldn't know about these things. So many unstable people nowadays. It's the drugs." She lifted the cup and saucer. The two porcelain pieces tinkled in her shaking hand. "Oh dear, would you look at that. My hands are practically useless now. Arthritis. And the pain. Well, I'm not one to bore people with my aches and pains. One sugar, wasn't it sergeant?"
"None, thank you." He took the cup and saucer from her trembling hand. "You say you saw Mrs. Carlson leave her house around two. Were you in the yard?"
"I was."
"Did you go anywhere today?"
"No. I never left my property." She stared past Justin's head at the back of the chair. Her eyes narrowed slightly. "I thought you were going to pay me a visit yesterday. I saw you at the O'Briens' house."
"It was closed up tight, just like you said. It's obvious, with the sheets covering the furniture, that they're on an extended vacation. If someone were looking for a place to hide out, the O'Brien house would be ideal."
"Yes, it would, wouldn't it? I'll keep my eyes open. Call you if I see anything.”
"I'd appreciate it." Justin put down his cup and saucer, and stood. "Thank you for talking with me again."
"Oh, it's my pleasure. I welcome the company . . . now and then."
After he left the house, Justin walked to the edge of the bluff and looked down on the house where Alex was entertaining her ex-husband. Would he spend the night? In which bed?
Who gives a rat's ass?
He turned, started to walk toward his car when he saw Klump standing at her living-room window. She smiled and waved. The smile looked strained. The tic danced madly beneath her eye.
Klump was lying.
Thelma Klump waited until Holmes had driven off before leaving the window. Things are getting out of hand now, she thought.
She made her way to the back of the house, then down the steps to the cellar. She crossed the large storage area to a narrow door. She knocked. From within she heard shuffling noises.
"Open up," she said.
A moment later the door partially opened. The man looked at her but said nothing.
"He heard you," she said. "He asked if I lived alone. He knows I live alone." She waited for him to respond. He silently stared at her. "I took you in because you understood my problem. You said you could scare her off, make her sell the house. That's fine. That's what I want. What I don't want is my privacy invaded as well as my rights as a property owner. You said he wouldn't concern himself with a woman living alone. Well, he has. And the bitch is still there."
"Patience.”
"He stole the doily from my chair. Pocketed it as slick as you please. What if he finds your hair on it?"
"He won't find a thing."
Klump turned away, then turned back. "I don't want her hurt."
"No,”
"You'll just scare her?"
"Yes."
She nodded curtly. As she walked away, she told herself at the first opportunity she would have a look at the diary he kept hidden on the inside of that box radio. She had already been through his meager possessions the first week he'd moved in and had found nothing. But positive that he had something to hide, she had sneaked into his room that afternoon while he was down the hill at the Carlson place. For nearly thirty minutes she had searched, finding nothing. Sitting on the bed, perplexed, her gaze had come to rest on the radio atop the bureau. He had brought the radio with him. It dawned on her then that she had never heard it playing. That scratchy old record could be heard most of the night. But never had she heard the radio. Excited, she had pulled off the radio's cardboard back. Inside the gutless cavity she found a neat bundle of papers and a diary.
Yes indeed, she told herself as she climbed the basement stairs, first chance I get I'll read that diary.
Chapter 13
Alex fixed breakfast for Joe and saw him off before ten A.M. At noon she was waiting on the porch when the tan van pulled up to the house. Margie opened the door.
"Don't get out,” Alex said. "You know how crowded the Steak House can get after twelve.”'
"I thought you might want to wait for that old gal coming up your driveway," Margie answered casually, climbing out and slamming the door. "And then again, you might not."
"What old gal?"
"The one who looks like a giant canary on a bike."
Alex suddenly felt uneasy. "Oh, shit.”
"Who is she?"
"The infamous Thelma Klump."
"Ahhh, the one with the pellet gun."
"Did you happen to see a black cat lashed to her handlebars?"
Margie shook her head. "I'm sure I'd've noticed."
Klump came into view. Upon seeing Alex on the porch, she leaped from the rolling bike. It continued on for several yards before it fell to the ground with a clank, tires and pedals spinning. The tall woman in the snug yellow sweat togs and orange sneakers marched to the porch and halted within two feet of Alex, cheeks puffing with each panting breath.
Alex looked down into the mottled red face. Her position above Klurnp gave her a false sense of confidence.
"Hand it over, that . . . that murdering sonofabitch. Hand it over to me now and I won't call the cops."
"Are you referring to my cat?"
"You're damn right. Hand it over."
"Be serious," Alex said, thinking she might have misjudged Klump. The woman wasn't just a multicolored pain in the butt, she was as dingy as a Bronx taxi. Alex glanced over at Margie, who was staring at Klump wide-eyed, her mouth hanging open.
"An eye for an eye, Mrs. Carlson." Thelma Klump shoved a gnarled hand into the pocket of her sweatshirt and hauled out something small and brown. A dead sparrow. Thrusting it toward Alex, she violently shook it. The tiny head, beak open, eyes opaque and staring, whipped about limply. "This is what your precious cat did. I warned you, Mrs. Carlson." Her eyes under nearly lashless lids, were maniacal.
"Look, I'm sorry —"
"It's too late for your puny `I'm sorry," Klump mimicked Alex in a whiney tone. "What's done can't be undone. I want that animal."
"There's no way in hell I'll let you get your hands on my cat. If it's justice you want, then go on, call the cops."
"Call the cops? 'Call the cops’ she says. I'm not blind, Mrs. Hot Stuff. I've seen the police cars come and go from this house. You do filthy things with those so-called lawmakers—admit it." Drops of spittle flew onto the back of Alex's hand. She quickly wiped them away on her pants.
"You're crazy."
"Oh? That detective, sergeant Something-or-other, he comes knocking at my door moments after leaving your bed. Don't think I didn't see the lipstick on his shirt collar. The same shade you have on at this moment. Whore."
"Get off my property," Alex said quietly.
Klump stepped back a half-dozen paces. "You don't belong here. You've no respect for the rights of others. Why don't you just move? Sell the house and get out before you get hurt." Then, drawing back her arm, she flung the dead bird. It hit Alex on the right shoulder with a light feathery thump then dropped to the bottom step, its head hanging grotesquely over the edge of the bricks. "Get off this hill before you get what you deserve."
"What are you talking about?" Alex stepped forward.
Klump laughed as she picked up her 'bike, climbed on, and pedaled out
of sight.
After several silent moments, Margie said, "Holy shit. I never thought I'd be at a loss for words."
"She knows something."
"Imagine getting so pissed over a dead bird that she'd want to retaliate by snuffing Blackie. And to insinuate that you're shacking up with the Reno PD — incredible.”
Alex stared blankly after Klump. "And you said I was persnickety."
At Harrah's, Alex turned her car over to an attendant at valet parking before she and Margie made their way across the plush skyway above Center Street, then headed down again.The Steak House was located below street level in the hotel/casino. Every twenty feet or so Margie stopped to drop a coin into a slot machine. Pulling Margie's sleeve, Alex steered her down the stairs to the restaurant.
The maitre d' stepped forward. "Alex, a pleasure to have you join us today."
"Hello, Bernard. Will there be much of a wait?"
"Never for you. I'll just put you in Mr. Ott's booth. Will he be joining you today?"
"No, he's out of town till Thursday."
Bernard led the way through the dim restaurant, to a booth in the back. They slid in. Then Bernard unfolded the heavy magenta napkins and, with two fingers, draped the linen across the lap of each woman.
"Stefan's working the executive banquet room today, but I'm sure he can take care of you ladies as well."
"Oh, don't go to any trouble for . . ." Alex suddenly realized that Bernard had already disappeared around the partition.
"God, I love to go to lunch with you," Margie said. "I feel like a duchess.”
"That's Greg's influence. I'd just be a plain ol' commoner without him."
Stefan warmly greeted Alex and Margie, recommended the swordfish, took their order, and left. He returned minutes later with a basket of Lavasch and a bottle of chilled Pinot Gris. After pouring wine into each glass, he planted the bottle in the standing ice bucket, said "Enjoy," and moved off again.
The food came. Margie talked of trivial things, asked Alex about innocuous matters. They ate, then, just as they were finishing, Margie dropped the bombshell.
"You're sleeping with Sherlock Holmes, and I seem to be the last to know. Now why is that?"
Alex looked around to make sure no one else in the room had heard. In a low voice she said, "I'm not sleeping with him.”
"'Lipstick on his collar. The very same shade adorning your lips at this moment.’ Did she make that up?"
"No.”
Margie waited.
Alex nervously broke the Lavasch into little pieces. "It was an almost. But it didn't happen, and it's not going to happen.”
"Why?" Margie said in an imploring tone. "Good lord, he didn't try to—he didn't get rough or anything?"
Alex shook her head. "It would have been easier if he had. I can handle that kind.”
"Alex, go for it. Give yourself a treat. Don't make such a big friggin' deal out of it."
"Easy for you to say. You've got Bob and the kids."
"If I didn't have Bob, if I were in your position, that man would have been in my bed by now. So what's your excuse?"
"Ease up, okay? I don't need a man. I can take care of myself."
"Why would you want to? What are you afraid of?"
Alex chewed on her lower lip and looked around the room. "I can't handle it. Being a . . . a . . ."
"A what?"
"Being a one-night stand to some guy. Is that so difficult to understand?"
"So when was the last time that happened?"
"Ed Scoggins."
"Ed? Wait a minute. You dumped him. He called, but you refused to see him or even talk to him"
"I had my reasons. Then there was Mitch, the airline pilot."
"Alex, he was crazy about you."
"He was based in Chicago. With him, it would have been a series of one-night stands." Alex sipped her wine. "And there's Greg. We both know how long he'd stick around if I stopped running and fell into bed with him.”
"Maybe. Maybe not." Margie speared a piece of broccoli. She brought it up to her face as though inspecting it. "You're afraid of him. That's it, isn't it?"
"Afraid of who?"
"Holmes. Scoggins. The pilot. Men you think you're falling for."
"Don't be ridiculous.”
"Why? Why are you afraid?"
Forensic lab technician, Tad Bernsway, had to tear his gaze away from the microscope to answer Justin's question. He sipped coffee from a mug labeled Lab Rat.
"You know as well as I do, Sergeant Holmes," he said in a monotone, "that a few stray hairs without the follicle provide little or no proof of a person's identity. When used with other evidence the examination of hair, at best, may implicate or eliminate an individual."
"Cut the crap, Tad," Justin said, smiling. "Just do the best you can. Okay?"
Bernsway returned the smile. "You got it. But,” he said, holding up a hand, "I can't get to it for a couple days. A week would be more realistic.”
"No problem. I'll be back in the morning."
"Good. You'll have it then."
They both laughed.
"Stick around a minute. Have a cup of coffee."
"I wouldn't drink anything that came from this lab." Justin looked around the cramped, cluttered room with its laboratory equipment — stainless steel trays, esoteric bottles holding God only knew what. A Playboy calendar was tacked on the wall over Bernsway's work table. Justin read the year, 1987. "You could use a new girly calendar, Tad."
"That's the only one Sarah will let me have. She's seen the current ones."
Justin leaned in, put his eye to the microscope and looked at the dish of lifeless tadpoles. "Sperm?"
"Yeah. Wish mine looked like that. Sarah's pregnant again.”
"What's that now, five?"
"Six."
"Ever hear of the term vasectomy?"
"Had one. Those little suckers of mine are like Asiatic roaches—indestructible."
"Have it done again.”
"Nah. The way I look at it, if those or boys can go under the knife and survive to swim back upstream, who am I to play God."
Justin squeezed Bernsway's shoulder. "Get rid of the calendar."
Thelma Klump and her remark, "I hope you get what you deserve," had been heavy on Alex's mind the remainder of the afternoon. Did Klump know something? Had she seen someone? Or was she just a fanatic, spouting off?
When Alex wasn't thinking about Klump, Justin kept stealing into her thoughts; his teasing lips, his warm hands. She realized she did not know if he was committed to someone, or for that matter, married. But what did it matter? He was the detective working on her case. That was all he was. All he'd be.
At dusk the phone rang.
"You've been bad, Allie," the voice whispered. "Slutting around like her. Just like her."
Alex slammed down the receiver. She closed her eyes and made an effort to control her breathing. Somehow he had gotten the unlisted number. She wasn't surprised. But what he had said rocked her badly.
How did he know so much about her? Was he guessing? Or was he seeing everything she did firsthand?
The house was locked up tight. There was no way he could get in to spy on her. Unless . . unless he knew of a secret passage. Saying those words almost made her laugh. Her house wasn't a seventeenth century manor with tunnels and trap doors. It was a modern, tri-level without basement or attic. There was a crawlspace under the house, accessible from the attached garage only. The cathedral ceilings and floor-to-ceiling windows that had made her father's designs so popular left no room for an attic or overhead crawlspace.
Her father had designed the house . . for her. Would he have dared to . . . ?
She took the large flashlight from under the sink and, going downstairs to the garage, lifted the square plywood plank from the floor at the back. Clinging to the plywood, suspended in an erratic web, was a huge, black widow spider hovering protectively over her egg. Alex shuddered, but left it alone. She knelt, waved the beam of th
e flashlight down into the hole. The dirt-packed space, littered with boards and scrap linoleum, was situated directly under her bedroom, and was exactly the same size. She slowly moved the light around the solid walls. To get, a good look she would have to climb down inside and search for a door leading up into her bedroom. That was the only room connected to the crawlspace. The sight of the black widow discouraged her. Without disturbing the spider, she replaced the plank.
She went into her bedroom. Four years ago she had replaced the wall-to-wall carpet, and there had been no trap doors in the floor. Inside the closet, she tapped on walls, looked for anything out of the ordinary. Nothing. The bathroom was all marble and tile; she ignored it. In her painting alcove, she tapped the walls and tile floor. Underneath and to one side of her work table were drawers. On the other side was a large cabinet, nearly empty because it was deep and difficult to reach all the way in. Alex removed the half-dozen rolled canvases and shone the light in the empty space. With the flashlight, she went inside and crawled to the back. The smell of mildew and linseed oil was strong. She tapped the end of the flashlight against the wall.
The light blinked out. It wasn't completely dark in the cabinet, but it was dark enough to make her heart skip several beats. She began to back out, shaking the flashlight.
The unexpected ringing of the phone startled her. She jumped, bumping her head on the low ceiling. Her heart raced. She backed out quickly, instantly thankful for the bright lights.
She grabbed at the receiver.
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