"T" is for Trespass (23 page)

Mr. Vronsky's efforts had left him shaking, which she could have warned him about if he'd asked. She helped him into the living room so he could watch his favorite television show. She sat beside him on the sofa and apologized for losing her temper. Even though he'd provoked her, she swore it wouldn't happen again. She was fond of him, she said. He needed her and she needed him.

“Without me, you'd have to go into a nursing home. How would you like that?”

“I want to stay here.”

“Of course you do and I'll do everything I can to help you. But no complaints. You must never talk to anyone about me.”

“I won't.”

“That young woman who comes over. You know who I mean?”

The old man nodded, not meeting her gaze.

“If you complain to her—if you communicate in any way—Tiny will hurt her badly and the fault will be yours. Do you understand?”

“I won't say anything,” he whispered.

“That's a good boy,” she said. “Now that you have me, you'll never be lonely again.”

He seemed grateful and humble in the wake of her kindness. When his show was over, as a reward for his good behavior, she fondled him in a way that would help him relax. Afterward, he was docile and she sensed the bond that was building between them. Their physical relationship was new, but she'd bided her time, easing him into it day by day. He'd been raised a gentleman and he'd never admit what she did to him.

She'd been smart to get rid of the volunteer from Meals on Wheels. She didn't like leaving the back door unlocked, and she loathed Mrs. Dell, with her fancy salon hairdo and pricey mink coat. She was totally absorbed in her do-gooder image of herself. If Solana was present when she arrived with the meals, she might offer a pleasantry, but there was no conversation between them, and the woman seldom thought to ask about the old man. Solana had put a halt to the service nonetheless. There was always the chance that she might notice something and report it to someone else.

 

Monday morning, Solana gave the old man a double dose of his “medicine.” He'd sleep for two solid hours, which would give her plenty of time to drive to Colgate and back. She needed to get home to see what Tiny was up to. She couldn't quite count on him to stay put. She thought she'd bring him back to the house again so she'd have help getting Gus in and out of the shower when he woke. As long as she kept a close eye on the old man, it was probably a smart move to let him have visitors now and again. Before she left, she unplugged the phone in his room and stood by the bed, watching him. As soon as his breathing was deep and regular, she put on her coat and picked up her purse and car keys.

As she was turning the thumb lock, she heard the muffled slam of a car door and she stopped in her tracks. An engine started up. She stepped over to the window and stood to one side with her back to the wall. From that angle, she had a truncated view of the street, but she wouldn't be visible to anyone outside. When the blue Mustang passed, she saw Kinsey lean forward, craning as though to get one more look at the house. What was so interesting?

For the second time, Solana turned and surveyed the room. Her gaze brushed past the desk and came back. There was something different. She crossed the room and stood there, studying the cubbyholes, trying to figure out what had changed. She pulled out the packet of bankbooks and suffered a painful stab of surprise. Someone had taken off the rubber band and removed the passbook for one of the savings accounts. In addition, the checkbook seemed thinner, and when she opened it she realized the register was gone. Oh dear god. Her gaze returned to the window. Two people had been in the house during the past week—Mr. Pitts and the infuriating Kinsey Millhone. One of them had done this, but how had they managed it and when?

 

As she unlocked the door to her apartment, she knew the place was empty. The television set was dark. The kitchen counters were littered with the dregs of his meals over the past few days. She moved down the short hall to Tiny's room and flipped on the overhead light. She was a neat person by nature and she was always appalled by his slovenly ways. She'd badgered him incessantly as a boy, forcing him to tidy his room before she allowed him to do anything else. By the time he reached his teens, he outweighed her by 150 pounds and all the nagging in the world had no effect. He'd sit and look at her with those big cow eyes, but what she said and what she did had no power to move him. She could beat on him all day long, but it only made him laugh. Next to him, she was small and ineffectual. She'd given up her attempts to change or control him. The best she could hope for now was to confine his messes to the home front. Unfortunately, now that she was spending most of her time with the old man, Tiny felt free to live any way he pleased. She checked the bathroom they shared and was annoyed at the sight of his bloody handprints. Sometimes he liked to punch and cut, and he wasn't always good at cleaning up after himself.

She went into her room and spent a few minutes picking up the panty hose, underwear, and discarded clothing strewn on the floor. Some of the flashier garments she hadn't had occasion to wear in years. Having tidied up, she gathered the articles she wanted to take with her to the old man's house. She was beginning to like it there and she was determined to stay. She'd put the machinery in motion, as she had twice before in her search for permanence. She wanted to set down roots. She wanted to feel free, without having to look over her shoulder to see if the law was catching up with her. She was tired of living like a gypsy, always on the move. She had a fleeting fantasy of life without anyone getting in her way. Mr. Vronsky was tiresome, but he had his uses—for now, at any rate. Her current problem was rounding up Tiny, her Tonto, who usually didn't go far by day. If he disappeared after supper, there was no point in wondering where he'd gone or what he was up to.

She locked the apartment and returned to her car, prepared to circle the neighborhood in search of him. There was a service station with an auto-repair garage where he liked to hang out. Something about the smell of hot metal and grease appealed to him. Also the car wash next door. He liked watching the dirty vehicles go in the one end and come out the other end, clean and dripping with water. He could stand for an hour, looking at the swinging lengths of canvas that swished against the sides and over the tops of the cars. He loved the twisted worms of soap that shot out on the tires and the hot wax spray that made the finish shiny. For a while, she hoped he'd get a job there, wiping the beads of moisture from cars at the end of the run. That was something he could do. Tiny thought about life in concrete terms: what was happening right now, what was set in front of him, what he wanted to eat, what warranted a scolding, what netted him a swat. His view of the world was flat and uncomplicated. He was a man with no curiosity and no personal insight. He had no ambition and no urge to do anything except fritter away his time watching television at home, and then doing whatever he did when he went out. Better not to pursue that issue, she thought.

Solana drove the streets slowly and kept a sharp eye out for the bulk of him. He'd be wearing his denim jacket. He'd have his black watch cap pulled down around his ears. No sign of him at the service station. No sign of him at the car wash. She finally spotted him coming out of the corner minimart. She'd passed the mom-and-pop market before, but he must have been inside, buying cigarettes and candy bars with the money she'd left for him. She slowed to a stop and honked. He lumbered over to the car and got in on the passenger's side, slamming the door. He was smoking a cigarette and chewing gum. What a bumpkin he was.

“Put that out. You know I don't allow you to smoke in my car.”

She watched him roll the window down and toss out his lighted cigarette. He stuck his hands in his jacket pockets, clearly tickled about something.

Irritated, she went on. “What are you so happy about?”

“Nofing.”

“‘Nofing's not a word. Say ‘noth-thing.' What's in your pocket?”

He shook his head as though he didn't know what she meant.

“Did you steal something?”

He said no, but his tone was grumpy. He was too simple to lie and she knew by the expression on his face that she'd caught him again. She pulled over to the curb. “Empty your pockets right now.”

He made a show of disobeying, but she smacked him in the head and he complied, taking out two small bags of M&M's and a packet of beef jerky.

“What's the matter with you? Last time you did this, I told you never again. Didn't I say that to you? What's going to happen if you get caught?”

She rolled the window down and tossed out the treats. He set up a wail, making the mooing sound that so annoyed her. He was the only person she knew who actually said the word
wah
when he cried. “No more stealing. You hear me? And none of that other stuff. Because you know I can send you back to that ward. Do you remember where you were? Do you remember what they did to you?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, they can do that again if I say the word.”

She studied him. What was the point in reprimanding the boy? He did what he did in the hours when he was gone. Many days she'd caught sight of his hands, knuckles darkly bruised and swollen like mitts. She shook her head in despair. She knew if she pushed him too far, he'd turn on her as he had in the past.

When she reached the block they lived on she turned down the alleyway, searching for a parking spot. Most of the slots in the carport were empty. The apartment complex behind theirs had a constant turnover of tenants, which meant that parking spaces were available on a shifting basis as renters came and went. She caught sight of a blue Mustang parked in the fire lane at the end of the alley, tucked up along the side of the building.

She couldn't believe her eyes. No one parked there. A sign had been posted saying it was a fire lane and had to be kept clear. Solana rolled on by, turning to stare at the vehicle. She knew whose it was. She'd seen it less than an hour before. What was Kinsey doing here? She could feel the ripples of panic rising in her chest. She made a small sound, somewhere between a gasp and a moan.

Tiny said, “What's the matter,” leaving out most of the consonants and flattening the vowels.

She turned from the alleyway onto the street. “We're not stopping here right now. I'll take you to the Waffle House and buy you breakfast. You should quit smoking. It's bad for you.”

At 11:10 Monday morning, I climbed the stairs to the second floor of the three-story apartment building where the Guffeys lived. I could hear a steady splatting of water and assumed the gardener or a maintenance man was hosing down the walks. I hadn't had the pleasure of meeting Grant Guffey, but his wife was hostile and I wasn't looking forward to another pissing contest. Why had I agreed to do this? During the walk-through, even if I saw great gaping holes in the walls, they'd deny responsibility, swearing up and down that the holes had been there from day one. I didn't have a copy of the inspection sheet they'd signed when they took the place. I knew Compton was meticulous about this phase of the rental process, which was what allowed him to be so tough on his tenants when they moved out. If there was visible damage and the Guffeys protested, we'd be reduced to a ridiculous “Did too! Did not!” argument.

I'd left my car in the alleyway below, parked close to the building at an angle where it wouldn't be visible from their back window. Not that they'd know my car, but a touch of caution is never a bad thing. The spot was posted as a fire lane, but I hoped I wouldn't be there long. If I heard sirens or smelled smoke, I'd run like a little bunny and retrieve my poor vehicle before it was crushed by a fire truck. This was the last time I was doing Compton's dirty work. It wasn't like I was doing it for free, but I had other business to take care of. The specter of Melvin Downs flickered across my mind, bringing with it a slow, heavy dread.

When I reached the top of the stairs I could see a widening pool of water pouring from under the door to Apartment 18. The flood was spilling over the edge of the second-floor walkway, hitting the concrete patio below, creating the illusion of rain I'd heard mere moments before. Oh joy. I waded to the front door, creating ripples as I went. The drapes had been pulled across the windows so I couldn't see in, but when I knocked, the door swung inward on a creaking hinge. In movies, this is the moment when the audience wants to scream a warning: Don't go in there, you twit! A door swinging open usually signifies a body on the floor, and the fearless detective will be blamed for the shooting after foolishly picking up the weapon to inspect it for gunpowder residue. I was too smart for that.

Gingerly, I peered in. The water was now flirting with the tops of my tennis shoes, thus soaking my socks. The place was not only empty, but thoroughly trashed. Water was gushing out of the bathroom from numerous ruptured plumbing fixtures: sink, shower, shattered toilet, and tub. The wall-to-wall carpet had been shredded with a sharp instrument, and the strands leaned away from the rush of water like long waving grass in a fast-moving stream. The kitchen cabinets had been ripped off the wall and left in a splintered pile in the middle of the floor.

If the place had come furnished, all the furniture had been stolen or sold, because aside from a few coat hangers, there was nothing else to be seen. At the rate the water was flowing, I thought it was a safe bet to anticipate a virtual rain forest in the apartment below. My tennis shoes made a squishing sound as I backed out the door.

A man said, “Hey.”

I looked up. A fellow was bending over the third-floor railing. I shaded my eyes to see him against the glare.

“Got a problem down there?” he asked.

“Can I use your phone? I need to call the police.”

“I figured as much so I called 'em myself. If that's your car out back, you better move it or you'll get ticketed.”

“Thanks. Do you have any idea where I can find the water shut-off valve?”

“Clueless.”

After moving my car, I spent the next hour with the county sheriff's deputy who'd arrived ten minutes after the call went out. While I waited, I'd gone down to Apartment 10 and knocked but couldn't rouse anyone. The tenants were probably off at work and wouldn't learn of the watery disaster until five o'clock that day.

The deputy managed to get the water turned off, which brought out a second round of tenants, outraged and distressed by the interruption to their service. One woman emerged, wrapped in a terry-cloth bathrobe, her hair in a helmet of bubbling shampoo.

I borrowed the upstairs neighbor's phone and called the Hyatt in San Francisco, swearing I'd leave him money for the long-distance charges. Miraculously, Richard Compton was in his hotel room. When I told him what was going on, he said, “Shit!”

He gnawed on the problem for a moment and then said, “Okay. I'll take care of it. Sorry to put you through this.”

“You want me to call a restoration company about the water damage? They can at least get big fans and dehumidifiers out here. If you don't get right on it, the floors will warp and you'll have mold growing in the walls.”

“I'll get the manager from another building started on that. He can call the company we use. Meantime, I'll get in touch with my insurance agent and have him send someone out.”

“I guess the Guffeys won't be getting their deposit back.”

He laughed, but not much.

After we'd hung up, I took a moment to assess the situation.

Between Melvin Downs's disappearance and the Guffeys' vandalism, I didn't see how things could get worse. Which just goes to show how little I know about life.

 

The rest of Monday was uneventful. Tuesday morning, I took my metaphorical hat in hand and met with Lowell Effinger to deliver the news about Melvin Downs. I'd seen Effinger on two previous occasions and our dealings thereafter had been conducted on the phone. Sitting across the desk from him, I noticed how tired he looked, smoky gray pouches under his eyes. He was a man in his early sixties with a tangle of curly hair that had turned from salt and pepper to white since I'd seen him last. He had a strong chin and jaw, but his face looked as crumpled as a paper bag. I wondered if he had personal problems, but I didn't know him well enough to ask. He spoke in a deep voice that rumbled up from his chest. “You know where he worked?”

“Not specifically. Probably near City College because that's where he caught the bus. When the driver told me where he lived, I was so busy trying to connect with him there, I didn't worry about where he worked.”

“If he moved out of his room, he probably quit his job, don't you think?”

“Well, it's worth pursuing in any event. I'll go back over to the hotel and talk to Mrs. Von. I've seen her so often she might as well adopt me by now. She claims a policy of minding her own business, but I'll bet she knows more than she's told me so far. I can also talk to some of the other residents while I'm there.”

“Do what you can. If nothing turns up in the next few days, we'll revisit the issue.”

“I wish I'd been quicker. When I talked to him Saturday, he gave no indication he was planning to leave. Of course, he'd just gone out and scored a couple of cardboard boxes, but it didn't occur to me he'd be using them to
pack
.”

 

Thirty minutes later I found myself at the residence hotel for the umpty-ninth time. This round, I caught Mrs. Von coming out of the kitchen with a cup of tea in hand. She wore a sweater over her housedress, and I could see a peek of the tissue she'd tucked up her sleeve. “You again,” she said, but with no particular animosity.

“I'm afraid so. Do you have a minute?”

“If it's in reference to Mr. Downs, I have all the time you want. He left without giving notice so that does it for me. This is my afternoon off so if you'd care to come into my apartment, we can talk.”

“Happy to,” I said.

“Would you like a cup of tea?”

“No, thanks.”

She opened a door at the rear of the office. “This was originally the servants' quarters,” she remarked as she went in.

I trailed behind her, taking in the rooms at a glance.

“In my grandparents' day, servants were expected to be invisible unless they were hard at work. This was their parlor and the anteroom where they took all their meals. The cook prepared food for them, but nothing like the meals that were served in the formal dining room. The servants' bedrooms were in the attic, above the third floor.”

She was using the two rooms as a bedroom and sitting room, both done in pinks and mauves, with a surfeit of family photographs in silver-plated frames. Four Siamese cats lounged on the furniture, barely stirring from their morning naps. Two regarded me with interest, and one eventually got up, stretched, and crossed the room to take a little sniff of my hand.

“Don't mind them. They're my girls,” she said. “Jo, Meg, Beth, and Amy. I'm Marmee,” she said. She took a seat on the sofa, setting her teacup to one side. “I assume your interest in Mr. Downs has to do with the lawsuit.”

“Exactly. You have any guesses about where he went? He must have family somewhere.”

“He has a daughter in town. I don't know her married name, but I'm not sure it matters. The two are estranged and they have been for years. I don't know the details, except that she refuses to let him see his grandsons.”

“Sounds meanspirited,” I said.

“I wouldn't know. He only mentioned her the once. Naturally my ears pricked up.”

“Did you ever notice the tattoo on his right hand?”

“I did, though he seemed so self-conscious about it I tried not to look. What did you make of it?”

“I suspect he'd been in prison.”

“I wondered about that myself. I will say in the time he lived here, his behavior was exemplary. As far as I was concerned, as long as he kept his room neat and paid his rent on time, I saw no reason to pry. Most people have secrets.”

“So if you knew he'd been convicted of a crime, it wouldn't have precluded your taking him as a tenant.”

“That's what I said.”

“You know what kind of work he did?”

She thought about that briefly and then shook her head. “Nothing that required a degree. He said more than once how much he regretted not finishing high school. Wednesday nights, when he came in late, I thought he was attending night school. ‘Adult education,' I believe they call it these days.”

“When he first showed up looking for a room, did he fill out an application?”

“He did, but after three years, I destroy them. I have enough paper cluttering my life. Truth is, I'm mighty careful about my tenants. If I'd thought he was a man of low character, I'd have turned him down, whether he'd been in prison or no. As I recall, he listed no personal references, which struck me as odd. On the other hand, he was clean and well spoken, clearly intelligent. He was also gentle by nature, and I never heard him swear.”

“I guess if he had something to hide, he'd be too smart to put it on an application.”

“That'd be my guess as well.”

“I understand he was chummy with a guy on the second floor. You mind if I talk to him?”

“Talk to anyone you like. If Mr. Downs had been honorable about giving notice, I'd have kept my observations to myself.” She paused to look at her watch. “Now unless you need something more, I'd best get on with my day.”

“What's the name of the gentleman in room number five?”

“Mr. Waibel. Vernon.”

“Is he in?”

“Oh, yes. He lives on his disability checks and seldom goes out.”