C is for Corpse (19 page)

“And she's from New Mexico? I thought someone told me it was Idaho.”

“Oh, she's lived everywhere. She's a gypsy at heart. She's even talking me into it. You know, just take off into the sunset. Big RV and a map of the States. Go where the road takes us. I feel like she's added twenty years to my life.”

I wanted to question him more closely, but I heard Lila's “yoo hoo” at the screen door and her face appeared, wreathed in saucy curls. She put a hand to her cheek when she saw me, turning all sheepish and coy.

“Oh, Kinsey. I bet I know just what you're doing
here,” she said. She came into the kitchen and paused for a moment, hands clasped in front of her as though she might drop to her knees in prayer. “Now don't say a word until I get this out,” she went on. She paused to peer over at Henry. “Oh Henry, you did tell her how sorry I was to fuss at her that way.” She was using a special “little” voice.

Henry put an arm around her, giving her a squeeze. “I've already explained and I'm sure she understands,” he said. “I don't want you to worry any more about that.”

“But I do worry, Puddy, and I won't feel right about it 'til I tell her myself.”

Puddy?

She came over to the stool where I was perched and took my right hand, pressing it between her own.

“I am so sorry. I tell you I am so apologetic for what I said to you and I beg your forgiveness.” Her tone was contrite and I thought Puddy was going to get all choked up. She was making deep eye contact with me and a couple of her rings were digging into my fingers rather painfully. She had apparently turned the ring around so that the stones were palm inward, producing maximum effect as she tightened her grip.

I said, “Oh, that's all right. Don't think another thing about it. I'm sure I won't.”

Just to show her what a brick I was, I got up and put my left arm around her just the way Henry had. I gave her the same little squeeze, easing my foot across the toe of her right shoe and leaning forward slightly. She pulled back from the waist, but I managed to keep my
foot where it was so that we were standing hip to hip. We locked eyes for a moment. She gave me a gooey smile and then eased her grip. I shifted my weight from her foot, but not before two coins of color had appeared high up on her cheeks like a cockatiel.

Puddy seemed pleased that we'd come to this new understanding and I was too. I made my excuses and departed soon after that. Lila had stopped looking at me altogether by then and I noticed that she had sat down abruptly, easing off one shoe.

 

 

 

 

 

 

I let myself into my apartment and poured a glass of wine and then I made myself a sandwich with creamed cheese and thinly sliced cucumbers and onions on dark bread. I cut it in half and used a piece of paper toweling as a combination napkin and dinner plate, toting sandwich and wineglass into the bathroom. I opened my bathroom window a crack and ate standing in the tub, peering out at intervals to see if Henry and Lila were departing for their dinner date. At 6:45, they came around the corner of the building and Henry unlocked his car, opening the door for her on the passenger side. I eased into an upright position, ducking back out of sight until I heard him start the car and pull away.

I'd finished dinner by then and I had nothing to do in the way of dishes except to wad up my paper towel and throw it in the trash, feeling inordinately pleased with myself. I traded my sandals for tennis shoes, grabbed up my master keys, my key picks, penknife,
and a flashlight, then headed down the block to Moza Lowenstein's house, where I rang the bell. She peered out of the side window at me in perplexity, then opened the door.

“I couldn't think who it was at this hour,” she said. “I thought Lila must be coming back for something she forgot.”

I don't ordinarily visit Moza and I could tell she was wondering what I was doing on her doorstep. She moved back and admitted me, smiling timidly. The television was tuned to a rerun of
M.A.S.H.
, helicopters whipping up a cloud of dust.

“I thought I'd do a little background check on Lila Sams,” I said, while “Suicide Is Painless” played merrily.

“Oh, but she's just gone out,” Moza said in haste. It was already occurring to her that I was up to no good and I guess she thought she could head me off.

“Is this her room back here?” I asked, moving into the corridor. I knew Moza's bedroom was the one at the end of the hall to the left. I figured Lila's must be the former “spare” room.

Moza lumbered after me. She's a big woman, suffering from some condition that makes her feet swell. Her expression was a cross between pain and bewilderment.

I tried the knob. Lila's door was locked.

“You can't go in there.”

“Really?”

She was looking fearful by now and she didn't seem reassured by the sight of the master key I was easing into the keyhole. This was a simple house lock requiring
only a skeleton key, several styles of which I had on a ring.

“You don't understand,” she said again. “That's locked.”

“No, it's not. See?” I opened the door and Moza put a hand on her heart.

“She'll come back,” she said with a quaking voice.

“Moza, I'm not going to take anything,” I said. “I will work with great care and she'll never know I was here. Why don't you sit out there in the living room and keep an eye open, just in case? O.K.?”

“She'll be so angry if she finds out I let you in,” she said to me. Her eyes were as mournful now as a basset hound's.

“But she won't find out, so there's nothing to worry about. By the way, did you ever find out what little town in Idaho she's from?”

“Dickey is what she told me.”

“Oh good. I appreciate that. She never mentioned living in New Mexico, did she?”

Moza shook her head and began to pat her chest as if she were burping herself. “Please hurry,” she said. “I don't know what I'd do if she came back.”

I wasn't sure myself.

I eased into the room and closed the door, flipping on the light. On the other side of the door, I heard Moza shuffling back toward the front of the house, murmuring to herself.

The room was furnished with an ancient wood-veneer bedroom suite that I doubt could be called “antique.” The pieces looked like the ones I've seen out on
thrift-shop sidewalks in downtown Los Angeles: creaky, misshapen, smelling oddly of wet ash. There was a chiffonier, matching bedtables, a dressing table with a round mirror set between banks of drawers. The bed frame was iron, painted a flaking white, and the spread was chenille in a dusty rose with fringe on the sides. The wallpaper was a tumble of floral bouquets, mauve and pale rose on a gray background. There were several sepia photographs of a man whom I imagined was Mr. Lowenstein; someone, at any rate, who favored hair slicked down with water and spectacles with round gold rims. He appeared to be in his twenties, smooth and pretty with a solemn mouth pulled over slightly protruding teeth. The studio had tinted his cheeks a pinkish tone, slightly at odds with the rest of the photo, but the effect was nice. I'd heard that Moza was widowed in 1945. I would have loved seeing a picture of her in those days. Almost reluctantly, I turned back to the task at hand.

Three narrow windows were locked on the inside, shades drawn. I moved over and peered out of one, catching a glimpse of backyard through screens rusted into the old wooden frames. I checked my watch. It was only seven. They'd be gone, at the very least, an hour, and I didn't think I needed to provide myself an emergency exit. On the other hand, there isn't any point in being dumb about these things. I went back to the door and opened it, leaving it ajar. Moza had turned off the TV set and I pictured her peeking through the front curtain, heart in her throat, which is about where mine was.

It was still light outside, but the room was gloomy even with the overhead light on. I started with the chiffonier. I did a preliminary survey, using my flashlight to check for any crude attempts at security. Sure enough, Lila had booby-trapped a couple of drawers by affixing a strand of hair slyly across the crack. I removed these beauties and placed them carefully on the hand-crocheted runner on top.

The first drawer contained a jumble of jewelry, several belts coiled together, embroidered handkerchiefs, a watch case, hairpins, a few stray buttons, and two pairs of white cotton gloves. I stared for a long time, without touching anything, wondering why any of it warranted a protective strand of hair. Actually, anybody snooping in Lila's things would probably start here and work down, so maybe it was just a ready reference on her part, a checkpoint each time she returned to her room. I tried the next drawer, which was filled with neat piles of nylon underpants in a quite large old-lady style. I ran an experimental finger down between the stacks, being careful not to disturb the order. I couldn't feel anything significant; no handgun, no unidentifiable boxes or bumps.

On an impulse, I opened the first drawer again and peered up at the underside. Nothing taped to the bottom. I pulled the whole drawer out and checked along the back. Hello! Score one for my team. There was an envelope encased in plastic, sealed flat against the back panel of the drawer and secured by masking tape on all four sides. I took out my penknife and slid the small blade under one corner of the tape, peeling it up so I
could remove the envelope from the plastic housing. In it was an Idaho driver's license in the name of Delilah Sampson. The woman had a real biblical sense of humor here. I made a note of the address, date of birth, height, weight, hair and eye color, much of which seemed to apply to the woman I knew as Lila Sams. God, I had really hit pay dirt. I slipped the license back into the envelope, returned the envelope to its hiding place, and pressed the masking tape securely against the wood. I squinted critically at my handiwork. Looked untouched to me, unless she'd powdered everything with some kind of tricky dust that would dye my hands bright red the instant I washed them again. Wouldn't that be a bitch!

The back of the second drawer was also being used as a little safe-deposit box, containing a stack of credit cards and yet another driver's license. The name on this one was Delia Sims, with an address in Las Cruces, New Mexico, and a date of birth that matched the first. Again, I made a note of the details and carefully returned the document to its hiding place. I replaced the drawer, glancing quickly at my watch. Seven thirty-two. I was still O.K., but I had a lot of ground to cover yet. I continued my search, working with delicacy, leaving the contents of each drawer undisturbed. When I finished with the chiffonier, I retrieved the two hairs and moored them across the drawer cracks again.

The dressing table revealed nothing and the bedtables were unremarkable. I went through the closet,
checking coat pockets, suitcases, handbags, and shoe boxes, one of which still contained the receipt for the red wedgies she'd been wearing the first time we met. There was a credit-card slip stapled to the receipt and I tucked both in my pocket for later inspection. There was nothing under the bed, nothing stashed behind the chiffonier. I was checking back to see if I'd missed anything when I heard a peculiar warbling from the living room.

“Kinsey, they're back!” Moza wailed, her voice hoarse with dread. From out on the street, I caught the muffled thump of a car door slamming.

“Thanks,” I said. Adrenaline flooded through me like water through a storm drain and I could have sworn my heart was boinging up against my tank top as in a cartoon. I did a hasty visual canvas. Everything looked O.K. I reached the door to the hallway, eased out, and pulled it shut behind me, snatching the ring of skeleton keys out of my jeans pocket. The flashlight. Shit! I'd left it on the dressing table.

Murmurs at the front door. Lila and Henry. Moza was making nice, asking about dinner. I yanked the door open and did a running tiptoe to the dressing table, snagged the flashlight, and bounded, like a silent gazelle, back to the door again. I tucked the flashlight up under my arm and prayed that I was inserting the proper key into the lock. A twist to the left and I heard the latch slide into the hole. I turned the key back quietly, extracting it with shaking hands, careful not to let the keys jingle together noisily. I
glanced back over my shoulder, at the same time looking for an escape route.

The hallway extended about three feet to the right, where the archway to the living room cut through. At the extreme end of the hall was Moza's bedroom. To my left, there was an alcove for the telephone, a closet, the bathroom, and the kitchen, with an archway to the dining room visible beyond that. The dining room, in turn, opened into the living room again. If they were heading back this way, I had to guess they'd come straight through the archway to my right. I took two giant steps to the left and slipped into the bathroom. The minute I did it, I knew I'd made a bad choice. I should have tried the kitchen, with its outside exit. This was a dead end.

There was a separate shower to my immediate left with an opaque glass door, bathtub adjacent. To my right was a pedestal sink, and next to it, the toilet. The only window in the room was small and probably hadn't been opened in years. By now, I could hear voices growing louder as Lila moved into the hall. I stepped into the enclosed shower and pulled the door shut. I didn't dare latch it. I was certain the distinct sound of the metallic click would carry, alerting her to my presence. I set the flashlight down and held on to the door from the inside, bracing my fingers against the title. I sank down to a crouch, thinking that if someone came in, I'd be less conspicuous if I was hunkered down. The voices in the hall bumbled on and I heard Lila unlock her bedroom door.

The shower was still damp from recent use, scented
with Zest soap. A washrag hanging over the cold-water knob dripped intermittently on my shoulder. I listened intently, but I couldn't hear much. In situations like this, you have to get into the Zen of hiding. Otherwise your knees ache, your leg muscles go into spasms, and pretty soon you lose all sense of caution and just want to leap out, shrieking, regardless of the consequence. I leaned my face on my right arm, looking inward. I could still taste the onion from my sandwich. I was longing to clear my throat. Also I needed to pee. I hoped I wouldn't get caught, because I was going to feel like such an ass if Lila or Henry whipped open the shower door and found me crouching there. I didn't even bother to think up an explanation. There wasn't one.