J. Jance - Name Witheld

The surprisingly steep stairway ended on a landing that expanded into a bricked patio surrounded by raised flower beds that were thick with hardy ferns and an array of bright purple plants that looked for all the world like some strange kind of overgrown cabbage. Part of the patio was covered by a cord or more of cut and stacked wood, stored under a blue tarp. I didn't want to think about how much hard work it had been to haul all that wood-one armload at a time-down those stairs from street level.

The tiny house in front of us was divided from its towering neighbors on either side by a tall board fence that ran almost down to the water. The fence was big, but the house itself looked more like a shake-shingle dollhouse than a real one-a miniature Victorian, complete with steeply pitched roof, dormer windows, and real shutters that may or may not have been operable. Unlike the weather-beaten garage at street level, the house had a reasonably fresh coat of paint, and appeared to be in fairly good shape. Still, it was easy to see that the little cottage was nearing the end of its useful lifetime. Soon it, too, like all its now-vanished contemporaries, would be bulldozed into oblivion to make way for some new, oversized, million-dollar-plus showplace.

I stepped up onto a wooden porch that creaked in protest under my weight. The doorbell-an old-fashioned, push-button affair-sported a three-by-five card that said, in faded, almost invisible, inked letters, BELL'S BROKEN. PLEASE KNOCK.

I was raising my hand to do so when Kramer stopped me.

"Are you sure you have the right address?" he asked.

"Yes, I have the right address," I returned. "What makes you think I don't?"

"I thought you said Grace Highsmith is in her seventies or eighties. If so, how the hell does she get up and down all those stairs?"

While I turned back to look at Kramer, the door swung open on silent, well-oiled hinges. "One step at a time," Grace Highsmith answered before I could. "These days, it takes a little longer than it used to for me to get up and down. When I'm too old to make it under my own power, then I suppose it'll be time to check myself into an old-folks' home, although I was rather hoping Detective Beaumont here would put me in jail so I wouldn't have to worry about that. Won't you come in?"

She held open the door, allowing Detective Kramer and me into a cozy living room that reeked of that peculiar old-house odor-a mixture of too many years of living, cooking, and burning. There was also more than a little dust and mold. A huge flagstone fireplace, far larger than the room called for, occupied most of one wall. A fire, fueled by the glowing remains of an eight-inch-thick log, crackled on the hearth.

At first glance, nothing in the room seemed to match. Inarguably authentic Navajo rugs-their colors long since faded to muddy browns and beiges-covered the floor, giving the place a warm, snug feel. The room was jam-packed with an odd collection of high-backed, old-fashioned chairs and couches-all of them sagging a bit here and there and all of them with upholstery that was more than a little threadbare. Frayed or not, what all the pieces had in common was an undeniable patina of age and quality and comfort as well. Their faded dignity seemed a worthy reflection of their spry but aging owner.

"Won't you sit down?" Grace invited. "I was just about to have a cup of tea. My mother was English, you know. I still much prefer tea to coffee. Will you have some?"

"No thanks, Miss Highsmith," I said. After introducing her to Detective Kramer, we both headed for opposite ends of the nearest couch. As I sat down, though, my elbow grazed something. Cursing my clumsiness, I turned to examine what I had bumped. I found myself examining a three-foot-high bronze figurine of an emaciated Indian on an equally gaunt horse. The statue looked familiar.

Alexis Downey, that former girlfriend of mine, is up to her eyebrows in the arts. One of the reasons she's a "former" is that she was forever tweaking me about my general lack of artistic education, but even a complete Philistine like me can recognize a casting of The End of the Trail when he sees one.

On the floor next to the fireplace, tucked in behind a fifty-year-old leather ottoman, was a thoroughly modern fax machine. Its incoming message tray was half full of pages.

"Dusty didn't hurt you, did he?" Grace asked solicitously.

"Dusty?" I said.

She smiled. "The statue. Dusty isn't his real name, of course. I call him that because he gathers so much dust. I'm sure some of the artier types would choke if they heard me calling a James Earle Fraser Roman bronze casting by such an irreverent name. He's been in the family for years."

I gulped, grateful that in my infinite bumbling I hadn't knocked the damn thing over. With my luck, it would have bounced off the hearth and broken the horse's head off.

Grace smiled. "I had planned to give him to a museum someday, but not until I was good and ready. Now, what can I do for you?" she asked.

"Once again, this isn't really a social call. We've come with some rather bad news."

Grace's face paled slightly. She moved closer to a chair and grasped the back of it with her two frail and liver-spotted hands. "Not about Latty, I hope," she breathed.

"No," I agreed. "Not about Latty directly. We've just come from Virginia Marks' place down in Bellevue, Miss Highsmith. I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but she's dead."

One of Grace Highsmith's hands went to her throat while the other still gripped the back of the chair. "Virginia dead?" she repeated. "How can that be? How? When?"

"Someone shot her," I said. "It happened overnight, sometime between ten o'clock last night and eight o'clock this morning."

Slowly, Grace Highsmith made her way around the chair. When she sank into it, she seemed to shrink in size, like a balloon gradually losing its air. "Not Virginia, too," she murmured, covering her face with her hands. "This just can't be. What in the world is she thinking?"

At first I didn't quite follow her. "What's who thinking of?" I asked gently.

Grace shook her head. "I could understand with him," she said slowly. "I almost didn't blame her for that, and I don't think anyone else would, either. After all, the man was an animal. Whatever happened to him, he more than deserved it. The newspaper this morning said something about another body being found in his apartment. And now this. Poor Virginia…" Grace's voice trailed off in anguish. Her eyes filled with tears.

"Miss Highsmith…" I began.

On an end table next to Grace Highsmith's wing chair sat an old-fashioned dial telephone in equally old-fashioned basic black. Without answering me directly, Grace took the receiver off the hook and began dialing. Kramer and I waited through the interminably long process while she dialed a number from memory. I had forgotten how long it took, after each separate number, for the dial to return to its original position.

At last, someone must have answered the phone. "Suzanne Crenshaw, please. Tell her it's Grace Highsmith calling. Tell her it's urgent."

Again, there was a long pause. Kramer glowered at me but didn't speak. For some time, the only noise in the room was the incongruously cheerful snapping and popping of the blaze in the fireplace. At last, Suzanne Crenshaw must have picked up her line.

"Virginia Marks is dead," Grace Highsmith announced without preamble. "Detective Beaumont and another detective just came by to tell me. No, there's nothing you need to do at the moment, but…" There was another pause, a shorter one. "Why, yes. He's here right now. Do you want to speak to him?"

Grace glanced in my direction and then held out the phone for me. I hurried across the room and took it. "Hello."

"Detective Beaumont, I'm on my way to an appointment. It's one I can't miss. I've instructed Grace not to say anything further to you until I can be present. That won't be until later this afternoon."