Sue Grafton - V is for Vengeance

This end of State Street became livelier as it bore west. After a string of apartment buildings and condominiums, the area was given over to small storefront businesses. At the next light, a supermarket on the left anchored a strip mall that didn’t have much else to recommend it. In another three blocks, I’d pass Down the Hatch, where I’d met Marvin three nights before.

I expected the Mercedes to keep moving, but her left-hand turn signal began to blink. When the light changed, she turned onto the side street that bordered the supermarket parking lot. Commercial establishments in this part of town seemed to go from “Grand Opening” to “Liquidation Sale, Everything Must Go” without much in between. I kept well back as I followed her into the parking lot. She proceeded to the far aisle and came to a stop in front of a large metal donation bin, painted white with an oversize heart outlined in red. The lid of her Mercedes trunk popped up.

I reached for my camera, focused, and started clicking off pictures. I captured her image as she got out and left the car idling while she went around to the rear. I was happy to note this was Georgia and not her daughter. She hauled out two bulging black plastic garbage bags and dumped them in the bin. She must have done a closet cleaning, which I was due for myself. She slid back under the steering wheel and circled the parking lot until she found a spot. She went into the supermarket without a backward glance. I set my camera aside. I didn’t believe her actions were crime related, but it’s good to be alert and even better to keep in practice.

I found a parking spot two aisles away, locked my car, and followed her into the store. It was a sunny Saturday morning, and I figured I had just as much right as she did to go grocery shopping. She had no reason to think she’d run into me. Having bested me, she’d probably dismissed me from memory. The store was crowded and there were any number of areas where I could loiter if necessary, casually reading the nutritional content of whatever foodstuffs were close by. I walked the width of the store, glancing down each aisle in turn. By the time I saw Georgia, she was in the produce department, squeezing avocados. I left the store by the nearest exit. It was just shy of 10:00, so the other stores in the mall were still closed.

A few minutes later, she emerged with her cart. I turned and made an earnest study of the nearest storefront, which turned out to be Santa Teresa Prosthetics and Orthotics. There wasn’t much to see as (perhaps) the owners had thought better of creating a window display made up entirely of false feet. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched Georgia load groceries into her car. While her attention was occupied, I returned to the station wagon. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to trail after her for an entire roster of Saturday chores. I was willing to tag along, but even a vehicle as nondescript as Henry’s would warrant notice with repeated sightings.

She pulled out of the lot and turned left on State Street, moving toward the La Cuesta Shopping Plaza. I felt my interest perk up, thinking she might go into Robinson’s and launch a madcap shoplifting spree. Instead, she drove into the mall parking lot along the back side of a row of shops and pulled up to another white donation bin that bore a big heart outlined in red. The lot was filling rapidly and I pulled into the nearest available spot within range of her. I reached for my camera and snapped photos of her as she popped open her trunk, walked around to the rear, and removed two more bulging black garbage bags that she dropped into the bin. Whatever the name of the charity, the bins were identical, and I couldn’t figure out why she needed two. Surely there wasn’t a limit on how much used clothing one could contribute at one time. I waited while she returned to her car and pulled out of the lot. I was more interested in what she’d dumped than where she intended to go next.

The minute she was out of sight, I grabbed my camera and proceeded to the bin. HELPING HEARTS, HEALING HANDS was written in curlicue letters around the border of the heart. I took two photographs of the logo. No address and no phone number. There wasn’t even a disclaimer forbidding idlers from helping themselves to all the secondhand shoes, clothing, and assorted household items. I was on the verge of lifting the lid so I could see what was in the plastic bags when a white panel truck approached and pulled up at the curb. HELPING HEARTS, HEALING HANDS was writ large on the side.

Casually, I moved away from the bin and walked toward the entrance to the mall. I resisted the urge to turn around to see what was going on behind me. I rounded the corner into one of the side avenues and then peered back at the panel truck. The driver had propped up the bin’s lid with one hand while he removed first one and then the other garbage bag and set them on the walk beside him. He dropped the lid with a bang and carried both bags to the back of his truck. He tossed them in and slammed the rear doors. I withdrew from his line of sight. Shortly after that, I heard the driver’s-side door slam shut with a muted bang.

I kept my camera at the ready, and when the truck crossed my line of vision, moving toward the exit, I stepped out onto the walkway and took pictures of the back end. There was no license plate. I made a beeline for my car, but by the time I started the engine and pulled out, the panel truck had merged with passing traffic and disappeared.

I doubted the charity was legitimate. The name itself was so saccharine, it almost had to be a cover for a racket of some kind. At least it gave me a lead. In California, any organization claiming nonprofit status has to file articles of incorporation, listing the corporation’s address, the name and address of a “registered agent,” and the names of the directors. This was all part of the public record, available to anyone. I closed my eyes and patted my chest, mimicking a heartbeat. How much better could it get? One quick moment of payoff for all the hours I’d put in.

If I was right, Georgia’s job was to collect stolen merchandise and drop the goods in donation bins for retrieval by her cohorts. Audrey’s landlady had mentioned the presence of a white panel truck on the occasions when Audrey was staying in her little rented house. I was guessing the driver was responsible for collecting the bags and delivering them to San Luis Obispo. In the past, Audrey had worked every other weekend. Her death had doubtless disrupted the routine, but maybe the gang was back in the swing and ready to carry on. It was possible my conclusion was wrong, but I couldn’t think of another explanation that made quite as much sense. I put my surveillance on hold. I’d have to test my suspicions, but meanwhile, I didn’t want my cover blown.

I drove back into town and made another stop at the public library and proceeded to the reference department, where I checked both the current phone book and the current city directory for Helping Hearts, Healing Hands. No listing under “Charities.” Nothing under “Social Service Organizations,” “Women’s Shelters,” “Churches,” or “Rescue Missions.” I wasn’t surprised. I had other avenues to explore, but this was Saturday morning, which meant that all the usual sources-the Hall of Records, the courthouse, the tax assessor’s office-would be closed. I’d be back in business Monday morning, but for now I was out of luck.

On the way home, I did a supermarket run for essentials and then spent a few minutes putting groceries away. I started a load of laundry and would have gone on in this thrilling vein-scrubbing toilets, vacuuming-if not for the ringing of my telephone. I picked up and found Vivian Hewitt on the line.

I said, “Hey, Vivian. How are you?”