Sue Grafton - C is for Corpse

"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 bed-tables, 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 drivers 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 drivers 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 bed-tables 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.