Sue Grafton - C is for Corpse

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 tile. 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.

I lifted my head. Voices in the hall. Lila had come out of her room, locking it after her. Maybe she'd gone in to make sure the hairs were in place. I wondered if I should have confiscated the duplicate licenses while I had the chance. No, better that I left them where they were.

Suddenly the bathroom door flew back and Lila's voice echoed against the bathroom walls like a bullhorn. My heart leapt into action so fast it was like being flung in an icy swimming pool. She was right on the other side of the shower door, her plump form vaguely defined through the milky glass. I closed my eyes like a kid, willing myself invisible.

"I'll be right there, dearie love," she sang from two feet away.

She crossed to the John and I heard the rustle of her polyester dress and the snap of her girdle as she struggled with it.

Please God, I thought, don't let her decide to take an impromptu shower or a dump. My tension level was so high that I was bound to sneeze or cough or groan or cackle maniacally. I willed myself into a hypnotic state, feeling my armpits dampen with sweat.

The toilet flushed. Lila took forever putting herself back together again. Rustle, pop, snap. I heard her jiggle the handle when the toilet continued to run. She washed her hands, the faucet squeaking as she turned it off How long could she drag this out? Finally, she moved toward the bathroom door and opened it, and then she was gone, footsteps receding toward the living room. Yakety-yak, chit chat, soft laughter, good-bye sounds, and the front door closed.

I stayed exactly where I was until I heard Moza in the hall.

"Kinsey? They're gone. Are you still here?"

I let out the breath I'd been holding and stood up, shoving my flashlight into my back pocket. This is not a dignified way to make a living, I thought. Hell, I wasn't even getting paid for this. I peered out of the shower door, making sure I hadn't been set up in some elaborate ruse. The house felt quiet except for Moza, who was opening the broom-closet door, still whispering, "Kinsey?"

"I'm in here," I said, voice booming.

I went out into the hall. Moza was so thrilled we hadn't been caught that she couldn't even get mad at me. She leaned against the wall, fanning herself I figured I better get out of there before they came back for something else, taking ten more years off my projected life-span.

"You're terrific," I murmured. "I'm indebted for life. I'll buy you dinner at Rosie's."

I moved through the kitchen, peering out the back door before I exited. It was fully dark by then, but I made sure the street was deserted before I stepped out of the shadow of Moza's house. Then I walked the half-block toward home laughing to myself. Actually, it's fun to horse around with danger. It's fun to snoop in people's dresser drawers. I might have turned to burgling houses if law enforcement hadn't beckoned to me first. With Lila, I was finally beginning to take control of a situation I didn't like and the surge of power made me feel nearly giddy with relief. I wasn't sure what she was up to, but I intended to find out.

When I was safely back in my apartment again, I took out the credit-card receipt I'd lifted from Lila's shoe box. The date on it was May 25 and the store was located in Las Cruces. The credit-card imprint read "Delia Sims." In the box marked "phone number," someone had obligingly penned in a phone number. I hauled out my telephone book and looked up the area code for Las Cruces. Five-oh-five. I picked up the receiver and dialed the number, wondering as I heard it ring on the far end just what I intended to say.

"Hello?" Man's voice. Middle-aged. No accent.

"Oh hello," I said smoothly. "I wonder if I might speak to Delia Sims."

There was a moment of silence. "Hang on."

A palm was secured across the mouthpiece and I could hear muffled conversation in the background.

The receiver was apparently taken over by someone else, because a new voice inquired, "May I help you?"

This one was female and I couldn't classify the age.

"Delia?" I said.

"Who is this, please?" The tone was guarded, as though the call might be obscene.

"Oh, sorry," I said. "This is Lucy Stansbury. That's not you, is it, Delia? It doesn't sound like your voice."

"This is a friend of Delia's. She not here at the moment. Was there something I might help you with?"

"Well, I hope so," I said, mind racing. "Actually, I'm calling from California. I just met Delia recently and she left some of her things in the backseat of my car. I couldn't figure out any other way to reach her except to try this number, which was on a credit-card receipt for a purchase she made in Las Cruces. Is she still in California or is she home again?"

"Just a minute."

Again, a palm across the mouthpiece and the drone of conversation in the background. The woman came back on the line.

"Why don't you give me your name and number and I'll have her get back to you?"

"Oh sure, that's fine," I said. I gave her my name again, spelling it out laboriously and then I made up a telephone number with the area code for Los Angeles. "You want me to mail this stuff back to her or just hang on to it? I'd feel bad if I thought she didn't realize where she'd left it."