Sue Grafton - L is for Lawless

I tuned in to the old woman, who was still grumbling good-naturedly about the unexpected visit. "I don't know how you expect me to cook up any kind of supper without the fixings on hand."

"Well, I'm telling you how," Ray said patiently. "You put together a list of what you need and we'll whip over to the market and be back in two shakes."

"I have a list working if I can find it," she said, poking through loose papers in the center of the table. "Freida Green, my neighbor two doors down, she's been carrying me to the market once a week when she goes. Here now. What's that say?"

Ray took the list and read aloud in a faky tone, "Says pork chops with milk gravy, yams, fried apples and onions, corn bread…"

She reached for the paper, but he held it out of reach. "I never. It does not. Let me see that. Is that what you want, son?"

"Yes, ma'am." He handed her the paper.

"Well, I can do that. I have yams out yonder, and I believe I still have some of them pole beans and stewed tomatoes I put up last summer. I just baked a batch of peanut-butter cookies. We can have them for dessert if you'll pick up a quart of vanilla ice cream. I want real. I don't want iced milk." She was writing as she spoke, large, angular letters drifting across the page.

"Sounds good to me. What do you think, Kinsey?" he asked.

"Sounds great."

"Oh, forevermore. Kinsey. Shame on me for my bad manners. I forgot all about you, honey. What can I get you? I might have a can of soda pop here somewhere. Take a look in the pantry and don't mind the state it's in. I been meaning to clean that out, but hadn't got to it."

"Actually, I'd love to borrow your phone, and a pen and scratch paper, if you don't mind."

"You go and help yourself as long as you don't call Paris, France. I'm on fixed income and that telephone costs too much as it is. Here's you a piece of paper. Laura, why don't you show her where the telephone is. Right in there beside the bed. I'll get busy with this list."

Ray said, "I also promised she could throw some clothes in the washing machine. You have detergent?"

"In the utility room," she said, pointing toward the door.

I took the proffered pen and paper and moved into the bedroom, which was as stuffy as a coat closet. The only light emanated from a small bathroom that opened on the left. Heavy drapes were pinned together over windows with the shades drawn. The double-bed mattress sagged in an iron bedstead piled with hand-tied quilts. The room would have been perfect in a 1940s home furnishings diorama at the state fair. All the surfaces were coated with a fine layer of dust. In fact, nothing in the house had seemed terribly clean, probably the by-product of the old woman's poor eyesight.

The old black dial telephone sat beside a crook-neck lamp on the bed table, amid large-print books, pill bottles, lotions, and ointments. I flipped the light on and dialed Information, picking up the numbers for both United and American Airlines. I called United first, listening to the usual reassurances until my "call could be answered in the order it was received." Out of deference to Ray's mom, I refrained from searching her bed table drawer while I waited for the agent to pick up on his end. I did scan the room, looking for the belly harness. Had to be around here somewhere.

The agent finally came on the line and helped me get the reservations I needed. There was a flight from Louisville to Chicago at 7:12 p.m., arriving at 7:22, which reflected the hour's time difference. After a brief layover, I then connected to a flight departing from Chicago at 8:14 p.m., arriving in Los Angeles at 10:24, California time. The flight to Santa Teresa left at 11:00 and arrived forty-five minutes later. That last connection was tight, but the agent swore the arrival and departure gates would be close to one another. Since I was traveling without luggage, he didn't think it would be a problem. He did advise me to get to the airport an hour in advance of flight tune so I could pay for the ticket.

He'd just put me on hold when Ray stuck his head in the door, a clean towel in one hand. "That's for you," he said, tossing it on the bed. "When you finish your call, you can hop in the shower. There's a robe hanging on the door. Ma says she'll throw your clothes in the wash when you're ready."

I put a palm across the mouthpiece and said, "Thanks. I'll bring 'em right out. What about the stuff in the car?"

"She's got that already. I brought everything in."

He started to depart and stuck his head around the door again. "Oh. I almost forgot. Ma says there's a one-hour cleaners in the same mall as the market. You want to give me your jacket, I can drop it off before we go shopping and pick it up on the way back."

The agent had come back on the line and was already busy reconfirming the flight arrangements while I nodded enthusiastically to Ray. With the receiver still tucked in the crook of my neck, I emptied the pockets of my blazer and handed it to him. He waved and withdrew while I finished up the call.

I headed for the bathroom, where with a quick search I uncovered the belly harness tucked down in the clothes hamper. I hauled it out and inspected it, impressed by the ingenuity of the construction. The housing resembled an oversize catcher's face mask, a convex frame made of semiflexible plastic tubing, wrapped with padding, into which countless bound packets of currency had been packed. Heavy canvas straps secured the harness once in place. I checked a couple of packets, riffling through five-, ten-, twenty-, and fifty-dollar notes of varying sizes. Many bills seemed unfamiliar and I had to assume were no longer in circulation. Several packets appeared to be literally in mint condition. It grieved me to think of Laura covering day-to-day expenses with bank notes that a serious collector would have paid dearly for. Ray was a fool to stand by while his daughter threw it all away. Who knew how much money still remained to be uncovered?

I tucked the harness down in the hamper. I'm big on closure and not good at leaving so many questions unanswered. However, (she said) this was not my concern. In six hours, I'd be heading for California. If there were additional monies in a stash somewhere, that was strictly Ray's business. There was a blue chenille bathrobe hanging on a hook on the back of the door. I stripped out of the borrowed denim dress and underwear, pulled the robe on, and carried my dirty clothes out to the kitchen. Ray and Laura had apparently left on their errand. I could see yams on the stove, simmering in a dark blue-and-white-speckled enamel pan. Quart Mason jars of tomatoes and green beans had been pulled off the pantry shelves and placed on the counter. Briefly, I pondered the possibilities of botulism poisoning arising from improperly preserved foods, but what the heck, the mortality rate is only sixty-five percent. Ray's mother probably wouldn't have attained such a ripe old age if she hadn't perfected her canning skills.

The door to the utility porch was open. That room wasn't insulated and the air pouring out of it was frigid. Ray's mother went about her business as if unaware of the chill. An early-model washer and dryer were arranged against the wall to the left. Tucked between them was a battered canister-style vacuum cleaner shaped like the nose cone of a spaceship. "I'm about to hop in the shower, Mrs. Rawson. Can I give you these?" I asked.

"There you are," she said. "I was just loading the few things Laura give me. You can call me Helen if you like," she added. "My late husband used to call me Hell on Wheels."

I watched as she felt for the measuring cup, tucking her thumb over the rim so she could feel how far up the side the detergent had come. "I've been considered legally blind for years, and my eyes is getting worse. I can still make my way around as long as people don't go putting things in my path. I'm scheduled for surgery, but I had to wait until Ray come home to help out. Anyway, I'm just yammering on. I don't mean to keep you."