Sue Grafton - T Is For Trespass

“No, thanks. I’m fine.”

She picked up a tray and carried it to the vending machine, where she put numerous coins in the slot. She punched a button and I watched her selection tumble into the bin below. She brought her tray to the table and off-loaded her coffee mug, her spoon, and a package of miniature chocolate-covered doughnuts.

I waited until she was seated before I went on. “How long have you known Solana?”

She broke the first doughnut in two and popped half in her mouth. “What’s the job?”

The question was a bit abrupt, but in the interest of priming the pump, I filled her in. “My next-door neighbor fell and dislocated his shoulder. He’s eighty-nine and needs home care while he recuperates.”

“So what’s she make?”

The doughnut looked dense and dry, and the dark chocolate frosting had the gloss of wax. For ten cents I’d have knocked her down and eaten one myself. I knew now that the many fruits and vegetables I’d consumed over the past few days had only made me hostile-not good in my line of work.

For an instant I’d completely lost my place in the conversation. “What?”

“What’s the pay?”

“I don’t know. I was asked to talk to people who’ve worked with her. I’m interested in a character reference.”

“In the neighborhood.”

“I won’t be talking to her neighbors unless I bomb out every place else.”

“I’m talking salary. Ballpark. What’s the hourly wage?”

“No one’s mentioned it. Are you thinking about changing jobs?”

“I might be.”

The second doughnut was gone though I’d hardly noticed, distracted as I was by the opening I saw. “If things don’t work out for her, I’d be happy to throw your name in the hat.”

“I’d consider it,” she said. “Remind me before you leave and I’ll give you my résumé. I have a copy in my purse.”

“Great. I’ll pass it along,” I said, and then shifted the conversation. “Were you and Solana friends?”

“I wouldn’t say we were friends, but we worked together for close to a year and we got along all right.”

“What’s she like?”

She shrugged. “So-so.”

“So-so?”

“I guess she’s nice enough. If you like that kind.”

“Ah. And what kind is that?”

“Fussy. If anyone was even two minutes late, she made a big deal of it.”

“So she was punctual,” I suggested.

“Well, yeah, if that’s what you want to call it.”

“What about personal traits?”

“Like what?”

“Was she patient, compassionate? Honest? Good-natured? That’s the kind of thing I’m looking for. You must have had many opportunities to observe her firsthand.”

She stirred her coffee, then licked the spoon clean before she laid it on her tray. She put the next doughnut in her mouth whole and chewed while she considered her reply. “You want my honest opinion?”

“I would love it.”

“Don’t get me wrong. I have nothing against the woman, but she had no sense of humor and she wasn’t that good a conversationalist. I mean, you say something to her and maybe she’d answer and maybe not, depending on what suited her. She was all the time sitting with her nose in a chart or out on the floor checking on the patients. It wasn’t even her responsibility. She took it on herself.”

I said, “Wow. I had no idea. On paper she looks good.”

“That’s seldom the whole story.”

“And that’s exactly why I’m here, to fill in the blanks. Did you see her outside work?”

“Hardly. The rest of us, sometimes on Friday nights? We’d go out together, kind of letting our hair down at the end of the week. Solana went straight home. After a while, we didn’t even ask her to join us because we figured she’d say no.”

“She didn’t drink?”

“Nuh-uhn. Are you kidding? She was too uptight. Plus, she was always watching her weight. And on her breaks, she read books. Anything to make the rest of us look bad. Does that help?”

“Enormously.”

“You think she’ll be hired?”

“It’s not up to me, but I’m certainly going to make a note of what you’ve said.”

I left the place at 1:00 P.M. with Lana Sherman’s résumé in hand. Walking back to the office, I passed a sandwich shop and realized I hadn’t had lunch. In the press of work, I’ve been known to skip meals, but seldom when I was this hungry. I noticed that eating properly was antithetical to feeling full. A QP with Cheese and a large serving of fries will leave you close to comatose. The sudden onslaught of carbohydrates and fat makes you long for a nap, which means a gap of ten or fifteen minutes before you start thinking about your next meal. I did an about-face and veered into the sandwich shop. What I ordered is none of your business, but it was really good. I ate at my desk while I reviewed the Fredrickson file.

At 2:00, clipboard in hand, I arrived for my appointment with Gladys Fredrickson. She and her husband lived in a modest house near the beach on a street being overtaken by much grander homes. Given the exaggerated prices of local real estate, it made sense for buyers to snap up any house for sale and do extensive remodeling on the existing residence or raze the entire structure and start from scratch.

The Fredricksons’ one-story frame house fit the latter category, not so much a fixer-upper as something you’d bulldoze, pile in a heap, and burn. There was a shabbiness about the place that suggested years of deferred maintenance. Along the side of the house, I could see that a strip of aluminum gutter had come loose. Below the gap a clump of rotting leaves lay fallen in a makeshift compost heap. I suspected the carpet would smell damp and the grout between the shower tiles would be black with mildew.

In addition to the wooden porch stairs, there was a long wooden ramp that extended from the drive to the porch to allow wheelchair access. The ramp itself was mottled with dark green algae and doubtless became as slick as glass whenever it rained. I stood on the porch looking down at the ivy beds interspersed with the yellow blooms of oxalis. Inside, the dog was yapping at a rate that would probably net him a swat on his butt. Across the side yard, through a chicken wire fence, I caught sight of an elderly neighbor lady setting out what were probably the annual Christmas decorations on her lawn. These consisted of seven hollow plastic Santa’s helpers that could be lighted from inside. Also, nine plastic reindeer, one of which had a big red nose. She paused to stare at me and my quick wave was rewarded with a smile laced with sweetness and pain. There had once been little ones-children or grandchildren-whose memory she celebrated with this steadfast display of hope.

I’d already knocked twice and I was on the verge of knocking again when Gladys opened the door, leaning heavily on a walker, her neck encircled by a six-inch foam collar. She was tall and thick, the buttons of her plaid blouse gaping open across her ample breasts. The elastic waist on her rayon pants had given way and she’d used two large safety pins to affix the trousers to her shirt, thus preventing them from dropping and pooling around her ankles. She wore a pair of off-brand running shoes, though it was clear she wouldn’t be running any time soon. On her left foot, a half-moon of leather had been cut away to provide relief for her bunion. “Yes?”

“I’m Kinsey Millhone, Mrs. Fredrickson. We have an appointment to talk about the accident.”

“You’re with the insurance company?”

“Not yours. I’m working with California Fidelity Insurance. I was hired by Lisa Ray’s attorney.”

“Accident was her fault.”

“So I’ve been told. I’m here to verify the information she gave us.”