Sue Grafton - T Is For Trespass

“Where do you drop him?”

“I bring him all the way back here. He’s one of the last passengers I carry at the end of my route.”

“Any idea where he lives?”

“As it happens, I do. There’s a residence hotel on Dave Levine Street near Floresta or Via Madrina. Big yellow frame place with a wraparound porch. Weather’s nice, I sometimes see him sitting out there.” He paused to glance at his watch. “I’m sorry I can’t be more help, but my wife’s on her way.” He held up my business card. “Why don’t I hang on to this? Next time I see Melvin, I’ll be glad to pass your message along.”

“Thanks. Feel free to tell him what I want to talk to him about.”

“Well, good. That’s good then. I’ll be sure to do that. Best of luck to you.”

Once in my car again, I circled the block, making a long loop up Chapel and down on Dave Levine, which was one-way. I did a slow crawl, watching for sight of the yellow residence hotel. The neighborhood, like mine, was a curious combination of single-family dwellings and small commercial enterprises. Many corner properties, especially those closer to the heart of town, had been converted to mom-and-pop-style businesses: a minimart, a vintage-clothing store, two antique shops, and a secondhand bookstore. By the time I spotted the hotel, there were cars stacked up behind me, the closest driver making rude hand gestures I could see in my rearview mirror. I turned right at the first corner and drove another block before I found a parking space.

I hoofed back a block and a half, passing a used-car lot offering assorted nondescript vans and pickup trucks with prices and admonitions writ large across the windshields in tempera paint. MUST SEE! $2499.00 DON’T MISS!! SUPER PRICE. 1799.00. AS IS. PRICED TO SELL!! $1999.99. The latter was an old milk truck tricked out as a camper. The rear doors stood open and I could see a wee kitchenette, built-in storage units, and a pair of bench seats that folded down to make a bed. The salesman, arms crossed, was discussing its various advantages with a white-haired man in sunglasses and a porkpie hat. I nearly stopped to inspect the vehicle myself.

I’m a huge fan of tiny spaces and for less than two thousand dollars-well, one penny less-I could easily imagine myself curled up in a camper with a novel and a battery-operated reading light. Of course, I’d park in front of my apartment instead of camping out in Nature, which in my opinion couldn’t be more treacherous. A woman alone in the woods is nothing more than bear and spider bait.

The hotel was a Victorian structure that had been modified over time in a helter-skelter fashion. It looked like a rear porch had been added and then closed in. A covered walkway connected the house to a separate building that might be an additional rental. The flower beds were immaculate, the shrubs clipped, and the exterior paint looked fresh. The bay windows on opposite corners of the building appeared to be original, the second-story bay stacked neatly above the first, with crown molding jutting out along the roofline. The elaborate two-foot overhang was supported by ornate wood corbels pierced with circles and half-moons. Birds had built their nests in the eaves, and the shaggy clusters of twigs were as jarring as the sight of an elegant woman’s unshaven armpits.

The half-glass front door stood open and a hand-inked sign above the doorbell read, “Bell broken-can’t hear knocking-office in rear of hall.” I assumed this was an invitation to let myself in.

At the rear of the corridor three doors stood open. Through one I could see a kitchen that looked large and outdated, the linoleum faded to an almost colorless hue. The appliances were like those I’d seen once in a theme park attraction depicting American family life in every decade since 1880. On the far wall I could see a back stairway angle up and out of sight, and I imagined a back door nearby, though I couldn’t see it from where I stood.

The second door opened into what must have been a rear parlor, used now as a dining room by the simple insertion of a chunky oak table and ten mismatched chairs. The air smelled of paste wax, ancient cigar smoke, and last night’s cooked pork. A hand-crocheted runner covered the surface of a cumbersome oak sideboard.

A third open door revealed the original dining room, judging by its graceful proportions. Two doors had been blocked off by gray metal file cabinets, and an oversized rolltop desk was jammed up against the windows. The office was otherwise empty. I knocked on the door frame and a woman emerged from a smaller room that might have been a closet converted to a powder room. She was stout. Her gray hair was frizzy and thin, pulled up in a haphazard arrangement, with more hanging down than she’d managed to secure. She wore small wire-rimmed glasses, and her teeth overlapped like sections of sidewalk buckled by tree roots.

I said, “I’m looking for Melvin Downs. Can you tell me what room he’s in?”

“I don’t give out information about my tenants. I have their safety and privacy to consider.”

“Can you let him know he has a visitor?”

She blinked, her expression unchanged. “I could, but there’s no point. He’s out.” She closed her mouth, apparently not wanting to plague me with more information than I’d requested.

“You have any idea when he’ll be back?”

“Your guess is as good as mine, dear. Mr. Downs doesn’t keep me apprised of his comings and goings. I’m his landlady, not his wife.”

“Do you mind if I wait?”

“I wouldn’t if I were you. Wednesdays he doesn’t get back until late.”

“Like what, six?”

“I’d say closer to ten, judging from past behavior. You his daughter?”

“I’m not. Does he have a daughter?”

“He’s mentioned one. In point of fact, I don’t allow single women to visit the tenants after nine at night. It sends the wrong message to the other residents.”

“I guess I’ll try another day.”

“You do that.”

When I got home I went directly to Henry’s house and knocked on his door. We hadn’t had a chance to visit in days. I caught him in his kitchen pulling a big bowl from one of the lower cabinets. I tapped on the glass, and when he saw me he set the bowl on the counter and opened the door.

“Am I interrupting anything?”

“No, no. Come on in. I’m making bread-and-butter pickles. You’re welcome to lend a hand.”

In the sink I could see a large colander piled high with cucumbers. A smaller colander held white onions. Small glass jars of turmeric, mustard seeds, celery seeds, and cayenne pepper were lined up on the counter.

“Are those cucumbers yours?”

“I’m afraid so. This is the third batch of bread-and-butter pickles I’ve made this month and I’m still up to my ears.”

“I thought you only bought one plant.”

“Well, two. The one seemed so small, I thought I ought to add a second just to keep it company. Now I’ve got vines taking up half the yard.”

“I thought that was kudzu.”

“Very funny,” he said.

“I can’t believe you’re still harvesting in January.”

“Neither can I. Grab a knife and I’ll find you a cutting board.”

Henry poured me half a glass of wine and made himself a Black Jack and ice. Occasionally sipping our drinks, we stood side by side at the kitchen counter, slicing cucumbers and onions for the next ten minutes. When we finished, Henry tossed the vegetables with kosher salt in two big ceramic bowls. He pulled a bag of crushed ice out of the freezer and packed ice over the cucumber-onion combination and covered both bowls with weighted lids.

“My aunt used to make pickles that way,” I remarked. “They sit for three hours, right? Then you boil the other ingredients in a pot and add the cucumbers and onions.”