I took my shoes off and slid under the covers, pulling the spread over me. I picked up my book and read for a while, hoping to distract myself. I was warm. The room was quiet. I found myself dipping into sleep so that when the phone finally rang, I jumped, snatching up the handset while my heart thumped. The surge of adrenaline peaked and receded. It was Dolan.
I sat up and trailed my feet over the side of the bed, rubbing my face while I suppressed a yawn. “How was the trip? You sound tired.”
“I’ve felt perkier,” he said. “Stacey dropped me off half an hour ago. He’s taking a run to the Sheriff’s Department to talk to Mandel. On his way back, he plans to stop by his apartment and pick up his things. I guess we’ll think about dinner after that.”
“Is he staying with you?”
“Temporarily. You know the lease is up on his place and he has to be out by the end of the month. He assumed he’d be six feet underground by then, but I guess the gods fooled him. I asked if he wanted to stay here until he finds some place else. I can use the company.”
“Nice. That should benefit both of you if you can keep from quarreling.”
Dolan had the good grace to laugh. “We don’t quarrel. We disagree,” he said. “What about things on your end? We felt bad you got stuck holding the proverbial bag. Did you manage to amuse yourself?”
“Funny you should ask.” And then I told him about Pudgie’s death, which we discussed in detail. In the midst of dissecting events, Dolan said, “Hang on a second. Stacey just came in. I want to tell him about this.”
He put his hand across the mouthpiece to spare me the replay while he brought Stacey up to speed. Even in its muffled form, I could hear Stacey’s expletives.
He took the handset from Dolan. “That’s the last time I’m leaving you. What the hell’s going on?”
“You know as much as I do.”
He had his own set of questions about Pudgie, and then we chatted about Frankie. He said they’d do what they could to track him down and see if he could account for his whereabouts from Friday morning on. “Good news on this end. Charisse’s dental chart is a match for Jane Doe’s, so at least we nailed that down. Forensics is just about willing to swear the hairs we recovered belong to her as well. Now all we need is a match on that second set of prints and we may be in business. Have the McPhees gone in?”
“I assume so. I’ll check tomorrow morning to make sure,” I said. “When are you planning to drive back?”
“Soon as I can. I’ll hit the road the minute things here are under control.”
I heard Dolan rumbling in the background.
Stacey said, “Oh, right. Dolan left his gun in the trunk of his car. He wants to know if it’s still there.”
“I haven’t had occasion to open the trunk, but I’ll look when I can. What’s he want me to do with it?”
Dolan said something to Stacey.
“He says just make sure you get it back to him as soon as you get home.”
“Of course.”
Dolan said something else to him that I couldn’t make out.
Stacey said, “Hang on a minute.” And to Dolan, “Damn it! Would you quit talking to me when I’m on the phone with her?”
More mumbling from Dolan.
“Horsepucky. You will not.” Stacey returned. “Guy’s driving me nuts. He says he’ll do fine on his own, but he’s full of shit. Minute my back is turned, he’ll run out and buy himself a pack of cigarettes. They oughta lock him up.”
I heard a door slam in the background.
“Same to you, bub!” Stacey yelled. “Anyway, I’ll call and let you know when I’m hitting the road. You can talk to the desk clerk and reserve a room.”
After we hung up, I put a call through to Henry. His machine picked up. I left a message, telling him I missed him and that I’d call back. I read for another hour or so and then ordered a pizza. I didn’t have the heart to go out and eat a proper meal by myself. Ordinarily, I like eating in a restaurant alone. But with Stacey and Dolan gone, the idea seemed alien. Pudgie’s murder had left me spooked. It was one thing dealing with a murder that had happened eighteen years before. Whatever the motivation, time had provided a lengthy cooling-off period. Life had gone on. The killer had managed to strike once and get away with it. I’d assumed there wouldn’t be a reason to kill again, but Pudgie’s death made it obvious how wrong I was. The stakes were still high. In the intervening years, someone had enjoyed a life that was built on a lie. Now we’d come along threatening the status quo.
I ate my supper and tossed the box in the trash. I watched a couple of television shows with annoying laugh tracks. At 9:00, I decided I might as well work. Keeping a systematic set of notes has its soothing side effects. I sat down at the desk and opened the drawer.
Things had been moved.
I stared and I then looked around the room, wondering if someone had come in. Not
if.
I wondered
who’
d come in and handled the contents of the drawer. The last time I’d taken notes must have been Saturday afternoon. Stacey and I had been to Creosote, stopping off at the Tuley-Belle on the way home. Once at the motel, we’d decided to take a break. I’d had a phone chat with Betty Puckett from Lockaby and then I’d showered, dressed, and started jotting down the tidbits— events, questions, and conversations. At the end of that session, I’d put a rubber band around my index cards and tossed them in the drawer on top of the murder book. Now they were underneath. It seemed a small matter, but my memory was distinct.
I picked up a pen and used it to lift one corner of the murder book so I could slide the cards out. I held the stack along the edges while I peeled off the rubber band. I’d left the top card upside down as a reminder to myself to have a second chat with Medora Sanders. Now the card was reversed, lined up in the same direction as all the other note cards.
Someone had been in here. Someone had handled the murder book and read my notes.
I got up abruptly, almost as though a shock had been administered through the seat of the chair. I circled the room, carefully scrutinizing every square foot of it. My duffel and the family photo album were in the closet untouched. Except for what was in the drawer, everything else was as I rememberedit. Had the maid tidied up? If so, why would she stop and read the index cards? The maid I’d chatted with had barely spoken English. It could have been another employee. There were probably different women who worked weekday and weekend shifts. Maybe the last maid who’d cleaned my room had been curious and had helped herself, thinking I’d never know. I had trouble believing it, but I couldn’t prove otherwise.
I rebanded the cards and returned them, using the tip of my pen to push the drawer shut. I didn’t think it would occur to anyone that I’d have such a clear recollection of how the contents of the drawer had been left. If it wasn’t the maid, then how had entry been effected? The room door was kept locked. I went into the bathroom and pulled a tissue from the box, then moved to the door and used the tissue to turn the knob. I examined the exterior of the door, the escutcheon and the face plate, but there were no gouges or scratches, and no evidence of forced entry. The windows were latched on the inside and showed no indications of tampering.
On the other hand, the means of access could have been simple. While the maid had been cleaning the room on Saturday, she’d left my door propped open with the pile of dirty sheets. She’d had her radio on in the bathroom, music blaring while she cleaned the toilet and the sink. Anyone could have slipped in and searched the desk, which was just inside the door. There wouldn’t have been time to read the murder book itself, but the cards were more important. My notes reflected everything I knew about the case and everything I considered relevant. By perusing my notes, someone could figure out where I’d been, who I’d talked to, and what I intended to do. There was an obvious advantage to anticipating my next move. Someone could step in before I’d had the chance to get the information I needed.
I closed the door and went back to the desk. I studied the stack of cards with Medora’s name on top. I didn’t think she knew anything she hadn’t told me before, but it might be smart to check with her. Briefly, I considered calling Detective Lassiter or someone else at the local Sheriff’s Department, but what was I supposed to say? My stack of index cards has been moved an inch? Gasp! I didn’t think they’d rush right out and dust for prints. At best, they’d come up with the same suggestion I had, that the maid had opened and closed the drawer in the process of cleaning my room. Big deal. Aside from the rearrangement of my belongings (which they’d have to take my word for), there wasn’t any evidence of a break-in. The room hadn’t been vandalized and nothing had been stolen, so from their perspective, no crime had been committed.
I grabbed my bag and my bomber jacket, preparing to leave. I was almost out the door when something occurred to me. I retrieved my family album from the closet and then crossed to the desk drawer and removed the murder book and the index cards. I went out, making sure the door was secured behind me. I locked my armload of valuables in the trunk of Dolan’s car and then headed for Medora’s house. I was heartened by the lingering image of Dolan’s Smith & Wesson in the trunk.
25
The night was cold and windy, but the drive was so brief, there wasn’t time enough for Dolan’s heater to kick in. There was scarcely a building in Quorum more than two stories tall, so there wasn’t much protection from the blasts of chill air sweeping in off the desert. The sky was a brittle black and the presence of stars wasn’t as comforting as one might hope. Nature has her little ways of reminding us how small and frail we are. Our existence is temporary while hers will go on long after our poor flesh has failed.
I parked in Medora’s driveway. The house was dark except for one lamp in the living room. As I crossed the patchy stretch of grass I realized the front door was standing open. I could see the vertical strip of dull light expand and contract as the wind ebbed and flowed. I hesitated and then knocked on the screen door frame. “Medora?”
There was no sound from inside. I opened the screen door and called through the opening. “Medora?”
I didn’t like the idea of intruding, but this was odd, especially given my suspicions about an intruder of my own. If someone had read my notes and spotted her name, her house might well be the next stop. I pushed the door open and eased in, closing it behind me. The room was dark except for a small table lamp. I could see Medora on the couch, lying on her back, her hands folded across her chest. I drew closer. She was snoring, her every exhalation infused with the fumes of metabolizing alcohol. If she woke to find me hovering she’d be startled, but I didn’t want to leave until I knew she was okay. A half-smoked cigarette, resting on the lip of the ashtray, had burned down to an inch of ash before it had gone out. The ice in her highball glass had long since melted away. Her prescription pill bottles appeared to be full and the caps were in place. At least she hadn’t overdosed in any obvious way, though I knew her practice of mixing whiskey with painkillers was dangerous.
The house was cold and I could feel a breeze stirring. I crossed to the kitchen and flipped on the light. The back door stood open, creating a cross-ventilation that had drained all the heat from the rooms. I lifted my head and scanned the silence for any hint of sound. I remained where I was and did a visual survey. The back door was intact—no splintered wood, no shattered framing, and no broken glass. The windows were shut and the latches turned to the locked position. The kitchen counters were crowded with canned goods, boxes of cereal and crackers, packages of paper napkins, toilet tissue, paper towels, and cleaning products. It looked as if the dishes hadn’t been done in a week, though all she seemed to eat was cereal and soup. The trash can was overflowing, but aside from the mess, it didn’t appear that anything had been disturbed.
I glanced over at Medora, chilled by the notion of how vulnerable she was. Anybody could have walked in, robbed her, assaulted her, killed her where she lay. If a fire had broken out, I doubt she’d have been aware. I closed the back door and locked it. I toured the rest of the house, which comprised no more than one small, dingy bathroom and two small bedrooms. Her housekeeping habits, such as they were, made it impossible to tell if anyone else had been in the rooms doing a quick search.
I returned to the living room and leaned toward her. “Medora, it’s Kinsey. Are you all right?”
She didn’t stir.
I placed a hand lightly on her arm, saying, “Hey.”
Nothing. I shook her gently, but the gesture didn’t seem to register. She was submerged in the murky depths of alcohol, where sound couldn’t penetrate and no light reached. I shook her again. She made a grunting noise, but otherwise remained unresponsive. I didn’t think I should leave her in her present state. I looked for a telephone and finally spotted one in the kitchen, mounted on the wall near the hall door. I searched one drawer after another until I found the phone book. I looked up Justine’s number and called her. She answered after four rings.
“Justine? This is Kinsey. I’m really sorry to bother you, but I stopped by your mother’s house just now and found both doors standing open. She seems to have passed out. I think she’s okay, but I’m having trouble rousing her. Could you come over here? I don’t think I should leave her until you’ve seen for yourself.”
“Damnation. Oh, hell. I’ll be there as soon as possible.”
She hung up abruptly. I was sorry I’d annoyed her, but such is life. I returned to the couch and perched on the edge of the coffee table. I took Medora’s hand and slapped it lightly. “Medora, wake up. Can you wake up?”
Groggily, she opened her eyes. At first, she couldn’t seem to focus, but she finally coordinated her eyes and looked around the room, disoriented.
“It’s me, Kinsey. Can you hear me?”
She mumbled something I couldn’t understand.