Muller, Marcia - [10] The Shape of Dread (v1.0) (html) (6 page)

No, I decided, bad idea. It could create all sorts of complications.
Better to wait and catch him at the New Year's Eve party.

Tracy's former building was brick faced, three stories, with a fire
escape scaling the front wall and a plane tree growing out of a
planting area in the sidewalk. A lighted entryway contained three
mailboxes, and a metal security gate barred the way into the building
proper. Beyond the gate was a door to the ground-floor unit; fake
marble stairs rose to the other apartments. I examined the names on the
mailboxes and found a plastic label—the kind you make yourself with one
of those punch-out gizmos—on number two, reading BARBOUR/KOSTAKOS. As I
pressed the bell, I wondered if the fact that Tracy's name remained was
the doing of the roommate or the mother who continued to pay half the
rent.

There was no intercom, but Amy Barbour was expecting me—Rae had
assured me of that when I'd checked in before leaving Palo Alto—so I
went over and put my hand on the gate. The buzzer tripped the lock
quickly, and I stepped into the vestibule. The gate clanged noisily
behind me; the traffic sounds were so loud that I barely heard a voice
call out "hello" from the landing above.

"Ms. Barbour?"

"Come on up."

The young woman who stood in the door off the second-story landing
had dark red hair, a square-jawed face, and a short beaky nose. Her
hairdo looked like one of those spiky punk styles that was being
allowed to grow out; it drooped in little petals that reminded me of an
artichoke's leaves. She wore jeans and a red sweatshirt stenciled with
a fanciful lion's head; her figure was round and a trifle bottom heavy.

I introduced myself and extended my hand. She grasped it firmly, met
my eyes in a forthright manner.

"Your hand's like ice," she said. "Damned wind, I hate it. Come on
in, I'll give you a drink."

I followed her inside. The door led into a living room with the
obligatory picture windows facing the East Bay. The white drapes were
closed against the fog. The walls were also white, but the carpet was a
hideous mustard; someone had tried to hide part of it with a Mexican
rug, but I could still see enough—spills and stains included—to make me
wince. The furnishings were surprisingly good: a white leather sofa and
matching chair, tasteful glass-and-chrome tables; plain ceramic lamps;
an elaborate entertainment center. There was a single wall decoration
over the couch, one of those works that is part collage, part oil
painting, and totally expensive.

As I took off my jacket, Amy Barbour disappeared around a corner
into a dining area. I dropped the jacket on the sofa and followed,
starting when I came face-to-face with myself. The entire end wall of
the dining area was a mirror.

Amy turned, smiled at my reaction. "Pretty shocking, isn't it? You
can imagine how awful it makes you feel at seven in the morning. It's
the landlord's idea of how to make the place look larger, so he can
justify the ridiculous rent." She went through the archway into a small
kitchen and sniffed at a pot on the stove.

I said, "I suppose he picked out the carpet, too?"

"I think he got it cheap because nobody else wanted it. It's being
replaced in January. I can't wait to see what he comes up with this
time." She fetched a pair of glasses. "Whatever it is, it still won't
go with Trace's nice furniture."

"Most of the things belong to Tracy, then?"

"Yeah. She was the one with the bucks." Amy spoke with no
resentment, as if it were good fortune that had befallen both of them.
"I've got some mulled wine here. Would you like some?"

I sighed mentally, nodded, and watched as she ladled it from the
pot. In the past three weeks or so I'd had about every variety of
mulled wine known to mankind. Something bizarre happens to people at
the holidays: they seize perfectly drinkable—even good—wine and put
strange substances into it. Cloves, orange peel, cinnamon, and—for all
I know— parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme. They make gallons of it,
more than any crowd could reasonably be expected to drink, and two days
before the new year they're still serving what's left over from
December fifteenth.

Amy handed me a glass and looked expectant. I took a sip, found it
palatable in my present frozen state, and murmured compliments. Then we
went back to the living room and sat at opposite ends of the leather
sofa. Amy curled her stockinged feet under her and twisted so she could
look at me. "So," she said, "who're you working for—crazy Mrs. K?"

"Laura Kostakos, you mean?"

"Yeah."

"No."

"Oh. I just kind of assumed…"

"Why?"

"Well, she's so fanatical about Trace. The stuff about her still
being alive. This apartment, the whole schtick." She ran a hand through
her artichoke-leaf hair. "Don't get me wrong—if Trace did turn up, I'd
probably start going to church again. But she won't. She's dead. I
don't like it, but I can live with it. Unlike her mother. Who is
totally… do you know her?"

"I've met her."

"Well, you see? She's really insane. Completely… you're looking kind
of tolerant, like maybe you don't agree with me."

"I didn't mean to. Tell me more about her."

"Well, the main thing that's weird is about this apartment. Don't
get me wrong—I benefit. I like having a place like this all to myself.
I can have my boyfriend here, no hassle. And I get the use of this nice
furniture, all the kitchen stuff." She paused, seeming to hear herself.
"That doesn't mean I don't miss Trace. I do, dammit."

"I'm sure you do. About Mrs. Kostakos?…"

"Sorry. I tend to run on. Anyway, Mrs. K is creepy. She gives me
full run of the place, except I can't go in Trace's room, not even to
dust."

"I guess she just wants it the way it was before."

"Oh, I can understand that. If Trace ever did come back, she
wouldn't want to find out I'd been pawing through her stuff. Not that I
would, but Mrs. K doesn't really know me. So she keeps the door locked."

So far she hadn't told me anything that seemed so peculiar. I was
about to comment to that effect, when she added, "What's creepy is the
way she comes up here and sits for hours in that room."

"When does she do that?"

"Every Friday, at the same time of day that she used to have lunch
with Trace."

But Laura Kostakos had told me she hardly ever left her house. And I
knew from my files that Amy worked five days a week at a place where
they silk-screened T-shirts. "How do you know that?"

"The way I caught on, on Fridays I would come home from work and the
place would smell funny, like gardenias. Then, one day about a year
ago, I got sick and came home early. Mrs. K was just leaving the
building, and I realized the smell was that perfume she wears. Pretty
strong stuff. The next Friday, I left the answering machine off and
kept calling the apartment from work. Around one-thirty she answered."
Amy paused dramatically. "And do you know what she said?"

I shook my head.

"She said, 'Tracy, is that you?' You see what I mean— creepy."

Somehow I doubted Amy had enough imagination to make up such a
story. I said, "Are you sure she comes every Friday?"

"Yep. You go in that room, you can smell the gardenias."

"I thought you weren't supposed to go in there, that she keeps it
locked."

Amy looked mildly abashed. "The locks on these doors, there's a
little tool you can use to open them from the outside."

"And you've used it."

"Only because I wonder what she does in there—at first I thought
maybe she'd set up a shrine or something."

"And had she?"

"No, nothing like that. All she'd done was move a rocker that used
to be out here—I wondered at the time why she'd taken it away—in there
by the window. I guess she just sits there, waiting."

I compressed my lips and frowned, concerned for Laura Kostakos.

Amy said, "Yeah, that's how I feel. It's creepy, coming home on
Fridays and knowing she's been in there… just waiting. I mean, I never
know what to expect. What if she does something?"

"Like what?"

She flung a hand out wildly, almost knocking her wineglass over.
"How do I know what a crazy person will do? She might kill herself. I'd
come home, find her. Yuck. Or what if she turns violent? I'd walk in,
and it'd be all over."

In spite of her dramatics, I sensed Amy was genuinely afraid. "I
don't think she's violent or self-destructive," I said, "but maybe it
would be good to talk to someone about it. Have you thought of
contacting Tracy's father? After all, he's a psychology professor."

"Old George? Forget it."

"Why?"

"He's just… all psychologists are weird."

Maybe it was just as well she hadn't talked to him, I thought. If he
didn't already know about his wife's weekly vigils in Tracy's room, it
would be best if he heard it from someone more tactful and less prone
to histrionics than Amy. "Tell you what," I said, "I'll ask him about
it. If he thinks there's potential danger, you should probably move out
of here."

Amy sipped wine, her gaze skipping around the room, as if taking
note of all the possessions she would lose use of by such an action.
Then she sighed. "Maybe it would be for the best. Maybe it's time I
move in with my boyfriend. If he'll let me."

"Would you mind if I look at Tracy's room?"

"Why should I? The only one who might mind is Mrs. K, and she'll
never know. By the way, if you're not working for her, who is it? I
started to ask, and then I forgot."

"Bobby Foster's lawyer."

Her eyes widened and she became very still. After a moment she said,
"Bobby. God, it's so awful!"

"You know him?"

"Not well, but to even have an acquaintance on death row… I've had
bad dreams about that."

She was beginning to wear on me. I stood and moved toward the
hallway to the bedrooms. "So has Bobby."

Amy opened her mouth, shut it, and gave me a reproachful look. Then
she followed me, wineglass in hand.

Two of the doors off the hallway were open: to a bathroom midway
down and a small bedroom to the left at the end. The door to the right
room was closed. I said, "Where's the tool for unlocking this?"

"Here in the linen closet." Amy rummaged around and handed me a
slender metal probe.

I fitted it into the slot in the doorknob, pushed, and the lock
snapped open. As it did, I realized there was something wrong with
Amy's story about Laura Kostakos. "How does Mrs. Kostakos get into this
room if it's kept locked?" I asked.

Amy hesitated, frowning. "I never thought about that. The door locks
if you set the button before you close it, but there's no key other
than…" She looked at the probe in my hand. 

"She must use this, then. Is it always kept in the same
place?" 

"Yes, sort of. But… oh shit!"

"What?"

"Sometimes when I've gone in there, I've put it back on a different
shelf. If she realizes I've been using it to check out Trace's room,
she'll throw my ass out of here!"

"She's probably known all along and doesn't care. She may even be
aware you know of her visits." I turned back to the door, opened it,
and felt for a light switch. Behind me, Amy was silent. 

When I flicked the switch, an overhead fixture came on.

The room, its dim light revealed, was fairly good sized— about
twelve feet square—but so crammed with furniture and possessions that
it seemed a cell. A king-sized waterbed covered with a white goosedown
comforter stood against the wall perpendicular to the window. Part of
the window itself was blocked by a huge antique armoire; the rocking
chair Amy had mentioned stood in front of the unobstructed portion. The
dresser was laden with cosmetics and jewelry in clear acrylic stack
boxes; the floor space between it and the bed was taken up by a stand
with a portable TV and VCR, in spite of there being similar equipment
in the living room.

I stepped all the way inside. Through the closed window I could hear
the swish of tires on the pavement of Upper Market; headlight beams
slid over the bedroom's walls and ceilings. That, I thought, was the
price tenants paid for the view: bedrooms on the street side,
inconducive to sleep.

The bed was piled with pillows. There was no room for nightstands,
so the things one usually keeps there were on the floor: a clock radio,
water carafe and glass, Kleenex box, TV remote control. In addition to
these commonplace items, I noted several paperback biographies of
celebrities, yellowing copies of Variety, and an ashtray filled with
what looked to be marijuana roaches. I went to the closet—a large one
in which my wardrobe would have taken up maybe a third—and found it
crammed with clothing. The shelf above the pole was stacked with
sweater boxes, the floor covered with a jumble of shoes. The armoire
was in a similar state—the clothing jammed so tightly that it would
have required ironing before it could be worn. On top of the armoire
sat a big stuffed unicorn; it stared haughtily down at me.

Amy lounged in the doorway, sipping wine. "Trace was into things,"
she said.

"I can see that."

"She loved to shop, was always charging stuff. Clothes, cosmetics,
furniture, stuff for the apartment."

Laura Kostakos said Tracy had never abused their credit cards. What
did "abuse" mean to people of their financial standing? And what about
last year, when Tracy had established her own credit? She couldn't have
been earning enough to pay cash for everything, and most companies
place low limits on new cards.

Amy seemed to take my silence for disapproval of her friend's
spending habits. She said, "Look, Trace might have been into things,
but she was a good person. She was generous, always buying people
presents. And she only bought quality. The stuff for the kitchen, for
instance— there's a Sharp microwave, a Cuisinart, a whole set of
Calphalon cookware. The stainless is Dansk—"