Murder in the Marketplace (2 page)

“I take it you don’t want to participate.” Keeping a wary eye on the man, I edged down the driveway toward the sidewalk.

“Don’t come back.” His voice was softer again. The woman who stood beside him didn’t speak, didn’t even blink.

They’d just gotten out of the big 4x4 that stood on the drive when I’d approached, smiling my cheery, pasted-on Census Bureau smile, and requested a few minutes of their time. No smile from either of them, no chitchat. Blankness from her, hostility from him. I might have been from the IRS instead of the Census Bureau.

“Have a nice day.” Whenever I used the government-issue smile it seemed to generate such inanities. I would have despised me, too, just as this fun couple did. The man glared, the woman ignored. I faded away, leaving the smile behind.

My feet ached in the demure shoes, which was probably the reason why they’d been at the Junior League Thrift Shop in the first place. I sat down at the nearest bus-stop bench and eased my toes out of them while consulting the register of names and addresses assigned me by the chirpy local census supervisor.

Despite missing my lunch to work during the noon hour, only a couple of the eleven doors I’d knocked on so far had been opened. One of those doors had been slammed in my face. The other one had belonged to a lady who seemed to believe that I
was
from the IRS, judging from the way she’d complained about her tax dollars. I’d spent more time in her living room listening than asking questions.

The Census Bureau probably wished it were the IRS, too—at least the latter had an enforcement arm. I had been hired along with other financially desperate people to plod around with clunky black briefcases because when the census had been taken a few years ago, the bureau had muffed it big-time in California. Headlines had proclaimed that millions of people had gone uncounted; along with the rest of the nation’s taxpayers, I’d marveled at the incredible inefficiency of our government, and especially of the Census Bureau. If your mandate was to count, you should know how.

Now I was getting a different picture. In California, it seemed people didn’t want to be counted. And some of them could be downright unpleasant.

At least the Census Bureau had been realistic about that when they’d made up the forms I was supposed to fill out for each household. There was a place for indicating the uncooperative. I’d filled that space in a lot. Now I blacked it in with my official Census Bureau pencil for Mr. and Mrs. Fun Couple and tried to decide if this gig was worth the money. It paid a little better than temp work, but the aggravation level was much higher, too. If it hadn’t been for my sweet little house, I wouldn’t have put up with it for a minute.

My house had been a wonderful, unlooked-for gift. But, though free, it was needier than a deadbeat husband. Right now it required a new hot water heater; before that it had been the roof. The property tax bill I’d paid in April had been unpleasantly large; another payment was due in November. Generally I make enough money freelancing to scrape along, but I hadn’t had a sale for a while, and things were getting tight. That’s why I’d been temping mornings for Emery and anyone else he dug up; that’s why I spent the afternoons going door-to-door for the U.S. Census Bureau, asking nosy questions no one wanted to answer.

I had applied months ago for the census job, when it was first advertised, but I hadn’t expected to be hired—having once been an inmate in a correctional facility, even if it wasn’t a full-scale prison, is not a good recommendation. After just a couple of afternoons and evenings as a government employee, I’d realized that no one with any sense would go around to houses where people had refused to cooperate with the census the first time around, and ask them to reconsider.

I smoothed the skirt over my knees and hoped that the hem wasn’t too puckered and uneven from my inexpert attempt to re-tailor it. Whoever had owned it first had been taller than me—four or five inches, anyway. I think of myself as totally nonthreatening. Yet people didn’t want to talk to me.

During the census orientation, we were encouraged to look nice. We were spoon-fed platitudes, led through some totally inadequate role-playing, given our black briefcases, registers, and pencils, and sent into the world. The job would last several weeks, if I could stick it out.

A man shambling up the street collapsed on the bus-stop bench where I sat licking my wounds. He had the kind of stubble on his chin that isn’t photogenic, and clothes that hadn’t been within churning distance of a washing machine for a while. His blank gaze passed over me while he pulled a paper bag-wrapped bottle from inside his ragged overcoat. He smelled bad and looked worse, but I welcomed his appearance as a reminder to quit whining. I had my ground-level ivory tower, only slightly dilapidated, and a nice big vegetable garden. I wasn’t homeless, nor would I starve. I wasn’t dead, despite a close call or two.

The bus came along. The driver looked irritated when neither I nor my odoriferous benchmate wanted to ride. Resting on county property is not encouraged.

I stood on my aching feet and walked on. My territory was an area of Palo Alto that was unfamiliar to me, a neighborhood of small houses and apartment buildings off El Camino Real, one of the main drags in our fair city. Some of the houses were being remodeled, which is the major leisure activity of home-owning Palo Altans. Some of the houses, the rentals, were sliding downhill. The apartment buildings ranged from older, smaller duplexes or sixplexes to featureless, monoliths like large-scale anthills. My register covered just a couple of blocks at a time, but I was beginning to feel that there was no end in sight. The secondhand pumps resumed their torture of my toes; I was tempted to climb into my VW bus, drive home, and not come back.

Instead, I plodded on down the street, approaching the next apartment house. It was a fiveplex, facing another like it across a driveway-courtyard. Each building had two units on the ground floor flanking the parking slots, and three across the top. Since the big earthquake of 1989, buildings like this have been suspect; the covered parking areas are often inadequately shored up to support the weight of apartments above them. But optimists still live in them.

Apartment 1, according to my register, was occupied by a Wanda Sorenski. It was on the ground floor. In front of the door was a small, tiled porch, surrounded by waist-high stucco walls with flat tiles on top. Ms. Sorenski, or someone, had set plants along the wall, trailing Swedish ivy and something with pink-spotted leaves that I didn’t recognize. A plastic pot with the price sticker still on it held a baby Venus’s-flytrap, complete with youthful fangs.

The screen door was locked. Before I could ring the bell, a woman opened the door, obviously planning to go out. She pushed the screen door open as well, ignoring me so completely that if I hadn’t dodged, the screen would have crashed into my face. She towed a small, snuffling child.

“Hello,” I began, catching the screen before it caught me. “I’m with the U.S. Census Bureau—”

“Move,” she snapped. The child, curious, forgot to sniffle while he peered at me.

I stepped back, and the corner of my clunky black briefcase brushed the plastic pot with the Venus’s-flytrap. It teetered on the edge of the wall and then toppled, spilling its dirt on the porch at my feet.

For a moment I just gaped at it. “I’m sorry—”

“Look what you’ve done!” She spoke in the same voice she probably used to chastise the boy. He cringed a little, glancing at me sympathetically. “Pick that up, right now!”

Obediently I knelt at her feet, sweeping the dirt back into the pot with my fingers. The little plant’s root ball appeared to be undamaged.

“It’ll be all right.” I tried a placating smile. “Are you Wanda Sorenski?”

“None of your business.” She locked her front door and grabbed the little boy’s hand again. “Get off my porch.”

It was certainly my day to be ordered around. “I’m here for the Census Bureau,” I said, standing my ground.

“I don’t care if you’re from the Publishers Clearing House.” She elbowed me aside. “Come on, Bobby.”

Bobby dug in his heels, but she yanked him along behind her.

“I just need to ask some questions,” I tried, following them. “Would this evening be a better time?”

She turned at the sidewalk and faced me, flicking a scornful glance over my Goodwill ensemble. “Bother me again and I’ll call the cops.”

“It’s really for your benefit,” I said quickly, before she could leave.

“Yeah, sure. The less the government knows about me, the happier I’ll be. Now stop bugging me.” She dragged the little boy away, and I watched her go. Yet another one for the uncooperative bubble on my census form.

The sunshine seemed concentrated on my head; that cool breeze of the morning was gone. I wished for a comfy old T-shirt instead of the stiff blouse that went (sort of) with the skirt. I wished I’d gone home for lunch before trying to find people at home; daytime was not the best time to be going door-to-door, but I had hoped to get it over with. Now I would have to come back in the evening, trying to catch up with people who weren’t home until then, trying to get a few more forms filled out. I trudged across the courtyard to see if anyone was home in apartment 2.

Amazingly, someone was. A familiar someone—Jenifer from SoftWrite.

I gaped at her for a moment, wondering if it really was her. She was wearing a faded plaid robe, open over leggings and an oversized T-shirt.

“Jenifer?”

She rubbed her head. Her eyes were heavy. “Yes?” She looked at me blankly for a moment. “Oh, yes. Liz from the office. Were you bringing me some papers or something?” She frowned. “I don’t think I can get anything done right now. I’m not feeling well.”

“I’m sorry to bother you.” The faint purple smudges under her eyes were more pronounced. I did feel bad—I must have gotten her out of bed. “I actually have a different hat on this’ afternoon—I’m a census taker, for the follow-up census.”

She flapped one hand weakly, as if to push me away, and yawned hugely. There was a scrabbling noise behind her, and a puppy squirmed around her ankles, trying to escape.

It was a cute little thing, black and white, with floppy ears and big brown eyes. She scooped it up and held it.

“Does it have to be now?” She started to edge the door closed.

“It won’t take too long.” I felt like a heel, pestering a sick person.

“I guess I could answer some questions.” She glanced behind her, hugging the puppy to her tightly. “If it’s fast.”

She didn’t ask me in, so I just dove into it while standing there. “Your name is Jenifer, right? Last name?”

“Paston.” She spelled both names for me, yawned, and gave me her date of birth and occupation—she was twenty-four, and a software engineer. But when I started asking about the apartment, she got restive.

“Why does the government need to know that?” She squinted at me. Her eyes were a little red and swollen— allergies or tears. I decided it was allergies.

I explained that the Census Bureau wanted to count housing units as well as people. “Do you have two bedrooms here, or one?”

“Two.” She looked over her shoulder. I thought I heard someone stirring around, but whoever it was didn’t say anything.

“And do you live here alone?”

“I have a roommate.” The puppy whimpered a little when she squeezed it. I reached out to stroke one silky ear.

“Can I speak to your roommate? I’m supposed to fill out a form about everyone.”

“She’s still at work.” Jenifer yawned uncontrollably. My jaws ached with the effort of staying closed. “Look, Liz, I’m sorry. I have to lie down now.”

“I’ll come back this evening, okay? I can get your roommate then, and I won’t have to bother you.”

“Yeah, sure.” She was closing the door.

“Sixish okay?”

“Later—seven.” The puppy struggled to get out of her grip. “Sorry. We’ll talk later.”

As the door closed, I thought I heard another, deeper voice. Perhaps the roommate was there, but didn’t want to talk. Pausing at the stairs, I wondered if I should go back. But I felt kind of funny taking census data from people I knew, even if only slightly. Maybe there was a regulation against it; maybe I should send another agent to talk to Jenifer and her roommate.

While I stewed about that, I plodded up the stairs. No one was home at any of the upstairs apartments. I trudged the length of the walkway, which projected out over the parking area below, ringing doorbells and knocking. I sat on a bench beside the door of apartment 5 to write the last little notice that said I would call again that evening.

Somewhere below me a door creaked open. Brisk footsteps walked away; a car started. The puppy began yapping. The wind blew the fronds of the pepper tree in the center courtyard; the long strands of pepper berries rattled together like little pink castanets.

I was tired, hot, and my feet hurt. And it was long past lunchtime. My little house beckoned. I would go home and soak my feet, have lunch, and do a little work on the census forms before trying again in the evening. I could also finish up a couple of query letters.

Walking the two blocks to where I’d parked the Volkswagen bus was agony. I added Number 48 to Liz’s Rules for Survival: Never wear cruel shoes. I climbed through the side door and collapsed onto the backseat; the sofa of my traveling living room. The table was folded down and everything tucked away. Old habits die hard. I kept the bus ready to take to the road at any minute. You never know when you might need to escape from something—bill collectors, earthquakes, an abusive ex-husband.

I kicked off the toe-torturers and filled a plastic Woolworth glass with water from the sink. It tasted a little stale from being in the reservoir for a while, but my dry throat appreciated it just the same. I rooted in the cupboard beside the door for the old pair of sandals I kept for garden work, then went forward to the driver’s seat. The bus seemed smaller to me since I no longer lived in it. I nearly bumped my head on its ceiling.

The engine made a strange coughing sound at the stoplight. I would have to spend time that afternoon delving into its guts to see if I could fix it. I’ve learned its peculiarities over the years, since there aren’t that many mechanics who will work on ‘69 buses for a price I can afford. But when it makes these noises I always worry that it’s the end. Aside from the expense of replacing it, I’m attached to the old heap.