P is for Peril (9 page)

“You certainly did,” Henry said. He took a sip of whiskey. “If you go first, I know exactly the picture I'm going to give the paper for your obit. You in those knickers the summer we toured Atlantic City. Your hair's parted down the center and it looks like you're wearing lipstick.”

William leaned closer. “He's still jealous because I took Alice Vandermeer away from him. She could jitterbug like the dickens and had money to burn.”

Henry said, “She had a wen on her cheek the size and color of a small Concord grape. I never knew where to look so I palmed her off on him.”

William turned several pages to the classified ads, where he compared descriptions of “found” dogs and cats with those reported missing, often spotting a match. While Henry and I continued to open and file Klotilde's medical bills, William entertained us with all the livestock currently being offered for sale. He glanced up at me. “Well, here's something. Still need office space? You should check this one out. Five hundred square feet, newly renovated, downtown. Two fifty a month, available immediately.”

I stopped what I was doing and tilted my head in his direction. “You're kidding. Let me see that.”

William handed me the section, pointing to the item, which read:

The phone number was listed.

I read the lines twice but they didn't seem to change. “I'll bet it's a dump. They always embellish in these ads.”

“It won't hurt to call.”

“You really think so?”

“Of course.”

“What if it's rented?”

“You won't be out anything. Maybe the guy has others.” He reached into his watch pocket and removed a coin, which he placed on the table right in front of me. “Go on.”

I took the coin and the paper and crossed the room. The pay phone was in the vestibule, the area dimly illuminated by a neon Budweiser sign. I dialed the number and read the ad again while I listened to four rings. Finally, the line was picked up on the other end and I asked to speak to Richard.

“This is he.”

I placed him in his thirties, though phone voices can be deceptive. “I'm calling with regard to the office space listed in tonight's paper. Is the place still available?” I noticed a tinge of plaintiveness had crept into my voice.

“Sure, but we're asking for a year's lease, first and last month's rent, plus a cleaning deposit.”

“Can I ask what street it's on?”

“Floresta. Across from the police station and about six doors down.”

“And the price quoted is correct? The ad says two hundred and fifty bucks a month.”

“It's only one room. It's got a closet and bathroom, but it's not large.”

I pictured a phone booth. “Would it be possible to see it tonight?”

“As it happens, my brother's in there laying carpet and I'm on my way over. You want to take a look, I can meet you there in fifteen minutes.”

My watch said 7:30. “Great. I can do that. What's the address?”

He gave me the information. “You can pull on down the driveway to the parking lot in back. You'll see lights on, first floor rear. My brother's name is Tommy. The last name's Hevener.”

“I'm Kinsey Millhone. Thanks so much. I'll see you in fifteen minutes.”

The building had clearly once been a single-family residence: a one-story white-frame cottage with gables in the roofline and a lot of gingerbread trim. At 7:42 I eased my VW down the driveway, my headlights cutting through the shadows. I slowed and peered out the driver's-side window. The white paint looked fresh and there were flower beds along the side. How had I missed this? The location was ideal—one block away from the office I was now in—and the price couldn't have been better. I counted ten parking spaces laid out along the narrow backyard, which was paved with asphalt and fenced on two sides. A black pickup truck was parked in one spot, but the rest were empty at this hour. There was a big trash bin just at the exit to the alleyway in back. Looking up, I could see Lonnie's office windows and the back wall that framed the tiny lot behind his building. I parked and got out, trying to curb the sudden surge of hope. For all I knew, the property was on the market, or the lot was the site of a former gas station, the soil still contaminated by benzene and other carcinogens.

A wide redwood deck had been constructed across the back of the building, complete with a long wooden ramp installed for easy wheelchair access. A market umbrella with a big pale canvas shade stood open above a glass-topped table surrounded by four chairs. Several large terra-cotta pots had been planted with herbs. I was about to hyperventilate. First-floor lights were ablaze. I entered a small foyer. A door stood open to my immediate right. The scent of fresh paint was strong, overlaid by the staunch, secondary odor of brand-new carpeting. I closed my eyes while I offered up a quick prayer, repudiating my wickedness and promising to mend my evil ways. I opened my eyes and stepped through the doorway, absorbing the room at a glance.

The room was twelve by twelve, with new hand-crank windows on two walls. There were two tiers of white-painted shutters in place of conventional drapes. On the far wall, two doors stood open, one leading to a small bathroom, the other into what was clearly a spacious walk-in closet. A red-headed fellow in jeans, an olive green T-shirt, and heavy work boots was sitting on the floor kicking a carpet stretcher, forcing the carpet taut along the baseboard. A phone line had been installed and the phone was currently resting on the surface of an empty cardboard box.

The carpet itself was an industrial-grade nylon, a pattern of beige flecks against a charcoal gray background. I could see his carpet knife with its fat, curved blade, and the mallet he used to pound the carpet backing onto tack strips. Carpet scraps were piled up in the center of the room. An insulated plastic cooler was positioned near the wall beside a wastebasket that was filled to the brim with more carpet trimmings. The room seemed stuffy from the glaring two-hundred-watt bulb overhead.

I said, “Hi, I'm Kinsey. Your brother said he'd meet me here at seven forty-five. Are you Tommy?”

“That's me. Richard's always late. Written guarantee. I'm the good boy, the one who shows up when I'm expected. Hang on a minute. I'm almost done here.” He glanced over, flashing me a smile, all green eyes and white teeth. Deep creases formed a bracket around his mouth. With his red hair and his ruddy complexion, the effect was electric, like a black-and-white film with a wholly unexpected sequence in Technicolor. I felt myself averting my gaze with a little frisson that danced its way along my spine. I hoped I hadn't inadvertently whimpered aloud.

I watched him kick, pound, and cut, the muscles in his back and shoulders bunching as he worked. His arms were knotted with veins and matted with a fine red hair. A trickle of sweat angled down along his cheek. He shrugged, blotting the side of his face with the sleeve of his T-shirt. He tossed his mallet aside and sprung to his feet, wiping his palms on his back of his pants. He held a hand out, saying, “What's your name again?”

“It 's Kinsey. The last name's Millhone with two
L '
s.”

The sun had taken its toll on his fair complexion, leaving a series of lines in his forehead, additional lines at the outer corners of his eyes. I pegged him in his late twenties, five foot ten, a hundred and sixty pounds. Having been a cop, I still view men as suspects I might be called upon later to identify in a lineup. “Mind if I look around?”

He shrugged. “Help yourself. There's not much to see,” he said. “What kind of business you in?”

I walked into the bathroom, my voice echoing against the tile. “I'm a private detective.”

Toilet, pedestal sink with a built-in medicine cabinet above it. The shower stall was fiberglass with an aluminum-framed glass door. The floor was done in a white ceramic tile that ran halfway up the wall. Above, there was a floral-print vinyl paper in beige, white, and charcoal gray. The effect was both fresh and old-fashioned. Also, easy to keep clean.

I moved back into the main room and crossed to the closet, peering into the four-by-six space, which was fully carpeted, empty, and painted a pristine white. Sufficient room for filing cabinets and office supplies. Even had a hook where I could hang my jacket. I turned back to the main room and let my gaze travel the perimeter. If I placed my desk facing the window, I could look out at the deck. The shutters were perfect. If a client dropped in, I could close the lower set for privacy and leave the upper set folded back for light. I tried a window crank, which turned smoothly, without so much as a whine or a creak. I leaned against the windowsill. “No termites, no leaky roof?”

“No, ma'am. I can guarantee that because I did the work myself. This is real quiet back here. You ought to see it by day. Lot of light coming through these windows. Trouble walks in, you got cops right across the street.” His accent was faintly Southern.

“Fortunately, my job's not that dangerous.”

He tucked his hands into his front pockets. His face was dappled with sun damage like a fine patina of freckles. I couldn't think what to say next and the silence stretched. Tommy launched in again without a lot of help from yours truly. “Place was in pretty bad shape when we took possession. We upgraded plumbing and electrical, put on a new roof and aluminum siding. Stuff like that.” His voice was so soft I found myself straining to hear.

“It looks nice. How long have you owned it?”

“About a year. We're new out here. We lost our parents a few years ago—both passed away. Richard hates talking about that almost more'n me. It's still a sore subject. So, now it's just the two of us, my brother and me.” He crossed to the cooler and opened the lid, glancing over at me. “Offer you a beer?”

“Oh, no thanks. I was just about to have supper when someone showed me your ad. After I talk to Richard, I'll head on back and eat there.”

“Don't like to drink and drive,” he remarked, smiling ruefully.

“That's part of it,” I said.

He rooted through the crushed ice, pulled out a Diet Pepsi, and popped the tab. I held up a hand, but not quick enough to stop him. “Seriously, I'm fine.”

His frown was softened by a tone of mock disapproval. “No beer, no soda pop. Can's open now. Might as well have a sip. You don't want the whole thing to go to waste,” he said. Again, he proffered the Pepsi, waggling the can coaxingly in my direction. I took it to avoid a fuss.

He reached into the cooler and extracted a bottle of Bass Ale. He flipped the cap off and held it by the neck while he seated himself on the floor. He leaned his back against the wall, his legs extended in front of him. His work boots looked enormous. He gestured at the empty expanse of carpet. “Pull up a seat. Might as well be comfortable.”

“Thanks.” I picked a spot across from him and sat down on the floor, taking a polite sip of Pepsi before I set the can aside.

Tommy took a long draw of beer. He looked like a guy accustomed to smoking while he worked. “I used to smoke,” he said, as though reading my mind. “Tough to give up, but I think I got it licked. You smoke?”

“Once upon a time.”

“Been six months for me. Now and then, I still get the itch, but I take in a couple of breaths just like this. . . .” He paused to demonstrate, his chest expanding as he sucked air audibly through his nose. He let out his breath. “Pretty soon the craving goes away. Where you from?”

“I'm local. Went to Santa Teresa High.”

“Me and my brother come from Texas. Little town called Hatchet. Ever hear of it?”

I shook my head.

“Right outside Houston. Pop was in oil. Luckily he sold the company before the bottom dropped out. Poured all his money into real estate. Developed shopping malls, office buildings, all kinds of commercial properties. California's weird. People don't seem all that friendly like they do where we come from. Especially the women. Lot of them seem stuck-up.”

The silence settled again.

He took another pull of beer and wiped his mouth on his palm. “Private detective. That's a new one on me. You carry a gun?”

“Occasionally. Not often.” I dislike being “drawn out,” though he was probably only being polite until his brother appeared.

He smiled lazily as if picking up on my innate crankiness. “So which do you prefer? Guys way too young for you or guys way too old.”

“I never thought about it like that.”

He wagged a finger. “Guys way too old.”

I felt my cheeks grow warm. Dietz really wasn't that old.

“Me, I like women your age,” he said, showing a flash of white teeth. “You got a boyfriend?”

“That's none of your business.”

Tommy laughed. “Oh, come on. You seeing someone steady?”

“More or less,” I said. I didn't want to piss this guy off when I was hoping against hope I'd end up renting the place.

“ 'More or less.' I like that. So which is it?”

“‘More,' I guess.”

“Can't be much of a romance if you have to guess.” He narrowed his eyes as though consulting his intuition. “So here's what I think. I bet you're real schizy. Bet you blow hot and cold about other human beings, especially men. Am I right?”

“Not necessarily. I wouldn't say that.”

“But you must've seen a lot of bad guys, the business you're in.”

“I've seen some bad women, too.”