G is for Gumshoe (9 page)

In a curious way, this still didn't feel like an emergency. The jeopardy was real, but I couldn't seem to make it connect to my personal safety. I knew in my head the danger was out there, but it didn't feel dangerous—a distinction that might prove deadly if I didn't watch my step. I knew I'd be wise to take the situation seriously, but I couldn't for the life of me work up a sweat. People in the early stages of a terminal illness must react the same way. “You're kidding . . . who, me?”

After the phone call from Irene Gersh, I'd have to come
up with a game plan. In the meantime, as I was starving, I decided I might as well grab a bite of supper. I zipped on a windbreaker, effectively concealing the shoulder holster and the gun.

On the far side of the road was a café with a blinking neon sign that said
EAT AND GET GAS
. Just what I needed. I crossed the highway carefully, looking to both sides like a kid. Every vehicle I saw seemed to be a red pickup truck.

The café was small. The lighting was harsh, but it had a comforting quality. After years of horror movies, I'm inclined to believe bad things only happen in the dark. Silly me. I elected to sit against the rear wall, as far from the plate-glass window as I could get. There were only six other patrons and they all seemed to know one another. Not one of them seemed sinister. I studied a clear plastic menu with a slip-in mimeographed sheet reproduced in a blur of purple ink. The items seemed equally divided between cholesterol and fat. This was my kind of place. I ordered a Deluxe Cheeseburger Platter, which included french fries and a lily pad of lettuce with a slice of gasripened tomato laid over it. I had a large Coke and topped it all off with a piece of cherry pie that made me moan aloud. This was the cherry pie of my childhood, tart and gluey with a lattice top crust welded in place with blackened sugar. It looked like it had been baked with an acetylene torch. The meal left me in a chemical stupor. I figured I'd just consumed enough additives and preservatives to extend my life by a couple of years . . . if I didn't get killed first.

On the way back to my room, I stopped by the motel office to see if there were any messages. There were two
from the convalescent home and a third from Irene, who had called about ten minutes before. All three were marked
URGENT
. Oh, boy. I tucked the slips into my pocket and headed out the door. Once out on the walkway, I stopped dead in my tracks, struck by the eerie sensation that I was being watched. A silvery feeling traveled my body from head to toe, as chilling as a trickle of melting snow down the back of my neck. I was acutely aware of the glowing windows behind me. I eased out of range of the exterior lights and paused in the shadows. The parking lot was poorly illuminated and my motel room was at the far end. I listened, but all I could hear were the noises from the highway—the whine of trucks, the sonorous blast from a speeding semi warning vehicles in its path. I wasn't sure what had alerted me, if anything. I peered into the dark, turning my head from side to side, eyes averted as I tried to pinpoint discreet sounds against the obliterating fog of background noise. I waited, heart thumping in my ears. I didn't like what this business was doing to my head. Faintly, I picked up the musical tinkling of a little kid giggling somewhere. The tone was impish, high-pitched, the helpless snuffling of someone being tickled unmercifully. I sank down on my heels beside a wall of thick shrubbery.

A man appeared from the far end of the parking lot, walking toward me through the shadows with a kid perched on his shoulders. He had his arms raised, in part to secure the child, in part to torment him, digging the fingers of one hand into his ribs. The kid clung to the man, laughing, fingers buried in his hair, his body swaying in a tempo with his father's walking pace, like a rider mounted on a camel. The man ducked as the two of them
turned into a lighted passageway, an alcove where I'd seen the soft drink and ice machines. A moment later, I heard the familiar clunking sound of a can of soda plummeting down the slot. The two emerged, this time hand in hand, chatting companionably. I let my breath out, watching them round the corner to the exterior stairs. They appeared again on the second floor where they entered the third room from the end. End of episode. I wasn't even aware that I'd taken my gun out, but my jacket was unzipped and it was in my hand. I stood upright, tucking my gun away. My heartbeat slowed and I shook some of my tension out of my arms and legs, like a runner at the end of an arduous race.

I returned to my room along the narrow drive that ran behind the motel. It was very dark, but it felt safer than traversing the open parking lot. I cut around the end of the building and unlocked my door, reaching around to flip the light on before I slipped inside. The room was untouched, everything exactly as I'd left it. I locked the door behind me and closed the drapes. When I sat down beside the bedtable and picked up the telephone, I realized my underarms were damp with sweat, the fear like the aftershock of an earthquake. It took a moment for my hands to quit shaking.

I called Irene first. She picked up instantly, as if she'd been hovering by the telephone. “Oh, Kinsey. Thank God,” she said when I identified myself.

“You sound upset. What's going on?”

“I got a call from the convalescent home about an hour ago. I had a long chat with Mrs. Haynes earlier this afternoon and we've made arrangements to have Mother flown
up by air ambulance. Clyde has gone to a great deal of trouble to get her into a nursing home up here. Really, it's a lovely place and quite close to us. I thought she'd be thrilled, but when Mrs. Haynes told her about it, she went berserk . . . absolutely out of control. She had to be sedated and even so, she's raising hell. Somebody's got to go over there and get her calmed down. I hope you don't mind.”

Hell, I thought. “Well, I don't want to argue, Irene, but I can't believe I'd be of any help. Your mother hasn't the faintest idea who I am and, furthermore, she doesn't care. When she saw me this afternoon, she threw a bedpan across the room.”

“I'm sorry. I know it's a nuisance, but I'm at my wit's end. I tried talking to her myself by phone, but she's incoherent. Mrs. Haynes says sometimes the medication has that effect; instead of calming these older patients down, it just seems to rev them up. They have a private-duty nurse driving up from El Centro for the eleven-o'clock shift, but meanwhile, the ward's in an uproar and they're begging for help.”

“God. All right. I'll do what I can, but I don't have any training in this kind of thing.”

“I understand,” she said. “I just don't know who else to ask.”

I told her I'd head on over to the hospital and then I hung up. I couldn't believe I'd been roped into this. My presence on a geriatric ward was going to prove about as effective as the padlock on the trailer door. All form, no content. What really bugged me was the suspicion that nobody would have even
suggested
that a boy detective do
likewise. I didn't want to see that old lady again. While I admired her spunk, I didn't want to be in
charge
of her. I had my own ass to worry about. Why does everybody assume women are so nurturing? My maternal instincts were extinguished by my Betsy Wetsy doll. Every time she peed in her little flannel didies, I could feel my temper climb. I quit feeding her and that cured it, but it did make me wonder, even at the age of six, how suited I was for motherhood.

It was in this charitable frame of mind that I proceeded to the Rio Vista. I drove with an eye to my rearview mirror to see if anyone was following. I watched for pickup trucks of every color and size. I thought the one I'd seen was a Dodge, but I hadn't been paying close attention at the time and I couldn't have sworn to it.

Nothing untoward occurred. I reached the convalescent hospital, parked my car in a visitors' slot, walked back through the front entrance and headed for the stairs. It was ominously quiet. No telling what Agnes was up to. It was only 8:00
P.M.
but the floor lights had already been dimmed and the facility was bathed in the muted rustle and hush of any hospital at night. The old sleep restlessly, pained limbs crying out. Nights must be long, filled with fretful dreams, the fear of death, or, worse perhaps, the certainty of waking to another interminable day. What did they have to hope for? What ambitions could they harbor in this limbo of artificial light? I could sense the hiss of oxygen in the walls, the pall of the pharmaceuticals with which their bodies were infused. Hearts would go on beating, lungs would pump, kidneys filtering all the poisons from the blood. But who would diagnose their feelings of
dread, and how would anyone provide relief from the underlying malady, which was despair?

When I reached the ward, I could see that Agnes's bed was the only one with a light. A male aide, a young black, set his magazine aside and tiptoed in my direction with a finger to his lips. We spoke briefly in low tones. The medication had finally kicked in and she was dozing, he said. Now that I was here, he had his regular duties to attend to. If I needed anything, I could find him at the nurses' station down the hall. He moved out of the room.

I crossed quietly to the pool of bright light in which Agnes slept. The counterpane on her bed was a heavyweight cotton, harsh white, her thin frame scarcely swelling the flat coverlet. She snored softly. Her eyes seemed to be opened slightly, lids twitching as she tracked some interior event. Her right hand clutched at the sheet, her arthritic knuckles as protuberant as redwood burls. Her chest was flat. Coarse whiskers sprouted from her chin, as if old age were transforming her from one sex to the other. I found myself holding my breath as I watched her, willing her to breathe, wondering if she'd sail away right before my eyes. This afternoon, she'd seemed sassy and energetic. Now, she reminded me of certain old cats I've seen whose bones seem hollow and small, who seem capable of levitating, so close are they to fairylike.

I glanced at the clock. Twelve minutes had passed. When I looked back, her black eyes were pinned on my face with a surprising show of life. There was something startling about her sudden watchfulness, like a visitation from the spirit world.

“Don't make me go,” she whispered.

“It won't be so bad. I hear the nursing home is lovely. Really. It'll be much better than this.”

Her gaze became intense. “You don't understand. I want to stay here.”

“I do understand, Agnes, but it's just not possible. You need help. Irene wants you close so she can take care of you.”

She shook her head mournfully. “I'll die. I'll die. It's too dangerous. Help me get away.”

I felt the hair stiffen along my scalp. “You'll be fine. Everything's fine,” I said. My voice sounded too loud. I lowered my tone, leaning toward her. “You remember Irene?”

She blinked at me and I could have sworn she was debating whether to admit to it or not. She nodded, her voice tremulous. “My little girl,” she said. She reached out and I took her shaking hand, which was bony and hot, surprisingly strong.

“I talked to Irene a little while ago,” I said. “Clyde's found a place close by. She says it's very nice.”

She shook her head. Tears had leaped into her eyes and they trickled down her cheeks, following deeply eroded lines in her face. Her mouth began to work, her face filled with a pleading she couldn't seem to articulate.

“Can you tell me what you're afraid of?”

I could see her struggle, and her voice, when it came, was so frail that I had to rise slightly from my chair to catch what she was saying. “Emily died. I tried to warn her. The chimney collapsed in the earthquake. The ground rolled. Oh, I could see . . . it was like waves in the earth. Her head was bashed in by a brick. She wouldn't listen
when I told her it was dangerous. Let it be, I said, but she had to have her way. Sell the house, sell the house. She didn't want roots, but that's where she ended up . . . down in the ground.”

“When was this?” I asked, trying to keep the conversation afloat.

Agnes shook her head mutely.

“Is that why you're worried? Because of Emily?”

“I heard the niece of the owner of that old house across the street died several years ago. She was a Harpster.”

Oh, boy. We were really on a roll here. “She played the harp?” I asked.

She shook her head impatiently. Her voice gathered strength. “Harpster was her maiden name. She was big in the Citizens Bank and never married. Helen was an exgirlfriend of his. She left because of his temper, but then Sheila came along. She was so young. She had no idea. The other Harpster girl was a dancer and married Arthur James, a professional accordion player who owned a music shop. I knew him because we girls at the Y used to go over to his place and he would play for us after he locked the door,” she said. “It's a small world. The girls said their uncle's house was their second home. She might still be there if he left it to her. She'd help.”

I watched carefully, trying to understand what was going on. Was there really something she was too frightened to talk about? “Was Emily the one who married Arthur James?”

“There was always some story . . . always some explanation.” She waved a hand vaguely, her tone resigned.

“Was this in Santa Teresa? Maybe I could help you if I understood.”

“Santa came over special and gave us all a stockingful of goodies. I let her have mine.”

“Who, Emily?”

“Don't talk about Emily. Don't tell. It was the earthquake. Everyone said so.” She extracted her hand and a veil of cunning dropped over her eyes. “My arthritis is in my shoulder and knee. My shoulder has been broken two times. The doctor didn't even touch it, just X-rayed. I had two cataract operations at least, but I never had to have a tooth filled. You can see for yourself.” She opened her mouth.

Sure enough, no fillings, which is not that big a deal when you have no teeth.