The adjacent bathroom was twelve by twelve with an old cast-iron claw-foot tub and a sink with a wide lip, a small glass shelf above. The toilet had a wooden seat and a wall-mounted tank that was operated by a pull-chain. The floors were covered in a parquet pattern of fake-wood linoleum.
In the main room there was a second chest of drawers, a double bed with a white painted iron bedstead, and two mismatched bed tables. The one table lamp was utilitarian—two seventy-five-watt bulbs, a hanging metal chain, and a plain, yellowing shade that looked scorched in places. When I pulled the chain only one bulb came on. The bed had been stripped and the mattress was folded back on itself, revealing the bedsprings. Melvin had made a tidy pile of the linens that would need to be washed: sheets, pillowcases, mattress cover, bedspread, and towels.
Under a bay of windows on the far wall there was a wooden table painted white and two unfinished wooden chairs. I crossed to a length of kitchen counter with a short run of cabinets above. I checked the shelves. A set of dishes, six drinking glasses, two cereal boxes, and an assortment of crackers. Knowing Mrs. Von as I did by then, a hot plate or any other cooking equipment would be strictly forbidden.
I began to search in earnest, though I didn’t see much in the way of hiding places. I pulled each drawer open, looked in and behind, checked the underside, and then closed it and moved on. Nothing in the wastebasket. Nothing under the chest of drawers. I took one of the kitchen chairs and carried it to the closet so I could climb up and get a clear view of the far reaches of the shelves. I pulled the string that controlled the one naked bulb. The light was dull. At first I thought I’d struck out again, but I could see something in one corner against the wall. I stood on my toes, head down, my arm fully extended as I groped blindly across the dusty shelf. My hand closed over the item and I hauled it into view. It was one of those toys with two parallel wooden sticks, which when squeezed makes a small wooden clown do a somersault. I watched the clown do a couple of flips and then climbed down off the chair. I returned the chair to the kitchenette and stuck the toy in my bag before I moved into the bathroom.
The bathroom hadn’t been scrubbed, but neither did it contain anything in the way of information. I did see the cardboard insert from a wine box, folded flat and tucked behind the sink. Melvin Downs had been carrying two wine boxes, one tucked inside the other, when we were introduced. Which meant he was already in the process of packing up his things. Interesting. Something had triggered a hasty departure and I hoped it wasn’t me.
I left the room and closed the door behind me. As I headed toward the stairs, I heard the faint strains of a radio from the room across the hall. I hesitated and then knocked on the door. What did I have to lose?
The man who answered was missing his upper front teeth and had a prickling two-day growth of beard.
“Sorry to bother you, but I’m wondering what happened to Melvin Downs.”
“Don’t know. Don’t care. I didn’t like him and he didn’t like me. Good riddance.”
“Is there anyone else I might talk to?”
“Him and the fellow in 5 watched TV together. Second floor.”
“Is he here?”
He closed the door.
I said, “Thanks.”
I went out to my car and got in, then sat with my hands on the steering wheel while I considered my options. I glanced at my watch. It was close to eleven o’clock. For the moment, there was nothing I could do. I had the Guffeys to contend with, so I turned the key in the ignition and headed for Colgate. If I didn’t get a move on, I’d be late.
24
SOLANA
Sunday morning, Solana stood in the kitchen, breaking up a handful of tablets with a mortar and pestle. The pulverized medication was a new over-the-counter sleep aid she’d purchased the day before. She liked to experiment. The old man was currently sedated and she took the opportunity to place a call to the Other, to whom she hadn’t spoken since before Christmas. Given the press of the holidays and her care of the old man, Solana hadn’t given the Other much thought. She felt safe where she was. She couldn’t see how her past could catch up with her, but it never hurt to keep a finger on the Other’s pulse, as it were.
After the usual banal conversation, the Other said, “I had the oddest thing happen. I was in the neighborhood of Sunrise House and stopped by to see the gang and say hi. There’s a new woman in the administrator’s office and she asked me if I was enjoying my new job. When I said I was in school full-time, she gave me this look. I can’t even tell you how strange it was. I asked what was wrong and she said a private investigator had come in, doing a background check for a private-duty nursing job. I told her she’d made a mistake, that I wasn’t doing private duty.”
Solana closed her eyes, trying to determine what this meant. “She must have made a mistake, thinking you were someone else.”
“That was my reaction, but while I was standing there, she pulled the folder and pointed out the note she’d entered at the time. She even showed me the woman’s business card.”
Solana focused on the information with a curious sense of detachment. “Woman?”
“It wasn’t a name I’d seen before and I can’t remember it now, but I don’t like the idea of someone asking personal questions about me.”
“I have to go. There’s someone at the door. I’ll call you later.”
Solana hung up. She could feel the heat climb her frame like a hot flash. What alarmed Solana was the fact that the young woman from next door was prying into matters that were none of her concern. The revelation was deeply disturbing, but she couldn’t stop and worry about that now. She had other business to take care of. She’d set up an appointment at an art gallery, where she was hoping to off-load the paintings she’d found when she first came to work. She knew nothing about art, but the frames were handsome, and she believed they would bring in a tidy sum. She’d gone through the yellow pages and selected five or six galleries in the fancy-pants part of town. As soon as Tiny helped her load the paintings in the trunk of her car, she’d take off, leaving him to babysit Mr. Vronsky while she was out.
She left the freeway and took the Old Coast Road, which ran through the part of Montebello known as the Lower Village. There was nothing remotely village-like about the area. It was all high-end retail businesses: custom clothing, interior design shops, architects’ offices, real estate offices with color photographs of ten- to fifteen-million-dollar homes in the window. She spotted the gallery in the middle of a line of stores. Parking was at a premium and she circled the block twice before she found a space. She opened the trunk of the convertible and took out two of the six paintings she’d brought. On both, the frames were ornate and she was sure the gold leaf was real.
The gallery itself was plain, long and narrow, no carpet, no furniture except for an expensive antique table with a chair on each side. The lighting was good, calling attention to the thirty or so paintings hung along the walls. Some looked no better than the two she’d carried in.
The woman at the desk looked up with a pleasant smile. “You must be Ms. Tasinato. I’m Carys Mumford. How are you today?”
Solana said, “Fine. I have an appointment with the owner to talk about some paintings I want to sell.”
“I’m the owner. Won’t you have a seat?”
Solana was slightly embarrassed by the error she’d made, but how was she to know someone so young and attractive would own a ritzy place like this? She’d expected a man, someone older and snooty and easy to manipulate. Awkwardly, she set the paintings down, wondering how to proceed.
Ms. Mumford got up and came around the table, saying, “Mind if I have a look?”
“Please.”
She picked up the larger of the two paintings and carried it across the room. She leaned it against the wall, then returned for the second painting, which she placed beside it. Solana watched the woman’s expression change. She couldn’t decipher the woman’s reaction and she felt a moment of uneasiness. The paintings l
ooked okay to her, but maybe the gallery owner thought they were inferior.
“How did you acquire these?”
“They’re not mine. I work for the gentleman who hopes to sell them because he needs the cash. His wife bought them years ago, but after she died, he didn’t have much use for them. They’ve been stored in a spare room, just taking up space.”
Carys Mumford said, “Do you know these two artists?”
“I don’t. I never cared for landscapes myself—mountains and poppies or whatever those orange flowers are. Maybe you’re thinking these aren’t as good as the paintings you have, but the frames are worth a lot,” she said, trying not to sound desperate or apologetic.
Carys Mumford looked at her with surprise. “All you’re selling are the frames? I assumed you were talking about the paintings.”
“I’d be willing to throw those in. Is something wrong?”
“Not at all. This is a John Gamble, one of the plein-air painters from the early part of the century. His work is highly sought after. I haven’t seen a painting of this size in years. The other is by William Wendt, another well-known plein-air painter. If you’re not in any hurry, I have two or three clients I’m certain would be interested. It’s just a matter of reaching them.”
“How long would that take?”
“A week to ten days. These are people who travel most of the year and it’s sometimes a trick catching up with them. At the same time, they trust my judgment. If I say these are authentic, they’ll take my word for it.”
“I’m not sure I should leave them. I’m not authorized to do that,” she said.
“That’s up to you, though an interested buyer would want to see the painting and perhaps take it home for a few days before making a decision.”
Solana could just imagine it. This woman would pass the paintings on to someone else and that’s the last she’d ever see of them. “This Gamble fellow…what would you say that one’s worth?” She could feel her palms dampen. She didn’t like negotiating in a situation like this where she wasn’t on solid ground.
“Well, I sold a similar painting two months ago for a hundred and twenty-five thousand. Another client, a couple, bought a Gamble from me five or six years ago for thirty-five thousand. Now it’s worth a hundred and fifty.”
“A hundred and fifty thousand dollars,” Solana said. Surely her ears weren’t deceiving her.
The Mumford woman went on, “If you don’t mind my asking, is there a reason you can’t leave these with me?”
“It’s not me. It’s the gentleman I work for. I might talk him into leaving them for a week, but not longer. I’d need a receipt. I’d need two receipts.”
“I’d be happy to oblige. Of course, I’d need to see the two bills of sale from the original purchase or some proof the gentleman actually owns the paintings. It’s a formality, but in transactions of this magnitude, the provenance is critical.”
Solana shook her head, inventing a back story as quickly as she could. “Not possible. His wife bought them years ago. There was a fire after that and all his financial records were destroyed. Anyway, what difference does it make after all these years? What matters is the current value. This is an authentic Gamble. A big one. You said so yourself.”
“What about an appraisal for insurance purposes? Surely he has a rider on his policy to protect himself in case of loss.”
“That I don’t know about, but I can ask.”
She could see the woman turning the problem over in her mind. This business of provenance was just an excuse to bring the price down. Maybe she thought the painting was stolen, which couldn’t be further from the truth. The woman wanted the paintings. Solana could see it in her face, like someone on a diet looking at a rack of doughnuts through a plate-glass window. Finally, the gallery owner said, “Let me think about it and maybe we can find a way. Give me a number where you can be reached and I’ll get back to you in the morning.”
When Solana left the gallery she had the two receipts in hand. The lesser of the two paintings, the William Wendt, was valued at seventy-five thousand. The other four paintings in the trunk she’d hold on to until she was satisfied she’d been treated well. It was worth waiting a week, if she could have that much cash in hand.
Home again, she found herself brooding on the issue of Kinsey Millhone, who seemed determined to snoop. Solana vividly recalled the first time she’d knocked on Mr. Vronsky’s door. She’d despised the girl on sight, staring at her through the pane as though she were a tarantula in one of the glass cases at the Museum of Natural History. Solana had taken Tiny there often as a child. He was fascinated by the variety of disgusting insects and spiders, hairy things that lurked in corners and under leaves. Some had horns and pincers and hard black carapaces. These loathsome creatures could disguise themselves so cunningly that it was sometimes hard to spot them in the foliage where they hid. Tarantulas were the worst. The display case would appear empty and Solana would wonder if the spider had escaped. She’d lean toward the glass, searching uneasily, and suddenly discover the thing was close enough to touch. This girl was like that.
Solana had opened the door to her, picking up her scent as clearly as an animal’s, something feminine and floral that didn’t suit her at all. She was slim, in her thirties, with a wiry athletic build. That first encounter, she wore a black turtleneck T-shirt, a winter jacket, jeans, and tennis shoes, with a slouchy-looking leather bag slung over one shoulder. Her dark hair was straight and carelessly cut as if she’d done it herself. Since then, she’d presented herself on numerous occasions, always with the same lame compliments and clumsy questions about the old man. Twice Solana had caught sight of her jogging along State Street early in the morning. She gathered the young woman did this weekday mornings before the sun was up. Solana wondered if she went out before dawn to spy on her. She’d seen her peering into the Dumpster when she passed it on the street. What Solana did, what Solana put there, was none of her business.
Solana forced herself to remain calm and polite in dealing with the Millhone woman, though she kept her fixed in an unrelenting stare. The young woman’s brows were lightly feathered, green eyes set in a fringe of dark lashes. The hazel of her eyes was eerie—green with gold flecks and a lighter ring around the iris that made her eyes blaze like a wolf’s. Watching her, Solana felt a sensation wash over her that was nearly sexual. They were kindred spirits, dark to dark. Usually Solana could look straight into other minds, but not this one. While Kinsey’s manner was friendly, her comments hinted at a curiosity Solana didn’t care for. She was someone who took in far more than she let on.
The day she’d offered to go to the market, she’d given herself away. Solana had gone to the kitchen to make up her grocery list. She’d hung a mirror in the kitchen beside the back door and she studied herself now. She was fine. She looked good, exactly as she claimed. Caring, concerned, a woman who had her patient’s best interests at heart. When she returned to the living room, purse under one arm, her wallet in hand, she saw that instead of waiting on the porch as she’d been asked, she’d stepped into the house. The gesture was small, but it smacked of willfulness. This was someone who did what she wanted and not as she was told. Solana could tell she’d had a quick look around. What had she seen that day? Solana had longed to scan the room to see if anything was amiss, but she’d kept her gaze pinned on the young woman’s face. She was dangerous.
Solana didn’t like her persistence, though now that she thought about it, she hadn’t seen Kinsey for two or three days. This past Friday she’d gone next door, looking for help getting the old man out of the shower. Mr. Pitts was out and Kinsey had come over instead. Solana hadn’t cared which of them it was. Her purpose was to drop the remark about the old man’s fall. Not because he’d fallen—how could he when she scarcely let him get out of bed—but as a way of accounting for the fresh bruises on his legs. She hadn’t seen Kinsey since and that seemed odd. She and Mr. Pitts were always expressing such concern about the old man so
why not now? The two were clearly in cahoots, but what were they up to?
Tiny had told her that Thursday while he was napping, he heard someone moving around in Gus’s house. Solana didn’t see how it could have been Kinsey, because as far as she knew, the woman didn’t have a key. All the same, Solana’d called a locksmith and had the locks changed. She thought back to the Other’s tale about the woman investigator asking questions at the senior facility where the two of them had worked. Clearly she’d been sticking her nose where it didn’t belong.
Solana went back to the old man’s room. He was awake and he’d struggled into a sitting position on the side of his bed. His bare feet dangled and one hand was outstretched, clutching the bed table for support.
She clapped her hands loudly. “Good! You’re up. Would you like some help?” She’d startled him so badly she could almost feel the jolt of fear that had shot up his spine.
“Bathroom.”
“Why don’t you wait here and I’ll bring the bedpan. You’re entirely too wobbly to be prancing around the house.”
She held the bedpan for him, but he couldn’t pass any urine. No big surprise. That was just an excuse for his getting out of bed. She couldn’t imagine what he thought to accomplish. She’d moved his walker to the empty bedroom so in order to get anywhere, he’d have to creep from room to room, holding on to the furniture for support. Even if he reached the back door, or the front door for that matter, he’d have to negotiate the porch steps and then the sidewalk beyond. She thought she might allow him to escape and get as far as the street before she brought him back. Then she could tell the neighbors he’d taken to wandering off. She’d say, Poor old thing. In his flimsy pajamas, he could catch his death of cold. She’d say he’d been hallucinating as well, crazy talk about people being after him.