Once that was taken care of, it didn’t take long to get Ruthie settled. I keep the sofa bed made up with fresh sheets, so all I had to do was add two pillows and a quilt. At 10:00, we said our good nights and I climbed the spiral staircase and got ready for bed. It was comforting to have someone else on the premises. I was reminded of the nights Dietz had camped out on the same sofa bed. Waking in the wee hours, if I peeked down from the loft, I’d see him reading or watching television with the sound turned so low, I could have sworn it was off.
I slid under the covers and I was just about to turn out my bedside lamp when I identified the idea my subconscious had been trying to bring to my attention. I got out of bed and crossed to the railing where the loft overlooks the living room below. I could see Ruthie propped up in the sofa bed, a book open in her lap.
“I didn’t have a chance to tell you. Henry broke the code on the number cipher Pete created. Turned out to be a list of women’s names. Six of them.”
She looked up. “You want to come down or talk to me over the rail?”
I padded down the stairs barefoot, my oversize T-shirt skimming the tops of my knees.
She moved her feet so I could perch on the bottom of her fold-out bed. I could feel the bed frame through the mattress and wondered how she could bear it. I’d never had a complaint, but the supports felt like the metal struts on a sewer grate.
Ruthie set her book aside. “So six women’s names. Was mine one of them?”
“Nope. So far, I don’t think this has anything to do with you.”
“You know who they are?”
“The first two are Shirley Ann Kastle and Lenore Redfern, both from Burning Oaks. The third is Phyllis Joplin, who’s either from Perdido or currently living there. The fourth is a psychologist named Taryn Sizemore. I talked to her. Number five is a woman named Susan Telford in Henderson, Nevada. The last name is Janet Macy in Tucson, Arizona. Four are definitely connected to Ned Lowe, and I suspect the other two are as well.”
“Ned Lowe’s the guy whose daughter got married? What’s that about?”
“I’m not sure. I had a chat with Taryn this afternoon. She’s the one who pointed out the link.”
“Name’s familiar, but refresh my memory.”
“Oh, sorry. She’s the gal who sued Ned Lowe back in 1978.”
“Right. I remember now.”
“Lenore Redfern was Ned’s first wife. Phyllis Joplin was his second. Taryn said she knew about Shirley Ann Kastle, but that’s as far as she’d go. I haven’t identified the other two, and Taryn didn’t recognize the names. I’m curious why Pete put together the list of names and why he encrypted them.”
“Don’t look at me. He never said a word about any of this,” she said. “You have a theory?”
“I do, but you won’t like it.”
“Why is that relevant?”
“I don’t want to get your dander up. I’m just playing with ideas.”
“Fine. Duly noted. Now get on with it.”
“I think Pete was collecting hush money.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake. Blackmail?”
“I knew you wouldn’t like it.”
“Of course not. So who’s he blackmailing now? And don’t say Ned Lowe.”
“I won’t say Ned Lowe, but that’s what I’m thinking.”
“Bullshit.”
“Don’t be so defensive. Suppose it was Ned Lowe and Pete was pressuring him. Pete’s killed and at first the guy thinks he’s safe and everything’s good. Then he gets worried Pete had something that would prove incriminating if it ever came to light.”
“But why Ned Lowe in particular? As far as I know, Pete never even met the man.”
“You can’t be sure of that, and neither can I. Pete kept a lot of information to himself. The point is, he was working for Byrd-Shine when the lawsuit was filed. It was their job to find dirt on Taryn Sizemore, which apparently they did. Pete might have learned something just as damning about Ned Lowe. The list is a roster of women, and I believe all of them are tied to Ned Lowe in some way. Girlfriends, wives—romantic interests would be my guess. What I don’t know is why the list constitutes a threat.”
“Pure speculation.”
“Of course it is. On the other hand, if Pete blackmailed one victim, why not two?”
“Why are you always so quick to put him in the wrong?”
“I’m not. I’m just trying to construct an explanation for all the bits and pieces.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m not buying it.”
“You don’t have to be so cranky.”
“I’m not cranky!”
“Good. Fine. May I continue then?”
“Have at it.”
“Taryn Sizemore sued Ned Lowe for stalking and threats. Intentional infliction of emotional harm, to use the proper legal term. Maybe Pete found out more about Lowe than he should have.”
“You said the lawsuit was dead.”
“It is, but what if Lowe turned out to be vulnerable in some other way? What if Pete had evidence that was damaging?”
“Like what?” she said, exasperated.
“I don’t know. Maybe Lowe doesn’t know, either. My point is Pete had something on the guy.”
“Can you hear yourself? Do you see how unfair you’re being? In your view, if something bad went down, Pete must have been at the heart of it, hoping to make a buck.”
“I’m not accusing him of anything.”
“Yes, you are! You’re suggesting he had the goods on Ned Lowe and was extorting money to keep quiet.”
“That’s not exactly unprecedented in Pete’s repertoire of bad behavior.”
She held a hand up. “Enough. I’m tired. I’ve had a hard day. We can talk about this tomorrow. Right now I’m turning off the light.”
Which is what she did.
I sat for a moment, nonplussed, and then padded back up the spiral stairs, got into bed, and turned out my own light. I knew she was angry, but I felt curiously unaffected. So she was pissed off? Big deal. I still thought the idea had merit. She must have thought so too, or why get so bent out of shape?
15
In the morning, I slipped out of the studio before Ruthie was up and got in my three-mile run. By the time I returned, bringing in the morning paper, the sofa bed was made and she was in the shower. I put on a pot of coffee and set out the milk, a box of Cheerios, two bowls, and two spoons. I turned on the television set with the sound muted. When she emerged from the bathroom, showered and dressed, we ate our cereal while we passed sections of the paper back and forth. I noticed she’d repacked her overnight bag, which was now resting by the front door.
“You sure you don’t want to stay one more night?”
“Don’t think so. I’ll sleep better in my own bed.”
“I can relate to that,” I said.
Pete’s name was never mentioned, and neither of us made reference to our little chat the night before. This is not a bad strategy. The practice of baring all, analyzing every nuance embedded in a quarrel, is a surefire way to keep an argument alive. Better to establish a temporary peace and revisit the conflict later. Often, by then, both parties have decided the issue isn’t worth the relationship.
As we were preparing to leave for Ruthie’s, Henry appeared on my doorstep. He was still in the dark about this latest development, so I gave him a quick rundown on the intruder and the changing of the locks. “We’re on our way over to her house now to see if we can figure out how the guy got in.”
Henry was shaking his head. “Terrible.”
“All’s good with you?” I asked.
“Actually I have to go out shortly, and I was going to ask you to move your vehicle so I can get my marketing done.”
She held up her car keys. “I’m on it, champ.”
He turned
to me. “I wonder if I might have a word with you? It won’t take two shakes.”
Ruthie picked up her overnight bag. “I’ll go on over in my car, and you can follow in yours when it suits.”
“You’re okay going in the house on your own?”
She waved away the idea. “If I get nervous, I’ll wait for you on the back porch.”
Once she pulled out, Henry held up a handwritten list. “This may not work if you’re going to be at Ruthie’s for any length of time. I told Edna I’d take her to the market, but Joseph’s not feeling well and since she only needs a few items, I said I’d do her shopping along with mine. The problem is I have a plumber coming this morning between ten and noon and I’m not sure how long I’ll be gone. I was wondering if you could be here when the guy arrives. If I’m not back, you can show him around. I’ve already told him what I need, but you may have to answer questions about hose bibs or sprinkler heads.”
“Sure. I’ll make a point of being back by nine forty-five and I’ll hang out until you get home.”
• • •
Ruthie had pulled her car into her garage while I parked mine along the rear property line. I retrieved a flashlight from the glove compartment, locked the car, and followed the back walk to the porch, doing a cursory visual survey in the unrelenting morning light. The house probably dated back to the early 1900s; a story and a half of wood frame, bereft of the usual gingerbread trim that might have lent it some character. The structure was serviceable, incorporating all of the relevant elements, minus style, personality, and appeal. I tapped at the door and she let me in.
Aside from my brief visit the night before, I hadn’t been in the house in months, and I was struck by its shabbiness. Pete hadn’t been blessed with handyman talents, so if something needed repairing, either Ruthie took care of it or it was left in its funky state. Pete had also been averse to hiring outside help because his pride prevented his admitting that even the simplest job was beyond his poor skills. To spare him, Ruthie had learned to make do. Drawer handles were missing. In the kitchen window, cracked wood putty had pulled away from the glass and short sections were gone. The vinyl tile flooring in the kitchen had buckled in places, as though water had seeped in and loosened the underlying mastic. Now that Ruthie was alone, what difference did it make? Pete’s clutter was gone, so the house was tidier. She’d also removed the stained and threadbare area rugs in the downstairs hall and waxed the pale hardwood floors to a high shine.
She’d removed a drawer and placed it on the counter, where she’d unloaded the contents. She’d been sorting the miscellany and tossing the discards in a wastebasket. She’d bought drawer dividers to organize the salvageable items.
“I’ll put some coffee on,” she said. “Don’t mind the mess. I decided to tackle some of Pete’s crapola.”
“A good idea,” I said. “Mind if I go ahead and look around?”
“Please.”
I dropped my shoulder bag on a chair and shoved my flashlight in my back pocket while I made a circuit of the first floor, checking window latches, locks, and door hardware. Ruthie had made the same search the night before and she’d sworn the house was secure, which did seem to be the case.
I climbed the stairs to the second floor, peering out of windows as I moved through a small guest bedroom with an adjoining bathroom, a hallway, and a second bedroom currently used for storage. This must be the junk room. Ruth had relegated miscellaneous furniture, hanging clothes, and seasonal items to the ten-by-twelve-foot space. There were also short stacks of assorted cardboard boxes with scarcely room to walk in between. The wallpaper was pink and blue, with tiny floral bouquets tied with ribbons, which suggested this might have been a nursery once upon a time. Now it was essentially a closet jammed wall to wall with articles better suited to a charity donation box. We’d both faulted Pete for being disorganized when, in truth, this wasn’t much of an improvement. Looking out the window, I couldn’t see any trees growing close enough to allow an intruder to shinny up and enter a second-story window.
I returned to the first floor. The smell of fresh coffee was strong in the downstairs hall, but I didn’t want to interrupt the search for a coffee break. The front door was solid wood, not one of the flimsy hollow-core doors so popular in residential construction these days. The back door was also solid wood, with mullions in the upper third separating four small panes of glass. The side door was fashioned along similar lines, with solid wood below and the top half made up of six equal-size six-by-eight-inch panes of glass. The knob was sturdy and the lock was a double-keyed dead bolt. In the interests of fire safety, the key had been left in the lock on the inside should a hasty exit be required.
I unlocked the door and went outside. No tool marks to suggest that someone had forced the lock. A dense twenty-foot hedge along the walk separated Ruth’s house from her neighbor’s. I turned to my right and toured the exterior, looking for signs of a breach. Like many California homes of this era, there was a crawl space below the house, but no basement. A scrim of trellising had been affixed to the framing to shield the space from urban wildlife, but sections had been chewed away. A tuft of coarse hair was caught in the splintered wood where a beast had squeezed through the gap.
I took out my flashlight and got down on my hands and knees, peering into the space under the house. I allowed the beam of my flashlight to illuminate the area, which stretched its length and width. The “floor” was rubble and exposed dirt with cinder block footers at irregular intervals. Metal brackets secured plumbing to the floor joists, and a large furnace duct, wrapped in shiny insulation, shot across at an angle and disappeared into a large hole cut into a concrete wall.
Electrical wires sagged into view, and between the joists pink and gray insulating material hung in tatters. The far corners were in deep shadow, but my flashlight caught the two bright eyes of a creature that scuttled out of sight. There were no vents, and the underside of the subflooring was dusted with a white substance that could only be mold. I saw no evidence of trapdoors connecting the crawl space to the rooms above, so there was no way an intruder could enter the house from below. Absent were scuff marks to suggest that someone had belly-crawled across the surface, which resembled nothing so much as the bleak landscape on a distant planet man had once visited and found wanting.
I got up and dusted myself off, then continued circling the house. At the back of my mind, I was still testing my belief that Pete was up to something. Why put together six names and then convert the list to code unless he was worried it would fall into the wrong hands? Why would a list like that mean anything to anyone except Ned Lowe? Ruth could protest all she liked, but it didn’t add up any other way; at least as far as I could see.
When I arrived at the side door again, I noted what looked like a thin line of a lighter color along the mullion nearest the door. I leaned close, picking up the scent of oil-based paint. I drew back a step. The original dark blue trim had been covered with a shade that wasn’t quite a match. I ran a finger across the surface and found it faintly tacky to the touch. I went inside and checked the same panes of glass. Adjacent mullions and trim were the original dark blue. Only the pane nearest the door handle had been touched up. Outside again, I dug a fingernail into the paint and found the window putty as soft as cheese.
I peered through the glass at an angle. The key in the dead bolt sat within easy reach. I pictured the intruder using a knife blade to chip away the ancient putty that secured the glass. Once the pane was lifted out, it would be easy to reach through the opening and extract the key from the lock. Any hardware store could duplicate that key. Many of the same hardware stores sold dark blue exterior paint. All the intruder would have to do is return the original key to the lock, replace the pane, and putty it into place. After that, he’d apply a line of fresh paint, and for all intents and purposes, the glass would appear as it had been.
I wondered if he’d anticipated the ar
rival of the locksmith and the rekeying of the lock. Having left the door standing open, he must have assumed she’d have the locks changed. No big deal to him. All he had to do was wait. The next time she left the house, he could employ the same technique to supply himself with a new key while she’d go on thinking she was safe. I noticed I was neatly tiptoeing past the name Ned Lowe. Ruthie’s bristling aside, I still harbored the strong belief that Pete had been operating in the usual shakedown mode with Lowe as his target.
I closed the door, turned the key, and removed it from the lock.
“What are you doing?”
I jumped and said, “Shit!”
Ruthie was standing behind me. “Sorry. You were gone so long, I came looking for you. What’s the matter with the door?”
“This is how he got in,” I said. I gave her a quick summary, watching as her expression shifted from disbelief to dismay.
“How do I know he didn’t get in again last night after the locks were changed? He might already have a copy of that key.”
“Better have the locksmith out again, and let’s hope he offers you a discount. You should have an alarm system installed.”
“I guess I’ll have to, but I’m pissed off just thinking about how much it will cost.”
“No point in getting mad when you don’t have a choice.”
“Right, and I’m angry about that, too,” she said.
“You have a company in mind?”
“My neighbor used an outfit called Security Operating Systems. He had an alarm installed last year and he’s a big fan.”
“Security Operating Systems. S.O.S. Very clever,” I said. I placed the key in the palm of her hand. “In the meantime, you might want to install a chain where he can’t get to it.”