I rebanded the cards and returned them, using the tip of my pen to push the drawer shut. I didn’t think it would occur to anyone that I’d have such a clear recollection of how the contents of the drawer had been left. If it wasn’t the maid, then how had entry been effected? The room door was kept locked. I went into the bathroom and pulled a tissue from the box, then moved to the door and used the tissue to turn the knob. I examined the exterior of the door, the escutcheon and the face plate, but there were no gouges or scratches, and no evidence of forced entry. The windows were latched on the inside and showed no indications of tampering.
On the other hand, the means of access could have been simple. While the maid had been cleaning the room on Saturday, she’d left my door propped open with the pile of dirty sheets. She’d had her radio on in the bathroom, music blaring while she cleaned the toilet and the sink. Anyone could have slipped in and searched the desk, which was just inside the door. There wouldn’t have been time to read the murder book itself, but the cards were more important. My notes reflected everything I knew about the case and everything I considered relevant. By perusing my notes, someone could figure out where I’d been, who I’d talked to, and what I intended to do. There was an obvious advantage to anticipating my next move. Someone could step in before I’d had the chance to get the information I needed.
I closed the door and went back to the desk. I studied the stack of cards with Medora’s name on top. I didn’t think she knew anything she hadn’t told me before, but it might be smart to check with her. Briefly, I considered calling Detective Lassiter or someone else at the local Sheriff’s Department, but what was I supposed to say? My stack of index cards has been moved an inch? Gasp! I didn’t think they’d rush right out and dust for prints. At best, they’d come up with the same suggestion I had, that the maid had opened and closed the drawer in the process of cleaning my room. Big deal. Aside from the rearrangement of my belongings (which they’d have to take my word for), there wasn’t any evidence of a break-in. The room hadn’t been vandalized and nothing had been stolen, so from their perspective, no crime had been committed.
I grabbed my bag and my bomber jacket, preparing to leave. I was almost out the door when something occurred to me. I retrieved my family album from the closet and then crossed to the desk drawer and removed the murder book and the index cards. I went out, making sure the door was secured behind me. I locked my armload of valuables in the trunk of Dolan’s car and then headed for Medora’s house. I was heartened by the lingering image of Dolan’s Smith & Wesson in the trunk.
25
The night was cold and windy, but the drive was so brief, there wasn’t time enough for Dolan’s heater to kick in. There was scarcely a building in Quorum more than two stories tall, so there wasn’t much protection from the blasts of chill air sweeping in off the desert. The sky was a brittle black and the presence of stars wasn’t as comforting as one might hope. Nature has her little ways of reminding us how small and frail we are. Our existence is temporary while hers will go on long after our poor flesh has failed.
I parked in Medora’s driveway. The house was dark except for one lamp in the living room. As I crossed the patchy stretch of grass I realized the front door was standing open. I could see the vertical strip of dull light expand and contract as the wind ebbed and flowed. I hesitated and then knocked on the screen door frame. “Medora?”
There was no sound from inside. I opened the screen door and called through the opening. “Medora?”
I didn’t like the idea of intruding, but this was odd, especially given my suspicions about an intruder of my own. If someone had read my notes and spotted her name, her house might well be the next stop. I pushed the door open and eased in, closing it behind me. The room was dark except for a small table lamp. I could see Medora on the couch, lying on her back, her hands folded across her chest. I drew closer. She was snoring, her every exhalation infused with the fumes of metabolizing alcohol. If she woke to find me hovering she’d be startled, but I didn’t want to leave until I knew she was okay. A half-smoked cigarette, resting on the lip of the ashtray, had burned down to an inch of ash before it had gone out. The ice in her highball glass had long since melted away. Her prescription pill bottles appeared to be full and the caps were in place. At least she hadn’t overdosed in any obvious way, though I knew her practice of mixing whiskey with painkillers was dangerous.
The house was cold and I could feel a breeze stirring. I crossed to the kitchen and flipped on the light. The back door stood open, creating a cross-ventilation that had drained all the heat from the rooms. I lifted my head and scanned the silence for any hint of sound. I remained where I was and did a visual survey. The back door was intact—no splintered wood, no shattered framing, and no broken glass. The windows were shut and the latches turned to the locked position. The kitchen counters were crowded with canned goods, boxes of cereal and crackers, packages of paper napkins, toilet tissue, paper towels, and cleaning products. It looked as if the dishes hadn’t been done in a week, though all she seemed to eat was cereal and soup. The trash can was overflowing, but aside from the mess, it didn’t appear that anything had been disturbed.
I glanced over at Medora, chilled by the notion of how vulnerable she was. Anybody could have walked in, robbed her, assaulted her, killed her where she lay. If a fire had broken out, I doubt she’d have been aware. I closed the back door and locked it. I toured the rest of the house, which comprised no more than one small, dingy bathroom and two small bedrooms. Her housekeeping habits, such as they were, made it impossible to tell if anyone else had been in the rooms doing a quick search.
I returned to the living room and leaned toward her. “Medora, it’s Kinsey. Are you all right?”
She didn’t stir.
I placed a hand lightly on her arm, saying, “Hey.”
Nothing. I shook her gently, but the gesture didn’t seem to register. She was submerged in the murky depths of alcohol, where sound couldn’t penetrate and no light reached. I shook her again. She made a grunting noise, but otherwise remained unresponsive. I didn’t think I should leave her in her present state. I looked for a telephone and finally spotted one in the kitchen, mounted on the wall near the hall door. I searched one drawer after another until I found the phone book. I looked up Justine’s number and called her. She answered after four rings.
“Justine? This is Kinsey. I’m really sorry to bother you, but I stopped by your mother’s house just now and found both doors standing open. She seems to have passed out. I think she’s okay, but I’m having trouble rousing her. Could you come over here? I don’t think I should leave her until you’ve seen for yourself.”
“Damnation. Oh, hell. I’ll be there as soon as possible.”
She hung up abruptly. I was sorry I’d annoyed her, but such is life. I returned to the couch and perched on the edge of the coffee table. I took Medora’s hand and slapped it lightly. “Medora, wake up. Can you wake up?”
Groggily, she opened her eyes. At first, she couldn’t seem to focus, but she finally coordinated her eyes and looked around the room, disoriented.
“It’s me, Kinsey. Can you hear me?”
She mumbled something I couldn’t understand.
“Medora, did you take something for the pain? Let’s get you up, okay?” I slid an arm under her head, trying to lift her into a sitting position. “I’m going to pull you up here, but I need your help.”
She seemed to gather herself, pushing up on one elbow, which enabled me to haul her upright. Her gaze settled on mine with an expression of confusion. “What’s happening?”
“I don’t know, Medora. You tell me. Let’s get you on your feet and take a walk. Can you do that?”
“What for? I’m fine. I don’t want to walk.”
“Well, sit then and let’s talk. I don’t want you falling asleep again. Did you take something?”
“A nap.”
“I know you took a nap, but your doors were wide open and I
was worried about you. Did you take any pills?”
“Earlier.”
“How many? Show me what you took, was it this?”
“And the other ones.”
I checked the labels on the bottles: Valium, Tylenol with Codeine, Percocet, Xanax. “This is not a good idea. You’re not supposed to take all of these at the same time, especially if you’ve had a drink. It’s not safe. Are you feeling okay?”
“Dr. Belker gave me those.”
“But you shouldn’t take them when you drink. Didn’t he explain that?”
“That case I couldn’t take ’em at all. I drink every day.” She smiled at my goofiness, having settled that point.
We went on in this fashion, with Medora offering short declarative sentences in response to my continued questions. While it was hardly scintillating conversation, it did serve its intended purpose, which was to keep her in contact with reality. By the time Justine arrived, fifteen minutes later, Medora was more alert and in control of herself.
Justine shed her coat and tossed it on the back of a chair. “Sorry it took so long, but I was waiting for Cornell. I finally called my next-door neighbor and she came over to watch the girls.”
Medora had focused on Justine with an air of humility and embarrassment. “I didn’t tell her to call you. I wouldn’t do that.”
Justine sat down beside her mother and took her hand. “How many times have we been through this, Mother? You can’t keep doing this. I have a life of my own.”
“All I had was one drink and a pain pill.”
“I’m sure you did. How many?”
“The usual.”
“Never mind. Just skip it. I shouldn’t waste my breath. Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. You didn’t have to leave the girls and come over.”
“She says the doors were wide open. What was that about?”
“I closed them. I did. I remembered what you said.”
“Let’s just get you into bed. We can talk about this later when you’re more yourself.”
“I’m myself,” she said blearily, as Justine assisted her to her feet. Medora was a bit tottery.
“You need help?”
Justine shook her head, intent on maneuvering her mother around the sharp-cornered coffee table, across the room, and into the short hallway that led to her bedroom. I could hear the two of them murmuring, Medora apologizing while Justine went about the business of getting her to bed.
Five minutes later, Justine returned, rubbing her arms reflexively. “I swear she’s getting worse. I don’t know what to do with her. Geez, the place is freezing.”
“It’s warmer than it was.”
She went over to the thermostat. “It’s turned off. What’s she doing, trying to save money on the heating bill? No wonder she gets sick. She had pneumonia two months ago.” She adjusted the lever and within seconds, I could hear the furnace click on.
She sat down on the couch with a sigh that was laden with irritation. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve talked to her about this. She takes out the garbage or goes to pick up the newspaper from the drive and then she either locks herself out or forgets to latch the door again. On a windy night like this, the doors bang and blow open. She never even knows.”
“I’m not sure that’s what happened here, but it’s giving me the creeps. Could you take a look around and make sure nothing’s missing? Suppose someone’s been here.”
“Why would anybody bother? There’s nothing worth stealing.”
“I understand, but I don’t like the feel of it. Can you make a quick circuit for my sake?”
“All right. You might as well follow me. This won’t take long, but you can see for yourself.” She leaned over and picked up the whiskey bottle from the coffee table. “Here.”
I took the bottle and waited while she snagged the highball glass and the pill bottles lined up nearby. “Her doctor’s out of his mind. I’ve had this discussion with him a hundred times. They’re old friends, so she comes along right after me and talks him into it.”
She gave the kitchen a cursory look while she poured her mother’s whiskey down the drain. She emptied all the pills into the trash, where I heard them rattling toward the bottom like a cupful of BB’s. She tossed in the empty whiskey bottle. “I’ll take care of this later,” she said, referring to the overflowing trash can and the pile of dishes in the sink. “Things look fine in here. The place is a pigsty, but no more than usual.”
I trailed after her while she looked into the bathroom and the second bedroom. The latter must have been her room as a kid, the one she’d been forced to share with Charisse. The twin beds were still in place, but most of the remaining space was taken up with piles of clothing, boxes, and miscellaneous junk. I nearly confided my suspicion about someone having entered my room, but I thought better of it. I didn’t have proof and I didn’t want to sound completely paranoid. Besides, it would only encourage her to ask questions I didn’t want to answer.
As we were returning to the living room, she said, “I heard about Pudgie. It’s horrible.”
“News travels fast.”
“Trust me, everybody knows by now.”
“Who told you?”
“Todd Chilton called. He’s a deputy—”
“I met him. Why did he call you?”
“Oh, right. He remembered I dated Pudgie and he thought I should know. From what he said, it was gross. At least I got that impression reading between the lines. He says you’re the one who figured it out.”
“Someone would have noticed before long,” I said, thinking about the smell. I filled in a few brush strokes, avoiding anything of substance. I was certain Detective Lassiter would limit the information that reached the public.
“Why’d you stop by?”
“I had a question for your mom. I know this seems minor, but I was curious. The first time I talked to her, she said she’d gone to the police the day Charisse disappeared. But according to the police report, she waited a week. I was hoping she’d explain the discrepancy.”
“She didn’t tell you about the note?”
“From Charisse? Not that I remember.”
“She probably forgot to mention it. Her mind’s completely shot from all the crap she takes. The note said she’d decided to go see her mother and she’d be back in three days. We thought she’d show up, but a week passed and Mom started getting worried. That’s when she talked to the police.”
“You saw the note yourself?”
“Sure. She’d left it on the bed.”
“And the handwriting was hers?”
“As far as I could tell.”
“Did your mother save it?”
“I doubt it. Why would she do that?”
“Could you ask her please?”
“Right now?”
“I’d appreciate it.”
She left the living room and returned to her mother’s bedroom, where I could hear her insistent questioning and Medora’s foggy response. I heard drawers being opened and shut. Moments later, Justine returned. “I don’t believe this. She says she saved the note because she didn’t want Social Services blaming her when Charisse took off. She thought if they ever asked, she could show the note as proof that Charisse left of her own accord.”
“Amazing. That’s great. I’d love to see it.”
“Well, that’s just it. She can’t remember where she put it. She thought it was in the chest of drawers, but it’s not there now. Knowing her, it could be anywhere. She’s such a slob.”
“Maybe we can look again when she’s on her feet.” Justine gave me a look. “Yeah, right. Listen, I need to get back to the girls. Cornell must be home by now, but just in case. Let me turn off some lights and I’ll walk you to your car. It’s dark as pitch out there.”
I waited while she double-checked, making sure the back door was locked. She turned off the lights, except for one in the hall. She tested the thumb lock on the front door, flipped it to the locked position,
and pulled it shut behind her. She took her keys from her coat pocket and crossed the yard to her Ford sedan, which was parked in the driveway behind Dolan’s car.
“Did you guys go down and have your fingerprints taken?”
“Edna went Monday, but I haven’t had a chance. I’ll pop in tomorrow while I’m out running errands.”
“What about the others?”
“Adrianne said she’d try later in the week.”
“What about Ruel and Cornell?”
“Don’t look at me. I don’t want to be the one to nag them. It’s not my job.”
“You’re right. Thanks anyway. I’ll bug them myself.”
I drove to the motel with an eye on my rearview mirror. The wide streets were deserted. Businesses were shut down and most of the houses were dark. Once in my room, I spent a few minutes assuring myself everything was exactly as I’d left it. My book was facedown on the bed where I’d placed it, the bedspread still rumpled where I’d pushed it aside. The table lamp was on and the warm light made the room seem cozy. The windows were latched and I made sure the drapes were properly closed. Didn’t want any boogeymen to peek in at me. After that, I stripped out of my clothes and into the oversize T-shirt I use as a nightie. I washed my face, brushed my teeth, and slid into bed. I thought my paranoia might keep me awake, but since I’m a person of no depth whatever, I fell asleep right away.
At 2:06, the phone rang. I reached for the handset automatically, noting the time as I placed it against my ear. “What.”