“Disassembled, in a hard case, in your checked baggage.”
“No lecture now?”
“Well, I’m wondering why you need a handgun on this particular trip.”
“You’ll learn about it when I get back.”
Silence.
“Still no lecture?”
“Would it do any good?”
“No.”
“I thought not. Have a good trip.”
Eleven forty-five that night. I hung up the phone after talking with Hy-a conversation during which I’d studiously avoided any discussion about my house-took a sip from my wineglass, and stared into the fire that was slowly dying on the hearth. The cats were curled up on the sofa cushion next to me; Alice was snoring. I knew I should get some rest, but I was too keyed up to sleep.
After a while I went to the kitchen, where my briefcase lay on the table. Removed the original file on Laurel Greenwood and brought it back to the sitting room. The newspaper photo of her was at the back. I took it out and studied it.
Tomorrow I’d find out.
Tuesday
After the sun-browned terrain of California, south-central Oregon looked lush and green. Klamath Falls, a small city of around twenty thousand, was nestled at the tip of Upper Klamath Lake and spread out over the surrounding, softly sculpted hills. My flight arrived at Kingsley Field on time, to clear skies and balmy weather in the high sixties. Before going to baggage claim, I hurried through the terminal to do the paperwork and collect the keys to the rental car Ted had reserved for me. Normally on a trip like this I wouldn’t have checked my bag, but the firearms regulations made that a necessity. The bag came off quickly, however, and after taking it to the car and removing and reassembling my Magnum, I was on my way, the MapQuest directions to Laurel/Josie’s house on the seat beside me.
The route took me through downtown, along a main street with a pleasant old-fashioned feel and lined by interesting-looking shops. Then I found myself in an area of shabby motels, fast-food restaurants, and strip malls. A right turn, and a mile or so from there I entered an older subdivision where the homes were of the same style, differing only in size and color, and set closely together on small lots. It was clearly an area in decline, and probably had been for some time: many of the houses were in poor repair and in need of painting; lawns were untrimmed, flowerbeds unweeded; some of the yards were surrounded by chain-link fences and posted with Beware of Dog signs. The houses mostly had one-car garages, but their owners had multiple vehicles; cars, trucks, vans, SUVs, campers, and trailers laden with jet skis and boats hugged the curbs. When I got to the 100 block of May Street I wedged my rental car between two pickups and walked down to number 113.
It was one of the smaller houses, a single story, of blue aluminum siding; the main part was set back and formed an L with the garage, which protruded toward the street. While the yard was tidy and the lawn mowed, there were no plantings in the flowerbeds, no other attempts at adornment. The single picture window next to the front door was covered with closed blinds.
I studied it for a moment, thinking of the pretty house in Paso Robles that Laurel Greenwood had abandoned twenty-two years ago. Thinking of how it would feel to come face-to-face with her, after prying into the most intimate aspects of her life for over two weeks now. Wondering how she would react when she realized she’d been found out.
Then I went up the walk and rang the bell.
No one answered.
I rang again. Waited.
No response.
There was a mailbox attached to the wall next to the door. I glanced around to see if anyone was watching me, then tipped its lid up and looked inside. A couple of days’ accumulation of what looked to be junk mail.
Not home, then. How could I find out how long she’d be gone, and to where?
I went back down the walk, turned, and looked at the house again. Much like the others in this tract, it had an untended feel. But with the others I sensed that the owners were either too poor to keep them up, or too busy with their boats and jet skis and RVs to bother-or maybe they were simply leading disordered lives. Here I felt something different: it was as if outward appearances didn’t matter because the life being lived inside didn’t matter either.
I looked up and down the block. No signs of life on the opposite side, but two doors down to my right, at one of the better-kept houses, a woman was digging in a flowerbed. She knelt on the grass, wearing shorts, a tank top, and a sunhat. I moved along the sidewalk toward her and stopped by the low white fence that surrounded the yard. “Excuse me.”
She rocked back on her heels abruptly. “Oh! You startled me.”
“I’m sorry. I thought you’d heard me coming.”
“I was zoning out, I guess.” Her face was a wrinkled and weathered brown, her eyes a clear, bright blue, as if exposure to the elements had worked the opposite effect on them. “It happens when I weed. Often I think that killing things shouldn’t be such a pleasurable activity. But, then, it enables other things, such as this fuchsia, to thrive.” She gestured at a healthy, purple-flowered plant.
“It’s a pretty one.”
“Yes. Thrives on moisture. Of which we have plenty.”
“So I hear from my Aunt Josie. Josie Smith. She lives two doors down.” I motioned toward number 113.
The woman took off her gardening gloves, noticed that in spite of them her fingers were grimy, and wiped them on her shorts. “Josie never mentioned having any family.”
“Well, we haven’t seen each other in a long time, but I had to come here from San Francisco on business, and I thought I’d look her up. It seems she’s not at home.”
“Never is, this week in August. Her vacation from the convalescent hospital.”
“Oh, she’s working in nursing again?”
The woman frowned. “She’s not a nurse, just works at Hillside, assisting with the patients. Grunt work, she calls it. Personally, I think it helps her pass the time. There isn’t much in her life since her husband died, besides the nursing home and her volunteer work for the hospice.”
“That terrible accident, those bad burns, and then some nurse at the hospital where he was taken gave him the wrong IV and he went into cardiac arrest.” She shook her head. “A tragedy like that is what tests a woman’s mettle. Made Josie want to care for others. And she does.”
“I’m having a memory lapse. Where was it her husband died?”
