T Is for Trespass Read online

  “So she was punctual,” I suggested.

  “Well, yeah, if that’s what you want to call it.”

  “What about personal traits?”

  “Like what?”

  “Was she patient, compassionate? Honest? Good-natured? That’s the kind of thing I’m looking for. You must have had many opportunities to observe her firsthand.”

  She stirred her coffee, then licked the spoon clean before she laid it on her tray. She put the next doughnut in her mouth whole and chewed while she considered her reply. “You want my honest opinion?”

  “I would love it.”

  “Don’t get me wrong. I have nothing against the woman, but she had no sense of humor and she wasn’t that good a conversationalist. I mean, you say something to her and maybe she’d answer and maybe not, depending on what suited her. She was all the time sitting with her nose in a chart or out on the floor checking on the patients. It wasn’t even her responsibility. She took it on herself.”

  I said, “Wow. I had no idea. On paper she looks good.”

  “That’s seldom the whole story.”

  “And that’s exactly why I’m here, to fill in the blanks. Did you see her outside work?”

  “Hardly. The rest of us, sometimes on Friday nights? We’d go out together, kind of letting our hair down at the end of the week. Solana went straight home. After a while, we didn’t even ask her to join us because we figured she’d say no.”

  “She didn’t drink?”

  “Nuh-uhn. Are you kidding? She was too uptight. Plus, she was always watching her weight. And on her breaks, she read books. Anything to make the rest of us look bad. Does that help?”

  “Enormously.”

  “You think she’ll be hired?”

  “It’s not up to me, but I’m certainly going to make a note of what you’ve said.”

  I left the place at 1:00 P.M. with Lana Sherman’s résumé in hand. Walking back to the office, I passed a sandwich shop and realized I hadn’t had lunch. In the press of work, I’ve been known to skip meals, but seldom when I was this hungry. I noticed that eating properly was antithetical to feeling full. A QP with Cheese and a large serving of fries will leave you close to comatose. The sudden onslaught of carbohydrates and fat makes you long for a nap, which means a gap of ten or fifteen minutes before you start thinking about your next meal. I did an about-face and veered into the sandwich shop. What I ordered is none of your business, but it was really good. I ate at my desk while I reviewed the Fredrickson file.

  At 2:00, clipboard in hand, I arrived for my appointment with Gladys Fredrickson. She and her husband lived in a modest house near the beach on a street being overtaken by much grander homes. Given the exaggerated prices of local real estate, it made sense for buyers to snap up any house for sale and do extensive remodeling on the existing residence or raze the entire structure and start from scratch.

  The Fredricksons’ one-story frame house fit the latter category, not so much a fixer-upper as something you’d bulldoze, pile in a heap, and burn. There was a shabbiness about the place that suggested years of deferred maintenance. Along the side of the house, I could see that a strip of aluminum gutter had come loose. Below the gap a clump of rotting leaves lay fallen in a makeshift compost heap. I suspected the carpet would smell damp and the grout between the shower tiles would be black with mildew.

  In addition to the wooden porch stairs, there was a long wooden ramp that extended from the drive to the porch to allow wheelchair access. The ramp itself was mottled with dark green algae and doubtless became as slick as glass whenever it rained. I stood on the porch looking down at the ivy beds interspersed with the yellow blooms of oxalis. Inside, the dog was yapping at a rate that would probably net him a swat on his butt. Across the side yard, through a chicken wire fence, I caught sight of an elderly neighbor lady setting out what were probably the annual Christmas decorations on her lawn. These consisted of seven hollow plastic Santa’s helpers that could be lighted from inside. Also, nine plastic reindeer, one of which had a big red nose. She paused to stare at me and my quick wave was rewarded with a smile laced with sweetness and pain. There had once been little ones—children or grandchildren—whose memory she celebrated with this steadfast display of hope.

  I’d already knocked twice and I was on the verge of knocking again when Gladys opened the door, leaning heavily on a walker, her neck encircled by a six-inch foam collar. She was tall and thick, the buttons of her plaid blouse gaping open across her ample breasts. The elastic waist on her rayon pants had given way and she’d used two large safety pins to affix the trousers to her shirt, thus preventing them from dropping and pooling around her ankles. She wore a pair of off-brand running shoes, though it was clear she wouldn’t be running any time soon. On her left foot, a half-moon of leather had been cut away to provide relief for her bunion. “Yes?”

  “I’m Kinsey Millhone, Mrs. Fredrickson. We have an appointment to talk about the accident.”

  “You’re with the insurance company?”

  “Not yours. I’m working with California Fidelity Insurance. I was hired by Lisa Ray’s attorney.”

  “Accident was her fault.”

  “So I’ve been told. I’m here to verify the information she gave us.”

  “Oh. Well, I guess you better come on in,” she said, already turning her walker so she could hump her way back to the La-Z-Boy where she’d been sitting.

  As I closed the front door, I noticed a collapsible wheelchair propped up against the wall. I’d been wrong about the carpet. Theirs had been removed, revealing narrow-plank hardwood floors. Staples that once held the padding in place were still embedded in the wood, and I could see a line of dark holes where the tack strips had been nailed.

  The interior of the house was so dense with heat that the air smelled scorched. A small brightly colored bird was fanning its way like a moth from one drapery panel to the next while the dog pranced across the sofa cushions, toppling the stacks of magazines, junk mail, bills, and newspapers piled along the length. The dog had a small face, bright black eyes, and a poufy cravat of hair spilling across its chest. The bird had left two white poker chips of poop on the floor between the end table and the chair. Gladys hollered, “Millard? I told you to get that dog out of here! Dixie’s up on the couch and I can’t be responsible for what she does next.”

  “Goddamn it. I’m coming. Quit your hollering,” Millard called from somewhere down the narrow transverse hall. Dixie was still barking, dancing on her hind legs with her dainty front feet pawing the air, her eyes fixed on the parakeet, hopeful that she would be rewarded for her trick by getting to eat the bird.

  A moment later Millard appeared, propelling his wheelchair into view. Like Gladys, I judged him to be in his early sixties, though he was aging better than she. He was a heavyset man with a ruddy face, a thick black mustache, and a head of curly gray hair. He whistled sharply for the dog and she hopped off the sofa, crossed the room rapidly, and leaped onto his lap. He did a rolling pivot and disappeared down the hall, grumbling as he went.

  “How long has your husband used a chair?”

  “Eight years. We had to have the carpet taken up so he could manage from room to room.”

  “I’m hoping he’s made time for me today. As long as I’m here, I can talk to him as well.”

  “No, now he said it didn’t suit him. You’ll have to come back another time if you want to talk to him.” Gladys shoved aside a pile of papers. “Make a space for yourself if you care to sit.”

  I perched gingerly in the clearing she’d made. I set my shoulder bag on the floor and removed my tape recorder, which I placed on the coffee table in front of me. A tower of manila envelopes tilted against my thigh, most by way of a courier service called Fleet Feat. I waited while she maneuvered herself into position and then eased into the recliner with a grunt. During that brief delay, purely in the interest of securing the avalanche of bills, I did fan out the first five or six envelopes. Two had red rims an
d a hoary warning that read URGENT!! FINAL NOTICE! One was for a gasoline credit card, the other from a department-store chain.

  Once Gladys was settled, I tried on my visiting-nurse voice. “I’ll be recording this with your permission. Is that agreeable to you?”

  “I suppose.”

  After I pressed the Record button, I recited my name, her name, the date, and the case number. “Just for the record, you’re giving this information voluntarily without threats or coercion. Is that correct?”

  “I said I would.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate that. In answering my questions, please respond only with the facts within your knowledge. I’d ask you to avoid opinions, judgments, or conclusions.”

  “Well, I’ve got my opinions like everyone else.”

  “I understand that, Mrs. Fredrickson, but I have to limit my report to information as accurate as you can make it. If I ask a question and you don’t know or don’t remember, just say so. Please don’t guess or speculate. Are you ready to proceed?”

  “I’ve been ready since I sat down. You’re the one dragging it out. I didn’t expect all this claptrap and folderol.”

  “I appreciate your patience.”

  She nodded in response, but before I could formulate the first question, she launched into an account of her own. “Oh hon, I’m a wreck. No pun intended. I can’t hardly get around without my walker. I got numbness and tingling in this foot. Feels like it’s fell asleep, like I’ve been laying on it wrong…”

  She went on describing the pains in her leg while I sat and took notes, doing a proper job of it. “Anything else?” I asked.

  “Well, headaches, of course, and my neck’s all froze up. Look at this—I can’t hardly turn my head. That’s why I got this collar here to help give support.”

  “Any other pain?”

  “Honey, pain’s all I’ve got.”

  “May I ask what medications you’re taking?”

  “I got a pill for everything.” She reached over to the end table, where a number of prescription bottles had been assembled along with a water glass. She picked up the vials one by one, holding them out so I could write down the names. “These two are pain pills. This one’s a muscle relaxant, and this here’s for depression…”

  I was scribbling away but looked up with interest. “Depression?”

  “I got chronic depression. I can’t remember when I’ve ever felt so low. Dr. Goldfarb, the orthopedic specialist, he sent me to see this psychiatrist who put me on these new pills. I guess the other ones don’t do much once you’ve taken them awhile.”

  I made a note of the prescription for Elavil that she’d held out for my inspection. “And what were you on before?”

  “Lithium.”

  “Have you had other problems since the accident?”

  “Poor sleep and I can’t hardly work a lick. He said I might not ever be able to work again. Not even permanent part-time.”

  “I understand you do the bookkeeping for a number of small businesses.”

  “The past forty-two years. Talk about a job that gets old. I’ve about had it with that stuff.”

  “You have an office in your home?”

  She nodded toward the hall. “Second bedroom back there. Thing is, I can’t sit for long on account of my hip gives me fits. You oughtta seen the big old bruise I had, all up and down this side. Purple as a eggplant. I still got a patch of yellow as big as the moon. And hurt? Oh my stars. I had tape on these here ribs and then, like I said, I have this problem with my neck. Whiplash and all and a concussion of the head. I call that ‘confusion contusions,’” she said, and barked out a laugh.

  I smiled politely. “What kind of car do you drive?”

  “Nineteen seventy-six Ford van. Dark green in case you mean to ask that next.”

  “Thank you,” I said, and made a note. “Let’s go back to the accident. Would you tell me what happened?”

  “Be happy to, though it was a terrible, terrible thing for me as you might imagine.” She narrowed her eyes and tapped a finger against her lips, looking into the middle distance as though reciting a poem. By the time she was halfway through the second sentence, it was clear she’d told the story so often that the details wouldn’t vary. “Millard and me were driving along Palisade Drive up by the City College. This was Thursday of Memorial Day weekend. What is that, six or eight months back?”

  “About that. What time of day was this?”

  “Middle of the afternoon.”

  “What about weather conditions?”

  She frowned slightly, forced to think about her answer instead of offering up her usual rote response. “Fine as near as I remember. We’d had rains off and on all last spring, but a dry spell come along and the papers was saying the weekend would be nice.”

  “And which direction were you heading?”

  “Toward downtown. He couldn’t have been driving more than five or six miles an hour. Might have been a bit more, but it was way under the posted limit. I’m positive about that.”

  “And that’s twenty-five miles an hour?”

  “Something along those lines.”

  “Can you remember how far away Ms. Ray’s vehicle was when you first noticed it?”

  “I remember she was over to my right in that entrance to the parking lot up at the City College. Millard was just about passing when she come flying out in front of me. Boom! He slammed on the brakes, but not near quick enough. I was never so surprised in my life and that’s the truth!”

  “Was her left turn signal blinking?”

  “I don’t believe it was. I’m sure not.”

  “What about your turn signal?”

  “No, ma’am. He didn’t intend to turn. We were fixing to continue on down the hill to Castle.”

  “I believe there was some question about your seat belt?”

  She shook her head emphatically. “I never ride in a car without a seat belt. It might’ve come loose on impact, but I was wearing one for sure.”

  I took a moment to review my notes, wondering if there was any way to throw her off her stride. The well-rehearsed data was getting old. “Where were you going?”

  That stumped her. She blinked and said, “Where?”

  “I’m wondering where the two of you were going when the accident occurred. I’m filling in the blanks.” I held up my clipboard as though that explained everything.

  “I forget.”

  “You don’t remember where you were going?”

  “I just said that. You told me to say so if I couldn’t remember and I can’t.”

  “Fine. That’s exactly right.” I stared at my clipboard and made a mark. “If it would help refresh your memory, could you have been heading for the freeway? From Castle, you can take the north-or southbound on-ramps.”

  Gladys shook her head. “Ever since the accident my memory’s shot.”

  “Were you running errands? Grocery shopping? Something for dinner perhaps?”

  “Must have been errands. I’d say errands. You know, I might have amnesia. Doctor says it’s not uncommon in accidents of this type. I can’t hardly concentrate. That’s why I can’t work. I can’t sit and I can’t think. Work I do, that’s all it is, except for add and subtract and stamping envelopes.”

  I looked down at my notes. “You mentioned a concussion.”

  “Oh, I banged my head good.”

  “On what?”

  “Windshield, I guess. Might have been the windshield. I still got me a knot,” she said, placing a hand briefly on the side of her head.

  I placed my hand on the left side of my head as she had. “On the left side up here or in back?”

  “Both. I got bumped ever which way. Here, feel this.”

  I reached forward. She clasped my hand and pressed it against a hard knot about the size of a fist. “My goodness.”

  “You better make a note of it,” she said, pointing at my clipboard.

  “Absolutely,” I said, scribbling on the page. “What hap
pened after that?”

  “Millard was shook up as you might well imagine. He soon discerned he wasn’t hurt, but he could see I was out like a light, knocked completely unconscious. As soon as I regained my senses, he helped me out of the van. Wasn’t easy for him since he had to get situated in his chair and lever himself down to the pavement. I couldn’t hardly tell where I was at. I was all dizzy and discombobulated and shaking like a leaf.”

  “You must have been upset.”

  “Why wouldn’t I be when she pulled out in front of us?”

  “Of course. Let’s just see now.” I paused to check my notes. “Aside from you and your husband and Ms. Ray, was there anyone else at the scene?”

  “Oh, my yes. Someone called the police and they come pretty quick, along with the fellers in the amulance.”

  “I’m talking about prior to their arrival. Did anyone stop to help?”

  She shook her head. “No. I don’t believe so. Not that I recall.”

  “I understood that a gentleman was giving aid and assistance before the traffic officer showed up.”

  She stared at me, blinking. “Well, yes, now you mention it. I’d forgot about that. While Millard was checking the van, this feller helped me over to the curb. He set me down and put his arm acrost my shoulders, worried I’d go into shock. That flew right out of my head until just now.”

  “This was another motorist?”

  “I believe this was someone come off the street.”

  “Can you describe the man?”

  She seemed to hesitate. “Why do you want to know?”

  “Ms. Ray was hoping to find him so she could send a thank-you note.”

  “Well.” She was silent for a full fifteen seconds. I could see her computing the possibilities in her head. She was wily enough to realize that anyone who showed up that quickly might well have been a witness to the accident.

  “Mrs. Fredrickson?”

  “What?”

  “Nothing about the man sticks in your mind?”

  “I wouldn’t know anything about that. Millard might recall better than me. By then, this right hip was giving me so much pain I’m surprised I was able to stand. If you had the X-ray here, I could point out the injured ribs. Dr. Goldfarb said I was lucky the crack in my hip wasn’t more severe or I’ve been laid up for good.”