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  “How did he know he could break in to begin with? What if I’d been home?”

  “Come with me,” I said.

  I ushered her into the kitchen with me where I pointed at the refrigerator door, which was papered with odds and ends. Under assorted magnets shaped like vegetables, there was a photograph of Pete, a dental appointment reminder card, two fliers, and a calendar on which she’d noted her work hours. “Look at this. You have your schedule posted where anyone can see it. The first time he broke in, he was taking a big risk. After that, he knew what shifts you worked, so he could come and go as he pleased.”

  Ruth put a hand on my arm. “I really have to pee. If I stand here one more minute I will wet my pants.”

  “Go and pee,” I said.

  She left the room. I could feel my own mental processes at work, ideas tumbling over one another as though escaping from a cage. I turned back to the refrigerator door. Dead center was the junk hauler’s flier, headline hand-drawn in mock-three-dimensional letters, fashioned after the messages left under bridges by a tagging crew. I pushed aside the magnets and freed the flier, which read:

  No Taste for Waste? Want Junk Displaced?

  Fifty Bucks in Cash Eradicates Your Trash

  Call (805) 555-2999

  Leave your name, address, and a list of the items you want removed. One-time offer, so don’t delay!

  Cash only. No checks. No credit cards.

  We accept carpet, scrap metal, discarded furniture, lumber, tires, appliances, leaf & garden waste, mattresses, and anything else you want to get rid of.

  We’ll be in your neighborhood on Monday, October 24.

  The ad was catchy and the guy made it easy to take him up on his offer. Fifty bucks was cheap, especially since it had to cover the fees at the local dump. Robert Dietz and I had spent the better part of two days searching the very boxes the junk hauler had carted off. I remembered loading some of them into Henry’s station wagon, moving them from Pete’s office to my studio, where Dietz and I sat cross-legged on the floor, going through them item by item. I was guessing we’d barely finished the search when the junk hauler began canvassing the neighborhood in his search for work.

  Ruth returned, saying, “Sorry about that.”

  “This is the flier the junk man left?”

  She nodded. “I kept it in case my neighbor needed him. I swear he cleans his garage every other month.”

  “Didn’t the timing strike you as odd?”

  “Are you kidding? It was perfect. I don’t know what I’d have done with all that crap if he hadn’t come along when he did.”

  “So two days after Dietz and I searched the boxes, someone just happened to stick this in your screen door.”

  “Yes.”

  “You read the flier and did what in response?”

  “Just what it said. I left a message telling him I had a garage full of stuff I needed to get rid of. I knew he’d be in the neighborhood the twenty-fourth, so all I had to do was give him my address. I had to be at work, so I put the fifty bucks in an envelope and taped it to the back door. I came home, he’d emptied the garage, and everything looked great.”

  “So you never actually laid eyes on him and you never got his name?”

  “I needed the garage cleaned. I wasn’t looking for a friend. What’s the matter with you?”

  “I’m not a fan of coincidences. I know they happen in life, but you’ve been plagued with happy accidents and it seems off to me. You mind if I try the number?”

  She seemed skeptical, but she gestured her assent.

  I carried the flier as I crossed to the phone. I picked up the handset and punched in the number. The line rang twice, and then a three-tone signal sounded at an earsplitting pitch. I held out the handset so mine wasn’t the only hearing under assault. An automated operator in a singsong voice said, “I’m sorry, but the number you’ve dialed is no longer in service.” She went on to tell us what we could do about it, which was precious little.

  “The number’s been disconnected. Why should I care?”

  “Put the incident in context. This unseen guy carts Pete’s boxes away. Four months later you receive a letter from the IRS.”

  “What’s one have to do with the other? I’m not getting it.”

  “We’re talking about three men you never met. The junk dealer, the IRS agent, and the guy who broke in. Doesn’t that bother you?”

  “No.”

  “Well, it should. I mean, think about it. The junk dealer walks off with Pete’s business records. Then the IRS agent comes along and expects you to find documents that date back fifteen years. And now you’ve got some thug going through everything you own.”

  “I agree it’s creepy.”

  “Not my point. What if they’re the same man?”

  “Like they’re in cahoots?”

  “I’m saying one man instead of three. And not just any man. We’re back to Ned Lowe.”

  Her expression was pained and included a rolling of the eyes.

  “Don’t roll your eyes at me. Just listen. Two days after Dietz and I finish searching Pete’s boxes, this anonymous junk man leaves a note in your door and you jump at the chance to have the same boxes carted off. End of problem as far as you’re concerned. Meanwhile, the guy is now in possession of all Pete’s files. He goes through everything at his leisure, trying to find what he’s looking for.”

  “How do you know he’s looking for anything? He took a bunch of crap to the dump.”

  “You don’t know that. All you know is he’s taken it off your hands. I’m asking you to consider that the arrival of this flier was more than serendipitous. What if Lowe was looking for something in those cartons? No luck, so he comes back around posing as George Dayton from the IRS. The letter specifically asked about Byrd-Shine, insisting on documents and records from 1978. That seemed nutty on the face of it, and I said so at the time.”

  “You told me there weren’t any Byrd-Shine records, so I turned around and told the IRS guy the same thing.”

  “But suppose he didn’t believe you. ‘Dayton’ told you he talked to Pete last spring and Pete swore he had paperwork in storage, which may or may not have been true. Pete might have been bullshitting, or maybe he was too lazy to actually hunt up the files in question. Whatever the case, ‘Dayton’ assumes you’re holding out on him. As a last resort, he breaks in and has a go at it himself.”

  “George Dayton’s a real guy. Honestly. I didn’t create him out of whole cloth. I talked to him myself.”

  “But you never met him, and I bet you never saw any IRS identification. You don’t even know what that would look like. What’s he got, a badge? A business card? You received a notice on IRS letterhead with an address and phone number, but that could have been faked. The day the two of you are finally supposed to meet, he’s a no-show.”

  “That’s true,” she said reluctantly. “On the other hand, I don’t have anything of value. They can search all they like. One man or three. Who cares?”

  “I don’t think it’s about you at all. I think it’s about Pete.”

  “Crap. Now you’re back to the theory he was shaking someone down.”

  “If you’re so sure Dayton’s on the up-and-up, call the local IRS office and ask for him.”

  “Here we go with the calls again.”

  “I was right about the first one.”

  “Okay, I’ll call, but what am I supposed to say?”

  “You don’t have to say anything. Just ask for him. I want to know if he’s legitimate. All you have is his word he works for the IRS. We assume people are telling the truth, so most of us wouldn’t dream of calling to verify employment, but what if he’s lying through his teeth?”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “How do I know? If he’s a real IRS agent, then at least you find out for sure
, and if he’s not, you’ll learn that as well.”

  “What if he’s there?”

  “Then ask why he missed his appointment with you. I can’t believe I’m having to spell it all out. Use your imagination.”

  “What if they ask who’s calling? Am I supposed to give my real name?”

  “Of course. You can use a fake name if it makes you feel any better. Don’t you know how to lie?”

  “I can’t believe you’d ask. I don’t lie to people.”

  “Well, no wonder you’re so ill at ease. Lying’s a skill. You can’t just open your mouth and expect a convincing lie to flop out. It takes practice.”

  Ruth laughed.

  “I’m serious,” I said.

  “Oh. Sorry. Let me scare up his letter and I’ll call.”

  “Not that number. It might be rigged to an answering machine. Here.”

  I moved a potted African violet that was sitting on the telephone book. I paged through the listings in the front: city offices, Santa Teresa County offices, California State offices, United States government offices. I ran a finger past Agriculture, Air Force, Army, and Coast Guard, whizzing right along until I reached Internal Revenue. There I had my choice of Taxpayer Assistance Center, Need a Tax Form, Checking on a Refund, and ten variations on a theme. All were 800 numbers except the last, which was designated the Local Area Office. I circled the number and turned the book so Ruth could see it. I picked up the handset and held it out to her.

  She took it and punched in the number, tilting the phone so I could hear both sides of the conversation. The line rang four times.

  A woman picked up, saying, “Internal Revenue. This is Christine Matthews. How may I help you?”

  Ruthie said, “Hiiiii. Could I speak to George Dayton?”

  “Who?”

  “Dayton, like the city in Ohio. First name, George.”

  “You have the wrong number. This is the Internal Revenue Service.”

  “I know. I looked you up in the phone book. I called on purpose.”

  “There isn’t anyone named Dayton working here.”

  “Are you sure? George told me he was an agent with the IRS. That’s why I called this number.”

  “He told you he worked here?”

  “He did. I guess he might work in Perdido or another office in the area. Do you have a directory?”

  “Ma’am, I hope you won’t take offense, but I’ve worked for the IRS thirty-two years, and there’s no George Dayton. Never was for that matter.”

  “Oh. Sorry. Thanks.”

  I depressed the plunger and returned the handset to the cradle. Despite the fact that Ruthie and I locked eyes, I knew she wasn’t ready to yield.

  “I still don’t see what this has to do with Ned Lowe,” she said.

  “Trust me, it does. I don’t know how yet, but there’s no point in beating the subject to death. You’re not convinced and I don’t have proof.”

  “Even if the names do connect to Ned Lowe, that doesn’t mean Pete was extorting money from him.”

  “I’m through trying to talk you into it. If I find supporting evidence, I’ll let you know.”

  “Kinsey, I know you mean well and I’m sure you believe every word you’ve said, but I was married to the man for close to forty years. I don’t believe he was greedy and avaricious. That’s just not the man I knew.”

  “All I’m trying to do is make sense of what’s going on,” I said. After an awkward beat, I changed the subject. “At least we figured out how the guy was getting in.”

  “I’ll call S.O.S. today. I should have done it months ago.”

  16

  There was already a plumber’s truck in Henry’s driveway when I pulled up in front at 9:35. The garage doors were open and Henry and the fellow were standing in the backyard. Henry gestured as he explained the situation and the plumber nodded in response, asking the occasional question. He was a man in his seventies and rail-thin, wearing khaki overalls and thick-soled brown brogans caked with mud. His cap was brown with MCCLASKEY PLUMBING machine-stitched in red just above the bill.

  When I joined them, Henry introduced us and the plumber raised his cap half an inch. “Nice to make your acquaintance.”

  We shook hands briefly. His palm was damp and threw off a scent of moist earth and cast-iron pipes. He had a lined face and mild brown eyes. His cap forced tufts of gray hair to protrude above his ears, and when he’d doffed it, I saw that his forehead was still dead white where it was shaded by the bill.

  “Mr. McClaskey was just telling me about the sources of salt in a gray water system,” Henry said, returning to the subject at hand.

  The plumber used his fingers to tick off the sources of salt, reciting in a tone that suggested constant repetition of the self-same points. “We’re talking about sweaty bathers, cleaning products, water softeners, and pi— Excuse me, ma’am, urine. Your water softener can add high levels of sodium chloride that adversely affect the soil. I’m quoting from an expert in the field, who happens to be a local fella name of Art Ludwig. The way he puts it, ‘Urine is where the majority of the body’s salt ends up.’ Finds its way into your gray water reuse system via toilets, bed pans, and people peeing in the shower.”

  I saw a pained look cross Henry’s face. “Kinsey and I would never dream of peeing in the shower.”

  “I understand and I applaud your restraint. Good news on urine is it’s full of plant nutrients; nitrogen, in the main, but also potassium and phosphate.”

  Henry looked at his watch. “Sorry to cut this short, but I have an errand to run, so I’ll leave you to poke around. Kinsey will be in her studio if you should need her. We can chat when I get back. I’ll be interested in your recommendations.”

  “Happy to oblige. I’ll do an in-depth analysis and tell you what I think.” McClaskey doffed his cap again.

  Henry went into the garage. I heard the station wagon door snap shut smartly and the engine hum to life. Shortly afterward, he backed down the drive, swung into the street, and drove off. I looked over to see Edna crossing the grass toward the fence that separated their backyard from Henry’s driveway.

  Half a second later, she rose into view, having climbed to her position on the box. Oversize dentures aside, her features were delicate: button nose, Kewpie doll lips. Broken veins on her cheeks looked like two sweeps of rouge. Her wardrobe had a girlish cast; today she had ruffles down the front of her blouse with its Peter Pan collar and puffed sleeves.

  “Good morning, Edna. How are you?”

  “Doing well. How is Henry’s project coming along? I saw the plumber’s truck pull in while I was sweeping the porch.”

  “The plumber’s making up a list, so we’ll see what he suggests.”

  I could see what type of neighbor she’d be. Every noise would have to be investigated, every visitor would generate a quiz, any small change would be grounds for scrutiny and debate. If the telephone rang, if a package arrived, Edna would be right there, making sure she knew exactly what was going on. Henry would find no fault with her. He was a softie where women were concerned—including me, of course, so I could hardly complain.

  “Where’s Henry off to?”

  “The market, but I expect him back before long. I believe he’s picking up a few items for you.”

  “He offered and I couldn’t bring myself to refuse. Joseph’s having a bad day and I didn’t think I should leave him alone. In Perdido, we had a neighbor who’d step in on occasion, and what a godsend that was. Sadly, we don’t know many people in this area and I can’t think who I’d ask.”

  I can recognize a hint when I hear one, but I knew better than to pipe up. She’d introduced the subject hoping I’d step into the breach. This is not a good idea. Agree to such an arrangement once and you’re on call from that time forth. I envisioned an endless succession of good deeds stretching out to
the horizon if I didn’t sidestep the trap. “Why don’t you call the Visiting Nurse Association?”

  She dropped her gaze. “Well, honey, he doesn’t require skilled nursing care. I’m talking about someone spending a few minutes with him when I have to be somewhere else. He’s no trouble.”

  She closed her mouth and waited for my next idea, which was sure to bring us back around to my being tapped for the honor.

  “I don’t know what to suggest. That’s a tough one,” I said. I lobbed the ball back to her side of the court. “Was there anything else?”

  Grudgingly, she held up a baking tin. “I wanted to return Henry’s pan. He brought us fresh cinnamon rolls this morning.”

  “I can give it to him if you like.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you.”

  “It’s not a problem. I’ll be happy to take care of it.”

  I approached the fence and took the pan. It was one of those flimsy disposable tins, still sticky from the glaze he used to top his cinnamon buns. The sides of the pan were bent, and I suspected he’d toss it in the trash, but that was his to decide. My Aunt Gin, overbearing though she was, taught me that in returning a dish, it was polite to have it properly washed and packed with a homemade delicacy as a thank-you. This was a cultural nicety unknown to Edna.

  I gave a little wave and headed for the studio, eager to avoid further conversation. She sank from sight, her head bobbing into view again as she crossed the grass to her back steps. She looked pouty from the back.

  While I waited for Henry, I put the tin in the sink, filled it with hot, soapy water, and left it to soak. I tidied the studio, making a point of scrubbing the downstairs bathroom. I took Ruth’s damp bath towel, tossed it in the dryer with a small sheet of fabric softener, and ran a quick cycle so it would emerge dry and smelling sweet. If she changed her mind and decided to stay another night, at least she’d feel welcome. I put away the bowls, spoons, and coffee cups we’d used that morning and then washed out the baking tin, which was thoroughly deformed by my efforts to get it clean.