“Ha! Women like Marcella attract men the way sweets attract ffies. I know. I had my share of suitors before I got married, but I never carried on the way that hussy did!”
I let Mrs. Wilder catch her breath. “Please be specific,” I said.
Mrs. Wilder continued, warily this time. “Well. . . when Marcella moved in I offered to throw a little get-together for her, invite some of the ladies in the neighborhood. Well . . . Marcella told me that she didn’t want any women friends, that women were all right to have a cup of coffee with once in a while, but she’d take men any day. I told her, ‘You’re a divorcée. Haven’t you learned your lesson?’ I’ll never forget what she said: ‘Yes, I did. I learned to use men the way they use women, and keep it at that.’ I don’t mind telling you, Mr. Carpenter, I don’t mind telling you I was shocked!”
“Yes, that is shocking. Did Marcella Harris ever talk about her ex-husband at length? Or any of her boyfriends?”
“She just told me that Doc Harris was a charming, good-fornothing snake. And about her boyfriends? If I’d known they were sleeping over I would have put a stop to it right away! I don’t put up with promiscuous goings-on.”
I was getting tired of Mrs. Wilder. “How did you finally find out about Mrs. Harris’s goings-on?” I asked.
“Michael. He… used to leave notes. Anonymous ones. Obscene ones. I don’t–”
I came awake. “Do you still have them?” I blurted.
Mrs. Wilder shrieked again: “No, no, no! I don’t want to talk about it, I knew she was bad from the moment she moved in. I require references, and Marcella gave me fake ones, fake all the way down the line. If you ask me, she–”
The telephone rang. Mrs. Wilder went into the kitchen to answer it. When she was out of sight, I gave the room a quick toss, checking out the contents of shelves and bookcases. On top of the television set I found a stack of unopened mail. There was a letter addressed to Marcella Harris. Someone, probably Mrs. Wilder, had written in pencil on the envelope: “Deceased. Forward to William Harris, 4968 Beverly Blvd., L.A. 4, Calif.”
I heard the landlady jabbering away in the kitchen. I put the envelope into my pocket and quietly left her house.
It was almost dusk. I drove toward the freeway, stopping a few blocks from the on-ramp to check the letter. It was just an overdue dentist’s bill, and I threw it out the window, but it fit in: Marcella Harris lived a fast life and neglected small commitments. I wondered what kind of nurse she had been. I headed back toward Santa Monica to see if I could find out.
The freeways that night were surreal; seemingly endless red and white glowing jet streams carrying travelers to home and hearth, work and play, lovers’ rendezvous and unknown destinations. This was not my Los Angeles I was passing over, and the dead nurse was none of my business, but as the eastern suburbs turned into good old familiar downtown L.A., old instincts clicked into place and the excitement of being out there and on the track of the immutable yet ever-changing took me over. There was nothing happening in my life, and looking for a killer was as good a way as any to fill the void.
I willed myself to form the nude image of Maggie Cadwallader. For the first time in years I didn’t gasp reflexively.
The Packard-Bell Electronics plant was on Olympic Boulevard in the heart of the Santa Monica industrial district.
There was a drive-in movie theater around the corner on Bundy, and when I parked my car I could see that they were screening a Big Sid horror extravaganza. That depressed me, but the anticipation of pursuit quashed the depression fast.
The plant was a one-story red brick building that seemed to run off in several directions. Adjacent to a shipping and receiving area were two parking lots, separated by a low chain-link fence. The closer lot, situated next to the front entrance, was empty. It was well lighted and bordered by evenly spaced little shrubby plants. The other lot was larger, and strewn with cigarette butts, candy wrappers, and newspapers. It had to be the lower-echelon employees’ lot.