There were three doors on my left, each sealed with an enormous X of crime scene tape. I had to guess that one door led to Guy’s bedroom, one to Jack’s, and one to the bathroom that connected the two. On the right, there were two more doors. I knew the second was Bader’s suite: bedroom, bath, and home office. The door closest to me was closed. I flicked a look behind me, making sure Enid hadn’t followed. The whole house was silent. I put my hand on the knob and turned it with care. Locked.
Well, now what? The lock was the simple old-fashioned type requiring a skeleton key that probably fit every door up here. I scanned the hall in both directions. I didn’t have time to waste. Bader’s suite was closest. I did a race-walk to his bedroom and tried the knob. This room was unlocked. I peered around the door. There was a key protruding neatly from the keyhole on the other side. I extracted it and hurried back to Bennet’s room. I jammed the key in the lock and tried turning it. I could feel the key hang, but there was some tolerance to the lock. I applied steady pressure while I jiggled the door gently. It took close to thirty seconds, but the key gave way suddenly and I was in.
TWENTY-ONE
I scanned the room quickly, taking in as much as I could. Two table lamps had been left on. This had to be Bennet’s bedroom. He was still in possession of all the paraphernalia from his boyhood hobbies. Model airplanes, model cars, stacks of vintage comic books, early issues of MAD magazine, Little League trophies. He’d framed a paint-by-numbers likeness of Jimmy Durante and a color snapshot of himself at the age of thirteen wearing spiffy black dress pants, a pink dress shirt, and a black bolo tie. His bulletin board was still hanging on the back of his closet door. Tacked to the cork were various newspaper headlines about the assassinations of Martin Luther King, Jr., and Bobby Kennedy. There were photographs of the Apollo 8 spacecraft the day it was launched from Cape Kennedy. A framed movie poster from The Odd Couple still hung above his unmade bed. It wasn’t hard to pinpoint the peak year in his life. There was no memorabilia beyond 1968.
I flicked on the overhead light and crossed the room, placing my handbag on the floor near my feet. His desk was built-in and ran along the front wall from one side of the room to the other, punctuated by two windows. Bookshelves had been hung on the wall above the desk. Most of the books looked dated, the titles suggestive of textbooks accumulated over the years. I let my gaze skip across the spines. Ring of Bright Water, Maxwell; No Room in the Ark, Moorehead; Stalking the Edible Life, Gibbons; The Sea Around Us, Carson. Little or no fiction. Not surprising somehow. Bennet didn’t strike me as intellectual or imaginative. A personal computer occupied his desk at center stage, complete with an oversized printer. The machine had been shut down and the glassy gray screen of the monitor reflected distorted slices of the light from the hall door. Everything was a jumble; bills, loose papers, invoices, and stacks of unopened mail everywhere. I spotted the typewriter to the left, covered with a black plastic typewriter “cozy” complete with dust. A stack of books had been placed on top.
I backed up and stuck my head out into the hallway. I did a quick survey, seeing no one, and then closed myself into Bennet’s room. If I were caught, there was no way I was going to explain my presence. I went back to the desk, lifted the stack of books from the typewriter, and removed the cover. The machine was an old black high-shouldered Remington with a manual return. Bader must have hung on to the damn thing for forty years. I reached into my bag and removed a piece of blank paper from the folder. I rolled it into the machine, typing precisely the phrases and sentences I’d typed before. The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog. The typewriter made a racket that seemed remarkably noisy, but it couldn’t be helped. With the door to the hall closed, I thought I was safe. Dear Miss Millhone. Max Outhwaite. Even at a glance, I knew I was in business. The a and the i were both askew. This was the machine I’d been looking for. I rolled the paper from the machine, folded it, and slipped it in my pocket. Out of the corner of my eye, the name Outhwaite suddenly popped into view. Was I seeing things? I checked the line of textbooks again, squinting as I pulled out the two books that caught my attention. Ring of Bright Water, Gavin Maxwell, was the first in that row. In the middle, about six books down, was Atlantic: History of an Ocean. The author was Leonard Outhwaite. I stared, feeling rooted in place. Gavin Maxwell and Leonard Outhwaite. Maxwell Outhwaite.
I slipped the cover over the typewriter and put the stack of books back in place. I heard a low rumble, like thunder. I paused. Empty coat hangers began to ring, tinkling together in the closet like wind chimes. All the joints in the house began to squeak quietly and the window glass gave a sharp rattle where the putty had shrunk away from the panes. Nails and wood screws chirped. I put a hand on the bookshelf to steady myself. Under me, the whole house shifted back and forth, perhaps no more than an inch, but with a movement that felt like a sudden gust of strong wind or a train rocking on a track. I didn’t feel any fear, but I was alert, wondering if I’d have time to clear the premises. An old house like this must have survived many a temblor, but you never quite knew what was coming with these things. So far, I pegged it in the three- or four-point range. As long as it didn’t go on and on, it shouldn’t do much damage. Lights flickered faintly as if wires were loose and touching one another intermittently. The strobe effect sparked a series of jerky pale blue images, in the midst of which a dark shape appeared across the room. I peered, blinking, trying to see clearly as the shadow moved toward one corner and then blended into the wall.
I made a small sound in my throat, paralyzed. The trembling gradually ceased and the lights stabilized. I clung to the bookshelf and leaned my head weakly on my arm, trying to shake off the frosty feeling that was creeping down my spine. Any minute, I expected to hear Enid calling from the kitchen stairs. I pictured Myrna on her feet, the three of us comparing notes about the earthquake. I didn’t want either one of them coming up to search for me. I snagged my handbag and crossed the room. I moved out into the hall, looking quickly in both directions. I locked the door behind me, cranking the key in the lock so hard it nearly bent under my hand.
I ran down the hall on tiptoe, making a hasty detour into Bader’s room. I put the key back in the door where I’d found it, then crossed swiftly into his home office. I opened a file cabinet and shoved the folder between two unrelated files where I could find it later. I crossed the room again and went out into the corridor. I walked quickly toward the heavy drapes at the end of the hall, pushed my way through the arch, and hurried along the back corridor. I clattered down the stairs and into the kitchen. There was no sign of Myrna. Enid was calmly pouring a thick yellow batter into the springform pan.
I put my hand on my chest to still my breathing. “Jesus. That was something. I thought for a minute there we were really in for it.”
She looked up at me blankly. I could tell she didn’t have the faintest idea what I was talking about.
I stopped in my tracks. “The temblor,” I said.
“I wasn’t aware of any temblor. When was this?”
‘Enid, you’re kidding. Don’t do this to me. It must have been at least four points on the Richter scale. Didn’t the lights flicker down here?”
“Not that I noticed.” I watched her use a rubber spatula to sweep the last of the batter from the bowl into the pan.
“The whole house was shifting. Didn’t you feel anything?”
She was silent for a moment, her gaze dropping to her bowl. “You hang on to people, don’t you?”
“What?”
“You have trouble letting go.”
“I do not. That’s not a bit true. People tell me I’m too independent for my own good.”
She was shaking her head before I reached the end of the sentence. “Independence has nothing to do with hanging on,” she said.