After lunch, both Selma and Brant took off. Brant had errands to run before he reported for work and Selma was involved in her endless series of volunteer positions. She’d posted a calendar on the refrigerator and the squares were filled with scribbles for most days of the week. A silence settled on the house and I felt a mild ripple of anxiety climb my frame. I was running out of things to do. I went back to the den and pulled the phone book out of Tom’s top drawer. Given the size of the town, the directory was no bigger than a magazinc. I looked up James Tennyson, the CHP officer who’d found Tom that night. There was only one Tennyson, a James W, listed on Iroquois Drive in this same development. I checked my city map, grabbed my jacket and my handbag, and headed out to the car.
Iroquois Drive was a winding roadway lined with two-story houses and an abundance of evergreens. Residents were apparently encouraged to keep their garage doors closed. Backyards in this section were fully fenced or surrounded by hedges and I could see swing sets and jungle gyms as well as above-ground swimming pools, still covered for the winter. The Tennysons lived at the end of the street in a yellow stucco house with dark green shutters and a dark green roof. I parked out in front, snagging the morning paper from the lawn as I passed. I pushed the doorbell, but heard no reassuring ding dong inside. I waited a few minutes and then tried a modest knock.
The door was opened by a young woman in jeans with a sleeping baby propped against her shoulder. The child might have been six months old; sparse golden curls, flushed cheeks, flannel sleepers with feet, and a big diapered butt.
“Mrs. Tennyson?”
“That’s right.”
“My name is Kinsey Millhone. I was hoping to have a word with your husband. I take it he’s the one who works for the CHP.”
“That’s right.”
“Is he at work?”
“No, he’s here. He works nights and sleeps late. That’s why the doorbell’s turned off. You want to come in and wait? I just heard him banging around .so it shouldn’t be long.”
“If you don’t mind.” I held up the newspaper. “I brought this in. I trust it’s yours.”
“Oh, thanks. I don’t even bother until he’s up. The baby gets into it and tears the whole thing to pieces if I’m not looking. Cat does the same thing. Sits there and bites on it just daring me to get mad.”
She moved aside to admit me and I stepped into the entrance. Like Selma’s, this house seemed overheated, but I may have been reacting to the contrast with the outside cold. She closed the door behind me. “By the way, I’m Jo. Your name’s Kimmy?”
“Kinsey,” I corrected. “It was my mother’s maiden name.”
“That’s cute,” she said, flashing me a smile. “This is Brittainy. Poor baby. We call her Bugsy for some reason. Don’t know how that got started, but she’ll never live it down.” Jo Tennyson was trim, with a ponytail and bangs, her hair a slightly darker version of her daughter’s. She couldn’t have been much more than twenty-one and may have become a mother before she could legally drink. The baby never stirred as we proceeded to the kitchen. Jo put the newspaper on the kitchen table, indicating a seat. She moved around the room, setting up her husband’s breakfast one handed while the baby slept on. I watched with fascination as she opened a fresh cereal box, shook some of the contents in a bowl, and fetched a spoon from the drawer, which she closed with one hip. She retrieved the milk carton from the refrigerator, poured coffee into three mugs, and pushed one in my direction. “You’re not in sales, I hope.”
I shook my head and then murmured a thank you for the coffee, which smelled great. “I’m a private investigator. I have some questions for your husband about Tom Newquist’s death.”
“Oh, sorry. I didn’t realize it was business or I could have called him first thing. He’s just fooling around. He likes to take his time in the morning because the rest of his day’s so hectic. Let me see where he’s at. If you want any more coffee, help yourself. I’ll be right back.”
During her absence, I took the opportunity to engage in a little sit-down observation. The house was untidy I’d seen that in passing-but the kitchen was particularly disorganized. Counters were cluttered, the cabinet doors hung open, the sink piled with dishes from the last several meals. I thought the vinyl floor tile was gray with a dark mottled pattern, but on closer inspection it turned out to be white overlaid with an assortment of sooty footprints. I straightened up as she returned.
“He’ll be right here. I didn’t peg you for a detective. Are you local?”
“I’m from Santa Teresa.”
“I didn’t think you looked familiar. You should talk to Tom’s wife. She lives in this subdivision, over in that direction about six blocks, on Pawnee. The snooty street we call it.”
“She’s the one who hired me. You know her?”
“Uh-unh. We go to the same church. She’s in charge of the altar flowers and I help when I can. She’s really good-hearted. She’s the one who gave Bugsy her little christening dress. Here’s James. I’ll leave the two of you alone so you can talk.”
I got to my feet as he entered the kitchen. James Tennyson was fair-haired, clean-cut, and slender, the kind of earnest young man you want assisting you on the highway when your fan belt goes funny or your rear tire’s blown. He was dressed in civilian clothes: jeans, a sweatshirt, and a pair of sheepskin slippers. “James Tennyson. Nice to meet you.”
“Kinsey Millhone,” I said as the two of us shook hands. “I’m sorry to bother you at home, but I was over at the Newquists and it seemed so close. I saw your name on a report I picked up from the coroner and looked you up in the book.”
“Not a problem. Sit down.”
“Thanks. Go ahead with your breakfast. I didn’t mean to intrude.”
He smiled. “I guess I will if you don’t mind. What can I do for you?”
While James ate his cereal, I laid out Selma’s concerns. “I take it you knew him personally?”
“Yeah, I knew Tom. Mean, we weren’t real good friends . . . him and Selma were older and ran with a different crowd . . . but everybody in Nota Lake knew Tom. I tell you, his death shook me. I know he’s kind of old, but he was like a fixture around here.”
“Can you tell me how you found him? I know he had a heart attack. I’m just trying to get a feel for what happened.”
“Well, this was . . . what . . . five, six weeks ago . . . and really nothing unusual. I was cruising 395 when I spotted this vehicle off to the side of the road. Hazard lights were on and the engine was running so I pulled in behind. I recognized Tom’s pickup. You know he lives here in the neighborhood so I see the truck all the time. At first I thought he might be having engine problems or something like that. Both the doors were locked, but once I got close I could see him slumped over. I tapped on the window, thinking he’d pulled over and fell asleep at the wheel. I figured the heater was running because the windshield was covered with condensation, windows all cloudy.”
“How’d you get in?”
“Well, the window on the driver’s side was open a crack. I had a wire in my car and popped the lock up with that. I could see he’s in trouble. He looked awful, his eyes open, muck in the corners of his mouth.”
“Was he still alive at that point?”
“I’m pretty sure he was gone, but I did what I could. I tell you my hands were shaking so bad, I couldn’t make ’em do right. I nearly busted the window and would have if I hadn’t managed to snag the lock when I did. I hauled him down out of the truck onto the side of the road and did CPR right there. I couldn’t pick up a heartbeat. His skin was cool to the touch, or at least it seemed like that to me. It was freezing outside and even with the heater turned on, temperature inside the truck had dropped. You know how it does. I radioed for help….got an ambulance out there as fast as I could, but there was nothing for it. Doc in ER declared him dead on arrival.”
“You think he knew what was happening and pulled over to the side?”