I lifted my head. Voices in the hall. Lila had come out of her room, locking it after her. Maybe she'd gone in to make sure the hairs were in place. I wondered if I should have confiscated the duplicate licenses while I had the chance. No, better that I left them where they were.
Suddenly the bathroom door flew back and Lila's voice echoed against the bathroom walls like a bullhorn. My heart leapt into action so fast it was like being flung in an icy swimming pool. She was right on the other side of the shower door, her plump form vaguely defined through the milky glass. I closed my eyes like a kid, willing myself invisible.
"I'll be right there, dearie love," she sang from two feet away.
She crossed to the John and I heard the rustle of her polyester dress and the snap of her girdle as she struggled with it.
Please God, I thought, don't let her decide to take an impromptu shower or a dump. My tension level was so high that I was bound to sneeze or cough or groan or cackle maniacally. I willed myself into a hypnotic state, feeling my armpits dampen with sweat.
The toilet flushed. Lila took forever putting herself back together again. Rustle, pop, snap. I heard her jiggle the handle when the toilet continued to run. She washed her hands, the faucet squeaking as she turned it off How long could she drag this out? Finally, she moved toward the bathroom door and opened it, and then she was gone, footsteps receding toward the living room. Yakety-yak, chit chat, soft laughter, good-bye sounds, and the front door closed.
I stayed exactly where I was until I heard Moza in the hall.
"Kinsey? They're gone. Are you still here?"
I let out the breath I'd been holding and stood up, shoving my flashlight into my back pocket. This is not a dignified way to make a living, I thought. Hell, I wasn't even getting paid for this. I peered out of the shower door, making sure I hadn't been set up in some elaborate ruse. The house felt quiet except for Moza, who was opening the broom-closet door, still whispering, "Kinsey?"
"I'm in here," I said, voice booming.
I went out into the hall. Moza was so thrilled we hadn't been caught that she couldn't even get mad at me. She leaned against the wall, fanning herself I figured I better get out of there before they came back for something else, taking ten more years off my projected life-span.
"You're terrific," I murmured. "I'm indebted for life. I'll buy you dinner at Rosie's."
I moved through the kitchen, peering out the back door before I exited. It was fully dark by then, but I made sure the street was deserted before I stepped out of the shadow of Moza's house. Then I walked the half-block toward home laughing to myself. Actually, it's fun to horse around with danger. It's fun to snoop in people's dresser drawers. I might have turned to burgling houses if law enforcement hadn't beckoned to me first. With Lila, I was finally beginning to take control of a situation I didn't like and the surge of power made me feel nearly giddy with relief. I wasn't sure what she was up to, but I intended to find out.
Chapter 18
When I was safely back in my apartment again, I took out the credit-card receipt I'd lifted from Lila's shoe box. The date on it was May 25 and the store was located in Las Cruces. The credit-card imprint read "Delia Sims." In the box marked "phone number," someone had obligingly penned in a phone number. I hauled out my telephone book and looked up the area code for Las Cruces. Five-oh-five. I picked up the receiver and dialed the number, wondering as I heard it ring on the far end just what I intended to say.
"Hello?" Man's voice. Middle-aged. No accent.
"Oh hello," I said smoothly. "I wonder if I might speak to Delia Sims."
There was a moment of silence. "Hang on."
A palm was secured across the mouthpiece and I could hear muffled conversation in the background.
The receiver was apparently taken over by someone else, because a new voice inquired, "May I help you?"
This one was female and I couldn't classify the age.
"Delia?" I said.
"Who is this, please?" The tone was guarded, as though the call might be obscene.
"Oh, sorry," I said. "This is Lucy Stansbury. That's not you, is it, Delia? It doesn't sound like your voice."
"This is a friend of Delia's. She not here at the moment. Was there something I might help you with?"
"Well, I hope so," I said, mind racing. "Actually, I'm calling from California. I just met Delia recently and she left some of her things in the backseat of my car. I couldn't figure out any other way to reach her except to try this number, which was on a credit-card receipt for a purchase she made in Las Cruces. Is she still in California or is she home again?"
"Just a minute."
Again, a palm across the mouthpiece and the drone of conversation in the background. The woman came back on the line.
"Why don't you give me your name and number and I'll have her get back to you?"
"Oh sure, that's fine," I said. I gave her my name again, spelling it out laboriously and then I made up a telephone number with the area code for Los Angeles. "You want me to mail this stuff back to her or just hang on to it? I'd feel bad if I thought she didn't realize where she'd left it."
"What exactly did she leave?"
"Well, most of it's just clothes. A summer dress I know she's fond of, but I don't guess that matters much. I do have that ring of hers with the square-cut emerald and the little diamond baguettes," I said, describing the ring I'd seen Lila wearing that first afternoon in Henrys garden. "Do you expect her back soon?"
After the barest hesitation, the woman's chill reply came. "Who is this?"
I hung up. So much for trying to fool the folks in Las Cruces. I couldn't imagine what she was up to, but I sure didn't like the notion of this real-estate venture she'd proposed to Henry. He was so smitten, she could probably talk him into anything. She was moving quickly too, and I thought I better come up with some answers before she took him for all he was worth. I reached for a pile of blank index cards in my top desk drawer, and when the phone rang moments later, I jumped. Shit, could someone have put a trace on the call that fast? Surely not.
I lifted the receiver with caution, listening for the white noise of a long-distance connection. There was none.
"Hello?"
"Miss Millhone?" Male. The voice sounded familiar, though I couldn't for the moment figure out who it was. Music blasting in the background was forcing him to yell, and I found myself yelling too. "This is she."
"This is Gus," he hollered, "Bobby's friend from the skate-rental place."
"Oh, it's you. Hello. I'm glad you called. I hope you have some information for me. I could sure use the help."
"Well, I've been thinking about Bobby and I guess I owe him that much. I should have spoken up this afternoon."
"Don't worry about it. I appreciate your getting back to me. You want to get together or just talk on the phone?"
"Either way is fine. One thing I wanted to mention-and I don't know if this would be a help or not-but Bobby gave me this address book you might want to take a look at. Did he ever talk to you about that?"
"Of course he did. I've been turning the town upside down looking for that thing," I said. "Where are you?"