The bedsprings squeaked again, and Dora rose, her ample curves voluminous in a pink-and-green flowered nightie. Not bothering to wash or comb her hair, she padded into the kitchen, looked out the window, and glanced into the living room.
Returning to the bedroom, she began to open the drawers in the tall dresser, carefully examining the contents of each, her movements quick and watchful.
From the bathroom, the toilet flushed, and Ralph returned to start on the other dresser, pawing through Mavity's personal belongings.
"Nothing," Dora said at last, closing the bottom drawer. "She must have a lot of time on her hands, to keep her drawers so neated up."
Ralph slammed a drawer closed. "Maybe in the living room."
"Start on the desk. I'll look in the bookcase. Daddy'll have dropped her at work by now, so she won't come charging back forgetting her lunch or whatever. That gave me the cold sweats yesterday when she did that."
"What about your daddy? How soon will he be back?"
"Depends. If he decided to drive over to Monterey-haircuts are cheaper over there-he'll be a while."
Watching Dora go through the bookcase, pulling romance novels from the shelves to look behind then shoving them back, watching Ralph finger through the contents of Mavity's desk, Joe grew so interested that he backed into the cookies. The brittle crunch brought both Dora and Ralph swinging around to stare toward the kitchen. He remained frozen behind the canister, as still as one of those plaster amusement park cats-a gray plaster cat with white markings.
"Heat," Ralph said, seeing no one in the kitchen. "Thought it was that stinking Azrael coming through the window, but it was just heat-them chip bags pop in the heat. Makes 'em rancid, too."
Joe watched, puzzled, as the two pudgy people resumed their investigation. If they were looking for Greeley's stolen money, why had they searched Mavity's bedroom? Why not go directly to Greeley's suitcase, as he himself had done?
But maybe they'd already searched there. Or did they think that Mavity had hidden the money? Did they think she was Greeley's accomplice?
Not Mavity. He couldn't think that.
The smell of chips was so strong he could taste them. What did they put in that stuff? Looking out, he watched Ralph remove papers from the desk drawers and shuffle through them, scanning Mavity's letters and bills, and he grew certain Ralph wasn't looking for the money. But what, then?
The desk had seven drawers. Digging into the bottom drawer, Ralph raised up, fanning a stack of white paper. "Got it! I got it!"
Dora hurried in, her short, flowered nightie flapping around her meaty white legs, and snatched the papers from him. Leaning against the desk, she rifled through-then waved the papers and laughed, hugged Ralph and did a little dance around him, wriggling provocatively.
"Take a good look," she said, handing them back, "while I get set up." And she vanished into the bedroom. Joe heard a click, as if a suitcase had opened. She returned carrying a small copier machine. Glancing out the window toward the drive, she set it on the kitchen table and began to search for an outlet.
"Hurry up. Unplug the toaster. A haircut doesn't take forever. Your dad…"
"I am hurrying. Give me the statements." Jerking out the toaster cord, she jammed in the plug, flipped the switch, and stood shuffling through the sheaf of papers until a green light came on.
Slipping to the edge of the refrigerator, Joe could just see a letterhead above Mavity's name and address. WINTHROP JERGEN, FINANCIAL ADVISOR.
Dora made two copies of each page and separated them into two piles. When she was halfway through, Ralph stopped her. "You better call him. I'll finish."
"You call him."
"No. You're the one started this. You do it."
Sighing, she fished a slip of paper from her pocket, picked up the phone from the desk and carried it to the coffee table dragging the cord, sat down on the couch where she could be comfortable. "I hope he's there."
"He said he'd wait for the call."
"Why is it so hard to get him on the phone?"
"Just call, Dora. Before your daddy gets back."
While Ralph ran copies, she punched in seven clicks. No area code, so it was a local call. Waiting for her party to pick up, she glanced directly toward the refrigerator. Joe held his breath, didn't twitch a whisker.
Abruptly she returned her attention to the phone. She didn't say hello, she offered no cordial introduction, just started talking.
"We have them."
A pause.
"I can't. Dad has the car. He took Mavity to work. He's getting a haircut-I told you he'd get one today. He'll be back any minute."
Silence.
"All right. But hurry."
She hung up. "He's on his way." She headed for the bedroom and in a few minutes returned dressed in tight jeans and a T-shirt that told the world she liked hot cars and champagne, carrying a large leather briefcase. Ralph finished up the copies, straightened the two stacks, and put the originals back in the bottom desk drawer. Dora carried one stack into the bedroom, then unplugged the copier and slipped it into the briefcase, tucking the other set of pages on top.
When Ralph padded into the kitchen to make coffee, Joe froze again. The couple sat at the table, not five feet from him, sipping coffee and waiting.
"Where can he be?" Dora grumbled. "What's taking so long?"
After twenty minutes by the kitchen clock, she fetched a plate of cake from the cupboard and cut two thick slices.
Ten minutes more, and another ten. They had poured the last of the coffee and Joe felt ready to pitch a fit-it was an interminable wait for both the Sleuders and their silent audience. At last a car came down the street.
"That has to be him. Where has he been?" Dora patted her hair and straightened her shirt. "What in the world took him so long?"
But the car went on by. Joe heard it stop a block away, heard the car door slam. In a minute, footsteps came up the street, turning to the house.
"That's him," Ralph said. A shadow loomed beyond the louvered glass: a thin man. Dora pulled the door open.
"Had car trouble," the man said, stepping inside. "Left it up the block. It's running rough as a paint shaker."
Joe, watching him, was rigid with amazement.
He was of medium height and slight of build, his light brown hair tied in a ponytail that flopped over the hood of his blue windbreaker.
This was the man who lingered around the apartments. The silent watcher. Joe caught a whiff of motor grease as he moved past Dora to the table.
"Let's have a look."
Dora opened the briefcase and handed him the copies.
"Shuffle them out, Dora. My hands are greasy from the car."
She spread the statements across the kitchen table; he stood scanning them as she sorted through, then looked up at her, smiling.
"This is what we want. Exactly. You've done a good job here." He winked at her. "You two are quite something."
The man watched as Dora put the papers in a neat pile again and slid them back into the briefcase on top the copier, carefully closing the lid.
Removing a white handkerchief from his pocket, he wrapped it around the handle. "No need to get grease on the leather. I'm just filthy." He smiled again, holding the briefcase away from his pantleg, and moved toward the door. "Wish me luck, folks, that I can nurse the old car into the village."
"I could phone for a tow truck," Dora offered.
"I'll take it slow. I think it's the carburetor, but I should be able to make it to the garage all right." He stared down at his dirty hands, let Dora open the door for him.
The man's name was never spoken. When he had gone, Joe endured what seemed eternal confinement between the chips and cookies while Dora fixed breakfast and the two folks ate a never-ending meal of fried sausage, fried eggs, instant grits, toast, and coffee. At first the smells made him hungry, but after prolonged exposure, he wanted to throw up. He woke from a fitful doze as Dora began to do the dishes, running hot water into the sink, plunging her hands into the suds.