The bar had a refrigerator. Inside was a nice selection of soft drinks and beer, and a couple of jugs of wine. Gillian lifted out a jug of Blanc de Blanc. She chose a good-sized brandy snifter from a shelf of glasses, twisted out the bottle stopper, and filled her glass. She took a sip. The cold wine had a subtle, fruity flavor, and was not too sweet.
With the glass in one hand and her flashlight in the other, she went into the kitchen. The windows there faced the side of the house and the front porch, as she searched the kitchen in darkness except for the glow from outside. A bulletin board hung next to the wall phone. Some notes were pinned to it. Gillian decided to wait until morning to read the notes. Beside the bulletin board was a picture calendar. Flashlight tucked under her arm, she lifted the calendar off its small nail and carried it into the den.
She sat on a soft recliner chair, took a sip of wine, and studied the calendar. The top portion had a glossy color photo of a slender young woman posing beside a pool. She wore a string bikini and her skin was shiny with oil. Just what Gillian expected of a fellow who had mirrors on his bedroom ceiling.
The lower portion of the calendar was devoted to the month of June. Today was Saturday the 21st. The square block for the 21st had no writing on it. Neither did any of the squares for earlier in the week. On the 13th was written: “7:30 Stewardess; 9:05 Passion.” The 7th had similar notations: “7:10 Elena, 8:50 Crazy.” Gillian guessed that these were the starting times for double-features, the movie titles abbreviated. The rest of the dates for the month of June had no writing in their spaces. She glanced at July, then shook her head.
“You’re no help,” she muttered at the calendar.
Apparently, Fredrick Holden needed no reminders of when he was leaving on his trip or returning. Maybe Gillian would turn up some information later. She was in no mood to continue investigating the matter now. She wanted to settle in and relax.
One final chore.
After taking the calendar back into the kitchen, Gillian went to the front room. She stepped into her skirt again and pulled the sweater over her head, but decided not to bother with her heels. Car keys in hand, she removed the burglar bar and unlocked the door.
Outside, the night air was cool and fresh after the stuffy warmth of the house. The grass was dewy under her bare feet. Down the street, a car swung into a driveway. A man and a woman climbed out and walked toward their front door. Nobody else was in sight.
Gillian climbed into her car. She drove it to the end of the block, turned the comer, and parked at the first empty stretch of curb. She walked back to the house.
At the driveway, she stopped.
Something looked different.
She frowned. What was ... ?
Light no longer glowed through the living room curtains.
The nape of Gillian’s neck went tight.
Someone inside the house? Had someone been in there all along?
No. Probably the lightbulb burnt out.
But what if someone is ... ?
She suddenly knew. Shaking her head and smiling at her foolishness, she checked her wristwatch. Eleven o’clock. Though she hadn’t seen the timer, hadn’t even bothered to look for it, the living room lamp was obviously equipped with one. It would be set to turn on the lamp after dark and kill it around bedtime.
Nobody in there after all.
Hearing the grumble of a car engine behind her, Gillian looked around. A Corvette. Slowing down as it approached.
Her heart lurched.
Oh Jesus, no!
But the car didn’t swing into the driveway. It went by and turned onto the driveway of the house next door.
Gillian hesitated.
She must’ve been seen.
Okay, she thought. Fine. Great, in fact.
As the Corvette stopped in front of the gate at the far side of the neighbor’s house, she cut across the lawn, heading for it. The engine went silent. The headbeam died. A man climbed out from the driver’s door, swung it shut, and walked around the low front of the car.
“Hi,” Gillian called.
“Hello,” he said. He was slim, dressed in dark slacks and a sport shirt, and appeared to be in his mid-twenties. He had a friendly smile.
“I’m Gillian,” she said. “Glad you came by. I’ll be staying at Uncle Fredrick’s place till he gets back. You know, house-sitting?”
“Didn’t know he was gone,” the man said.
“Well, I was afraid he might’ve mentioned he’d be away, and maybe forgot to tell you I’d be watching the place for him.” She grinned. “Didn’t want you thinking I was a burglar or something.”
“You don’t look much like one,” he said. “I’m Jerry Dobbs.”
Gillian offered her hand, and he shook it. “Nice to meet you, Jerry.”
“From around here?”
“I’ve got a cramped little studio apartment in West LA. Which is why it’ll be so nice spending a few days here.”
“I can imagine. I was an apartment dweller myself till I scraped up enough to get this place. Hated every minute of it. Confining, no privacy ...”
“Exactly,” Gillian said. “Well, I’d better let you go. It was nice meeting you.”
“Same here. Look, you need anything, just drop over.”
“You mean like a cup of sugar?”
“Or company. Whatever.”
“Thanks. Maybe I will.” She backed away, raising a hand in farewell. “I’ll see you around, Jerry.”
“Right. So long.”
Gillian headed across Jerry’s lawn. She felt him watching, so she glanced over her shoulder and smiled, then continued toward the house. That had turned out great. Seemed like a nice guy, Jerry. If he’d been suspicious at all, he sure hadn’t shown it.
Now, Gillian would be able to make herself at home without worrying about what the next-door neighbor might see or hear. A terrific development.
Inside the house she made her way through the darkness to a table lamp. After turning it on, she knelt on the floor beside the lamp that had gone off. She followed the cord, pulled the plug for the small plastic timer unit and inserted it into the wall socket. The lamp came on again. She turned off the other one.
After securing the door, Gillian carried her suitcase, purse and high-heeled shoes into the bedroom. She removed a few items from the suitcase, then packed her sweater and skirt.
She made a detour into the living room to pick up her wine glass.
In the bathroom, she had a few sips while she undressed and waited for the tub to fill.
She set the glass on the edge of the tub. She stepped into the water, sat down, and sighed with pleasure as the heat wrapped her to the waist. She stretched out her legs.
Flinched rigid as a bell jangled somewhere in the house.
Someone at the door?
Oh, Christ. And me in the tub.
She braced herself, ready to spring out, but the ringing came again and she realized it was the telephone.
A call. At this hour.
Her skin crawled. She saw goosebumps rise on her submerged thighs, felt her nipples tighten and pucker.
Calm down, she told herself. One thing’s certain, it isn’t for me.
Unless it’s Jerry.
But it’s not, she thought.
Each bray of the phone scraped her nerves.
It’s not for me. That’s the main thing. It’s not bad news. Shit, there’s nobody to get bad news about.
Maybe a neighbor, someone from across the street who saw me come in. Maybe just a wrong number.
At her apartment it was almost always a wrong number when it rang late at night.
Why doesn’t it stop!
Gillian gritted her teeth.
Maybe an obscene caller, she thought. Maybe a burglar checking to find out if anyone’s home before dropping by.