G is for Gumshoe (Kinsey Millhone 7)

About fifty yards away, I spotted a woman sitting in a rectangle of shade formed by a bright red and orange parachute that had been strung up between two campers. She was nursing a baby, her face bent to the sight of the infant. I approached, stopping about fifteen feet away. I wasn't sure what constituted personal turf out here and I didn't want to trespass.

"Hi," I said. "I wonder if you could give me some help."

She looked up at me. She might have been eighteen. Her dark hair was pulled up in a ragged knot on top of her head. She wore shorts and a cotton shirt, unbuttoned down the front. The baby worked with such vigor that I could hear the sucking noise from where I stood. "You lookin' for Eddie?"

I shook my head. "I'm trying to find a woman named Agnes Grey. Do you happen to know her?"

"Nunh-unh. Eddie might. He's been out here a lot longer than me. Is she permanent?"

"I understand she's been out here for years."

"Then you might check at the Christian Center down here on the left. Trailer with a sign out listing all the activities. Lot of people register with them in case of emergency. What'd you want her for?"

"She has a daughter up in Santa Teresa who hasn't heard from her for months. She asked me to find out why her mother hasn't been in touch."

She squinted at me. "You some kind of detective?"

"Well, yeah. More or less. I'm a friend of the family and I was down in this area anyway so I said I'd check it out." I took out the two snapshots Irene Gersh had given me. I moved over and held them out so she could see. "This is her trailer. I don't have a picture of her. She's an old woman, in her eighties."

The girl tilted her head, looking at the photographs. "Oh, yeah, that one. I know her. I never heard her real name. Everybody calls her Old Mama."

"Can you tell me where to find her?"

"Not really. I can tell you where her trailer's at, but I haven't seen her for a while."

"Do you remember when you saw her last?"

She thought about it briefly, screwing up her face. "I never paid much attention so I can't really say. She goes stumping up and down out here when she needs a ride into town. Everybody's real good about that, if your car's broke or something and you gotta have a lift. She's kinda weird though."

"Like what?"

"Uh, well, you know, she has these spells when she talks to herself. You see people like that jabbering away, making gestures like they're in the middle of an argument. Eddie took her into Brawley couple times and he said she was all right then. Smelled bad, but she wasn't out of her head or anything like that."

"You haven't seen her lately?"

"No, but she's probably still around someplace. I been busy with the baby. You might ask somebody else. I never talked to her myself."

"What about Eddie? When do you expect him back?"

"Not till five, I think he said. If you want to check her trailer, go down this road about a quarter mile? You'll see this old rusted-out Chevy. That's called Rusted-Out Chevy Road. Turn right and drive till you pass these concrete bunker things on the left. They look like U's. I don't know what they are, but her trailer's in the next lot. Just bang on the door loud. I don't think she hears good from what Eddie said."

"Thanks. I'll do that."

"If you don't find her, you can come on back here and wait for him, if you like. He might know more."

I glanced at my watch. It was just 12:25. "I may do that," I said. "Thanks for the help."

4

The trailer on Rusted-Out Chevy Road was a sorry sight, bearing very little resemblance to the snapshot I had in my possession, which showed an old but sturdy-looking travel trailer, painted flat blue, sitting on four blackwall tires. From the picture, I estimated that it was thirty-some years old, built in the days when it might have been hitched to the back of a Buick sedan and hauled halfway across the country. Now, spray paint had been used to emblazon the siding with the sort of words my aunt urged me to hold to a minimum. Some of the louvers on the windows had been broken out and the door was hanging on one hinge. As I drove by, I saw a unisex person, approximately twelve years of age, sitting on the doorsill in ragged cutoffs, hair in dreadlocks, finger up its nose, apparently mining the contents. I passed the place, did a U-turn and doubled back, pulling over to the side of the road in front. By the time I got out, the doorsill was deserted. I knocked on the doorframe.

"Hello?" I sang. Nothing. "Heellloo." I peered in. The place was empty, at least the portion I could see. The interior, which had probably never been clean, was littered now with trash. Empty bottles and cans were discarded in a heap where a fold-down table should have been. Dust coated most surfaces. The banquette on the right looked like it had been chopped up for firewood. The doors on the kitchen cabinets had all been removed. Cupboards were empty. The tiny four-burner butane-fueled stove looked like it hadn't been used for months.