T is for Trespass (Kinsey Millhone 20)

Her skin felt delicate and powdery, her palm two or three degrees warmer than my own. I wasn’t sure she should be so trusting, inviting a stranger into her house, but it suited my purposes.

Her living room was sparsely furnished, frothy curtains at the windows, faded carpet on the floor, faded paper on the walls. The Victorian-style furniture had a vaguely depressing air about it, which suggested it was authentic. The rocker I sat down in had a horsehair seat, which you couldn’t get away with now. To the right of the front door, on the Fredricksons’ side of the house, French double doors opened onto a wood balcony crowded with flowerpots. I explained who I was and that I was working as an investigator on behalf of the insurance company Gladys Fredrickson was suing in the wake of her accident. “Would you mind if I ask you a few questions.”

“Fine. I’m happy for the company. Would you like tea?”

“No, thanks. I take it you’re aware of the claim?”

“Oh yes. She told me she was suing and I said, ‘Good for you.’ You should see the poor thing hobbling around. What happened was terrible and she’s entitled to recompense.”

“I don’t know about that. These days, hitting up an insurance company is like going to Vegas to play the slot machines.”

“Exactly. All that money is paid in and very little is paid out. The insurance companies as good as dare you to try to collect. They’ve got all the power on their side. If you win, they dump you or they double your premiums.”

This was discouraging. I’d heard these sentiments expressed before, the belief that insurance companies were fat cats and the mice deserved anything they could get. “In this case, the facts are in dispute, which is why I’m here.”

“The facts are obvious. There was an accident. It’s as simple as that. Gladys told me it was covered on their home-owner’s policy and the company had refused to pay. She said suing was the only way to force their hand.”

“Auto.”

“‘Auto’?”

“It’s not their home-owner’s policy. She’s suing the company that carries the defendant’s car insurance.” Personally, I wondered if I was shooting myself in the foot. We were clearly working at cross-purposes, but I got out my tape recorder and went through my drill; identifying myself, Lettie Bowers, blah blah blah. Then I said, “How long have you known the Fredricksons?”

“If you want the truth, I don’t know them well and I don’t like them much. Am I under oath?”

“No ma’am, but it would be helpful if you could tell me what you know as truthfully as possible.”

“I always do that. I was raised that way.”

“I take it Gladys Fredrickson’s talked to you about the accident.”

“She didn’t have to. I saw it.”

I leaned forward slightly. “You were at the intersection?”

She seemed confused. “There wasn’t any intersection. I was sitting right here, looking out the window.”

“I don’t understand how you could have seen what went on.”

“I couldn’t miss it. I do my pickup work by the window, which gives me good light and offers a nice view of the neighborhood. I used to do needlepoint, but lately I’ve gone back to knitting and crochet. Less strain on my eyes and easier on my hands. I’d been watching them at work, which is how I happened to see the tumble she took.”

“Gladys fell?”

“Oh my, yes. It was entirely her fault, but the way she explained it to me, the insurance company will have to pay anyway if everything goes well.”

“Could we back up a few paragraphs and start this again?”

I took a few minutes to go back over the lawsuit, filling in the details while she shook her head.

“You must be talking about someone else. It didn’t happen that way.”

“Fine. Let’s hear your side of it.”

“I don’t mean to sound judgmental, but she and her husband are penny-pinchers and they hate to hire help. The rain gutters were jammed with leaves. We’d had a number of spring storms and the water had been pouring down in torrents, right over the edge instead of going into the down spouts. First week of nice weather, she got up on a ladder to clean the gutters and the ladder toppled. She landed on the wooden deck and the ladder came down and clunked her in the head. I was surprised she didn’t break her back, as much as she weighs. The sound was awful, like a bag of cement. I ran out, but she said she was all right. I could see she was woozy and limping badly, but she wouldn’t accept help. Next thing I knew, Millard pulled the van around in front and honked. They had a heated discussion and then she got in.”