T is for Trespass (Kinsey Millhone 20)

“Where in heaven’s name is all the hostility coming from?”

“You’re the one who brought it up. Kinsey and I were discussing something else entirely.”

“Well, I’m sorry to interrupt. It’s clear you have your nose out of joint, but I haven’t done anything except express an opinion. I don’t understand what you’re afraid of.”

“I don’t want my neighbors to think I endorse solicitors.”

Charlotte picked up her menu. “I can see this is a point on which we can’t agree so why don’t we leave it that way?”

Henry picked up his menu as well and opened it. “I’d appreciate that. And while we’re about it, perhaps we could talk about something else.”

I could feel my face flush. This was like marital bickering except these two weren’t that well acquainted. I thought Charlotte would be embarrassed by his tone, but she didn’t bat an eye. The moment passed. The rest of the dinner conversation was unremarkable and the evening seemed to end on a pleasant note.

Henry saw her to her car, and while the two said good night, I debated about mentioning the clash, but decided it wasn’t my place. I knew what made him so touchy on the subject. At the age of eighty-seven, he had to be thinking about the financial aspects of his own demise.

After Charlotte pulled away, we fell into step, walking the half block home. “I suppose you think I was out of line,” he remarked.

“Well, I don’t think she’s as mercenary as you implied. I know she’s focused on her work, but she’s not crass.”

“I was irritated.”

“Come on, Henry. She didn’t mean any harm. She believes people should be informed about property values, and why not?”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“It’s not a question of who’s right. The point is if you’re going to spend time together, you have to take her as she is. And if you don’t intend to see her again, then why pick a fight?”

“Do you think I should apologize?”

“That’s up to you, but it wouldn’t do any harm.”

Late Monday afternoon I’d scheduled an appointment with Lisa Ray to discuss her recollections about the accident, for which she was being sued. The address she’d given me was a new condominium development in Colgate, a series of frame town houses standing shoulder to shoulder in clusters of four. There were six exterior styles and four types of building materials: brick, frame, fieldstone, and stucco. I was guessing six floor plans with mix-and-match elements that would make each apartment unique. The units were arranged in varied combinations-some with shutters, some with balconies, some with patios out front. Each foursome sat on a square of well-tended lawn. There were shrubs and flower beds and small hopeful trees that wouldn’t mature for another forty years. In lieu of garages, the residents kept their vehicles in long carports that ran between the town houses in horizontal rows. Most of the parking spaces were empty, which suggested people off at work. I saw no evidence of children.

I found Lisa’s house number and parked on the street out front. While I waited for her to answer the door, I sampled the air without detecting the scent of any cooking under way. Probably too early. I imagined the neighbors would trickle home between five thirty and six. Dinner would be delivered in vehicles with signs on the top or pulled from the freezer in boxes complete with gaudy food photos, the oven and microwave instructions printed in type so small you’d have to don your reading glasses.

Lisa Ray opened the door. Her hair was dark, cut short to accommodate its natural curl, which consisted of a halo of perfect ringlets. She was fresh-faced, with blue eyes and freckles like tiny beige paint flecks across the bridge of her nose. She wore black flats, panty hose, a red pleated skirt with a short-sleeved red cotton sweater. “Yikes. You’re early. Are you Kinsey?”

“That’s me.”

She opened the door and let me in, saying, “I didn’t expect you to be so prompt. I just got home from work and I’d love to get out of these clothes.”

“That’s fine. Take your time.”

“I’ll be back in a second. Have a seat.”

I moved into the living room and settled on the couch while she took the stairs two at a time. I knew from the file that she was twenty-six years old, a part-time college student who paid her tuition and expenses by working twenty hours a week in the business office at St. Terry’s Hospital.

The apartment was small. White walls, beige wall-to-wall carpet that looked new and smelled of harsh chemicals. The furniture was a mix of garage-sale finds and items she’d probably managed to cadge from home. Two mismatched chairs, both upholstered in the same fake leopard print, flanked a red-plaid couch, with a coffee table filling the space between. A small wooden dinette table and four chairs were arranged at the far end of the room with a pass-through to the kitchen off to the right. Checking the magazines on the coffee table, I had my choice of back issues of Glamour or Cosmopolitan. I picked Cosmopolitan, turning to an article about what men like in bed. What men? What bed? I hadn’t had a close encounter with a guy since Cheney left my life. I was about to calculate the exact number of weeks, but the idea depressed me before I even started to count.