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.”
“Did she tell you this in confidence?”
“Not in so many words. She said it was just between the two of us and then she gave me a wink. And here all this time, I thought the claim was legitimate.”
“Would you be willing to testify in the defendant’s behalf?”
“Of course. I don’t approve of cheaters.”
“Nor do I.”
Late afternoon, as a special treat, I took myself up to Rosie’s and ordered a glass of wine. I’d wait and eat when I got home, but I’d done a good day’s work and I deserved a reward. I’d just settled into my favorite booth when Charlotte Snyder appeared. I hadn’t seen her for weeks, since she and Henry had quarreled. I thought her presence was coincidental, but she paused in the doorway, looking around, and when she spotted me, she headed straight for my table and sat down across from me. She had a scarf tied over her hair, which she removed and put in her coat pocket while she shook her hair back to its natural shape. Her cheeks were pink from the cold and her eyes were bright. “I took a chance on catching you here when you didn’t answer your door. If you tell me Henry’s on his way in, I’ll disappear.”
“He’s having dinner with William. It’s boys’ night out,” I said. “What’s up?”
“I’m hoping to redeem myself in Henry’s eyes. I heard the court appointed a woman named Cristina Tasinato as Gus Vronsky’s conservator.”
“Don’t remind me. I was nearly sick when I heard.”
“That’s what I wanted to talk about. According to the bank, she’s taking out a big construction loan, putting the house up as collateral.”
“News to me.”
“I gather she wants to remodel and upgrade, add a wheelchair ramp, redo electrical and plumbing, and generally bring the house up to snuff.”
“The place could use a face-lift. Even with the cleanup Solana’s done, it’s still a mess. What’s the size of the loan?”
“A quarter of a million bucks.”
“Wow. Who told you?”
“Jay Larkin, a friend of mine in the loan department. We used to date years ago and he was a big help when I was getting into real estate. He knew I’d been interested in listing the property and when this came up, he assumed I’d made a deal. It struck me as curious because I told Solana the two parcels together were worth far more than the house. This block is already zoned multiple-family. Any buyer with savvy would purchase both lots and tear the old house down.”
“But it makes sense to remodel with Gus so adamant about hanging on.”
“That’s just what I’m getting at. She put the house on the market. Well, maybe not Solana, but the conservator.”
“For sale? How so? I haven’t seen a sign out front.”
“This is a pocket listing. I’m guessing she’ll pay off the construction loan with the proceeds from the sale. I wouldn’t have known about it, but an agent in our Santa Teresa office is handling the deal. She remembered I’d done comps when my client came through town so she was calling to ask if I wanted a referral fee. I was sorely tempted, but with Henry so burned at me, I didn’t dare.”
“What’s the asking price?”
“A million two, which is a joke. Even fixed up, it’ll never sell for that. I thought it was odd after Solana swore up and down Gus would rather die than part with the place. What I can’t understand is why the house was listed with my company. Didn’t anybody realize I’d get wind of it?”