I was getting a bit long in the tooth to stay in places like this. When you’re young and intent on proving how nonmaterialistic you are, a bare-bones motel room is a prize. After all, you say to yourself, I’ll only be here at night and why do I care about the room when I’m sound asleep? At my age, there ought to be more to life than feeling virtuous about how many pennies I was managing to pinch. I could see how the shadowy notion of half a million bucks might alter my perception. Since the money was only nominally mine, I was loath to fritter it away on high-class imaginary digs. What bothered me was the suspicion that when I crawled into bed that night, the sheets would feel moist.
I sat down on the side of the bed and checked the bed table drawer, hauling out a tattered copy of the telephone book. I was hoping to spot Ellen or Anna Dace, even Evelyn, the ex-wife. I went to the D’s and discovered a chunk of pages missing, the very ones I was hoping to consult. I took out my city map and opened it to the full. The address I had for Ethan, which Dace had noted in his will, was on Myrtle Street. I checked the list of street names, found Myrtle, and traced the coordinates from section 13 on the vertical and G on the horizontal. I’d focus on the house numbers once I reached the neighborhood. My guess was that Dace’s two daughters had refused to give their father contact information, which is why he’d mentioned them by name without including phone numbers or home addresses.
I put a call through to Henry, letting him know the name and number of my motel in case he needed to get in touch. All was quiet on the home front, so we chatted briefly and let it go at that.
I retrieved my car and circled back to Truxtun, one of the main arteries through town. I found Myrtle and scanned the house numbers as I crept by at half speed. When I finally spotted the correct address, I pulled over to the curb. The house was dark and there was a For Rent sign on a wooden stake pounded into the lawn. I killed the engine, got out, and walked up the short concrete drive. What had once served as a two-car garage was now walled in and stuccoed over, probably in order to create additional interior space. There was a window built into the center, so I cupped my hands around my eyes and took a peep. Not surprisingly, the room I was looking into was empty.
I knocked at the front door without result. It was locked, so I went around to the rear of the house, where a “spacious back patio” consisted of a six-foot undulating hard-plastic overhang supported by six metal poles. A window on the right was boarded over. I tried the back door and was delighted to discover that it was unlocked. I offered a couple of tentative yoo-hoos. “Hello? Anybody home?”
When I received no reply, I treated myself to a tour of the place. The interior looked like it had been gutted in advance of a demolition. Doorknobs were missing, switch plates had been removed, and the wall-to-wall carpeting had been pulled up, leaving the concrete floors spotted with patches of black mastic. The kitchen cabinets were scuffed and the backsplash at the kitchen sink was some kind of wallboard, scored to look like ceramic tile. There were no lightbulbs in any of the overhead fixtures. Maybe Ethan was the kind of tenant who believed his rent entitled him to anything that wasn’t nailed down, including the toilet seat, which was nowhere in evidence. The laundry room was edged in black mold that crept along the seams like grout. Leaking water had loosened the hinges on the bathroom vanity, and the rust streaking from the faucets looked like the run of mascara on a weeping woman’s face. All the rooms smelled of mildew, animal dander, and pee.
“Any information I can offer you about the place?”
I shrieked and whipped around, clutching my chest to prevent my heart from tearing through my shirt. “Shit!”
I stared at the man who’d shortened my life by years.
He was in his early thirties, with a cresting wave of dark hair cutting across his forehead. His eyes were dark and his eyebrows were thick, while his mustache and beard appeared to be a recent undertaking that, so far, wasn’t a success. He wore an oversize black shirt that hung down over his jeans in a style that was meant to disguise his weight. I put him a good thirty pounds over the line, though it didn’t really look bad on him. I was going to tell him so and decided I’d best not. Men sometimes mistake a compliment for an invitation to become better acquainted.
His smile was apologetic, his teeth white, but cluttered. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I saw you go around the side of the house as I was driving up. I figured you noticed the For Rent sign and wanted to check it out.” He’d smoked a cigarette at some point in the past fifteen minutes.
“Actually, I’m looking for Ethan Dace.”