Holy Guacamole!

There were various minutiae to take care of before we could actually begin canvassing Luz’s neighborhood. I had to shower and dress, then find a suitable hat and a picture of Peter Brockman. There had been a photographer at the opera party, and we’d been sent a picture of the two of us standing with Peter and Vivian; I put that in an envelope. Luz had to purchase an eye patch for me at Walgreen’s. Then she had to stop by her condo to change her clothes and give herself a shot of the very expensive medication that keeps her mobile. Finally it was necessary to console Smack, who wanted to accompany us but wasn’t allowed. Luz said her neighbors might not appreciate a visit from the dog.

The security guard didn’t remember the man on night shift mentioning any strangers wanting to come in after midnight the Sunday morning in question. We picked up that discouraging piece of information before we even started the canvass. Because it was Saturday, we found people at home, but all had been asleep a week ago after midnight. Luz grumbled that she’d hoped to find at least a few swingers among the group who might have seen something. Our last stop was across the street and several doors down from Luz’s.

“Not much hope here,” she muttered. “This woman’s old. Probably goes to bed at nine.” She rang the bell, and the householder answered after a rather long interval and several more rings.

“You don’t have to lean on my doorbell,” she said, thumping her cane irritably on the floor. “I have arthritis. It takes me a while to get to the front door, and having the bell ringing in my ear doesn’t make me any faster, young lady,” she said to Luz.

Mrs. Filbert was a tall, lean woman, somewhat humped, very wrinkled, with liver spots on her hands and face. The rest of her was covered by a long, baggy dress with purple flowered stripes and large pockets on the chest, stuffed with Kleenex. Over the dress she wore a heavy green sweater that looked hand knitted. A pair of well worn, New Balance tennis shoes completed the outfit.

“Oh, that kind of arthritis. Well, come in, both of you. Don’t stand out there in the wind.” She led us into her living room, where every chair and sofa was straight-backed and very firm. “You’ll appreciate my furniture,” she told Luz. “Easy to get out of. I’m not so crippled up yet that I have to have one of those chairs that shoot you onto your feet when you push a button, but I suppose that’s coming. Do you have one of those?”

“Lucky you. Not that having a crippling illness at your age is lucky. I have a friend with the rheumatoid kind. It’s always women. Have you noticed that? As if God didn’t give us burdens enough—menstruation, childbirth, men. Either of you have children? Mine are a thankless lot. They think I should go into a nursing home. As if I’m likely to do that. I plan to stay right where I am. Maybe when I turn a hundred and don’t care any more, but for now I can take care of myself. Can’t drive anymore, but there’s bus pickup for seniors. You could probably use it too, young lady. You being crippled and all.”

“So do I. I have no patience for women who sit around their houses moaning about empty-nest syndrome, of all the newfangled ideas. I’d offer you refreshments, but I don’t feel like getting up. When people lean on your doorbell and force you to hobble faster, you need a little rest afterward.” She aimed a challenging glance at Luz, and then turned to look out the front window, by which her chair was placed. “What with TV and watching what’s happening in the neighborhood, I keep busy. Used to do crewel embroidery, but it makes my fingers hurt now. You have trouble with your fingers, young lady?”

“Well, you have my sympathy. I know just how it is. Can’t sleep because you’re aching so bad, can’t garden anymore. That’s a nice hat you’ve got there,” she said to me. “Must be good for gardening. A good hat’s a blessing in this town. I always wore a big hat when I gardened. Of course here in Casitas they do your gardening for you.”

“You have trouble sleeping?” Luz asked. She’d become quite alert when she heard that. I could see her chafing to break into the neighbor’s monologue.

“Yep. An interesting night, that was. That young man with the condo by yours—he came home drunk as a sailor. Staggering into the wrong yard. He fell into your bushes. Did you notice that? And he was throwing up from the bushes all the way to his own door. I reported him to the association. But I tell you, I had to laugh to see him trying to get out of those bushes. Men and alcohol are a bad combination. The fool didn’t even close his door.”

“Oh, yes. He must have called his doctor. Now most folks wouldn’t bother to call a doctor when they’re vomiting from too much alcohol, but sure enough a while later along comes this fellow with a doctor bag, finds the door open, goes on in, comes out maybe an hour later; no, probably a half hour. I was sorry I’d called the association on this young lady’s next-door neighbor if he was that sick, but then I heard he died, so I guess they never reported the complaint to him.”

I whipped out my picture and showed it to her. “Did the doctor look like any of these people?” I was thinking that this was the best we could do in the way of a lineup, not that Vivian, Jason, or I looked like Peter.

“Well, he wasn’t a woman, and he wasn’t the short fellow with the beard. Might have been the tall fellow in the tux, but the one in the picture isn’t carrying a doctor bag. That’s what I noticed. The bag. Why are you wearing a patch over your eye, young lady?” she asked me. “And don’t I see bruising spreading out from under that patch? My eyesight’s still good. My late husband always said I could spot the warts on a warthog from fifty yards away. Stupid thing to say. I never saw a warthog in my life.”

“My land!” exclaimed our hostess. “You’re too old to be stripping, and you got that prissy look about you. Like you wouldn’t approve of strip clubs. Now me. Walter and me took in a few strip clubs in Juarez when we were younger. Chunky, brown-skinned girls taking their clothes off. Didn’t seem that much of a show to me, but one of the places had a fellow singing bullfight music. I liked that one.”

“Can you remember anything else about the man who visited my neighbor last Saturday, ma’am?” Luz asked. “Like his car. What kind of car was he driving?”

“Oh, it was just an ordinary car. I never pay much attention to cars. That’s a man’s thing. Walter could have told you, but he’s dead, more’s the pity. It was a dark color, or maybe it just looked that way because it wasn’t parked under a light. Doctor obviously didn’t know what house he was going to, parking two houses away. Not even in front of a door. His car was pretty long. Not one of those runty little cars they got these days. Course, him being a tall fellow, he probably couldn’t get into one of those runty cars.”

After we’d thanked her for the information, she said, “Well, it was my pleasure. Nice to have company from time to time. Wouldn’t like it every day, but now and then’s nice.”

“She’s going to have more company,” Luz said as she walked toward the street. “We’ll have to give her name to the police.” She sighed. “We need to get hold of Guevara. And what did I tell you? Prissy. She noticed it too.”

Carolyn