T is for Trespass

At eighteen and nineteen, I’d drifted through an assortment of entry-level jobs, though with most the “entry” part was about as far as I could get. Shortly after I turned twenty, for reasons I don’t remember now, I applied to the Santa Teresa Police Department. By that time, I’d cleaned up my act, as bored with dope as I was with menial work. I mean, how many times can you refold the same stack of sweaters in the sportswear department at Robinson’s? The pay scale was pathetic, even for someone like me. I did discover that if you’re interested in low wages, a bookstore ranks below retail clothing sales, except the hours are worse. The same holds for waiting tables, which (as it turned out) required more skill and finesse than I had at my disposal. I needed a challenge and I wanted to see just how far my street smarts might take me.

By some miracle, I survived the department’s selection process, passing the written exam, the physical-agility exam, the medical and controlled-substance screening, and various other interviews and evaluations. Somebody must have been asleep at the wheel. I spent twenty-six weeks in the Police Officer Standards and Training Academy, which was tougher than anything I’d ever done. After graduation I served as a sworn officer for two years and found, in the end, that I was not that well suited for work in a bureaucracy. My subsequent shift into an apprenticeship with a firm of private investigators proved to be the right combination of freedom, flexibility, and daring.

By the time I’d taken this split-second detour down memory lane, I’d entered the Administration Building. The wide corridor was bright, though the character of the light streaming through the windows was cold. There were Christmas decorations here and there, and the absence of students suggested that they’d already left for the holidays. I didn’t remember the place feeling so friendly, but that was doubtless a reflection of my attitude during that period.

I went into the Admissions and Records Office and asked the woman at the desk for Mrs. Henderson.

“Mrs. Henderson’s gone home for the day. Is there something I can help you with?”

“Gee, I sure hope so,” I said. I felt the thrill of a lie leaping to my lips. “I chatted with her an hour ago and she said she’d pull some information from the student files. I’m here to pick it up.” I put Solana’s job application on the counter and pointed to her signature.

The woman frowned slightly. “I don’t know what to tell you. That doesn’t sound like Betty. She never said a word to me.”

“She didn’t? That’s too bad. As sick as she was, it probably slipped her mind. Could you check the records for me since I’m already here?”

“I suppose so, though it might take a minute. I don’t know the files as well as she does.”

“That’s fine. No hurry. I’d appreciate it.”

Seven minutes later I had the confirmation I needed. Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to coax any further information from the woman. I thought if Solana was a C-student, a prospective employer was entitled to know. As a friend of mine used to say, “On an airplane, you better hope your bomb-sniffing dog didn’t graduate at the bottom of his class.”

I returned to my car and pulled out my Thomas Guide covering Santa Teresa and San Luis Obispo counties. I had the address of the nursing home where Solana had last worked, which turned out to be walking distance from my office.

Sunrise House was a combination convalescent hospital and assisted-living facility, with room for fifty-two residents, some temporary and some permanent. The building itself was a one-story frame structure, with a number of additions laid nose-to-nose, in vertical and horizontal wings as random as a Scrabble board. The interior was tasteful, the decor done in shades of green and gray that were soothing without being apologetic. The Christmas tree here was also fake, but it was a thickly flocked specimen with tiny lights and silver ornaments in place. Eight large handsomely wrapped presents had been arranged on a white felt tree skirt. I knew the boxes were empty, but their very presence suggested wonderful surprises to come.

A large antique desk occupied the place of honor in the middle of an Oriental carpet. The receptionist was in her sixties, handsome, pleasant, and eager to be of help. She probably thought I had an aging parent in need of accommodations.

When I asked to speak to the head of personnel, she led me through a maze of corridors to the assistant administrator’s office. Over her shoulder, she said, “We don’t have a personnel department per se, but Mrs. Eckstrom can help you.”

“Thanks.”

Eloise Eckstrom was roughly my age, late thirties, very tall and thin, with glasses and a full head of bright red hair. She wore a vibrant green twin set, a plaid wool skirt, and flats. I’d caught her with her desk in disarray, drawers emptied and the contents arranged on chair seats and tabletops. An assortment of wire baskets and drawer dividers was packed in a box nearby. On the credenza behind her she had five framed photographs of a wire-haired terrier in various stages of maturity.