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flicked the switch, an overhead fixture came on.
The room, its dim light revealed, was fairly good sized— about
twelve feet square—but so crammed with furniture and possessions that
it seemed a cell. A king-sized waterbed covered with a white goosedown
comforter stood against the wall perpendicular to the window. Part of
the window itself was blocked by a huge antique armoire; the rocking
chair Amy had mentioned stood in front of the unobstructed portion. The
dresser was laden with cosmetics and jewelry in clear acrylic stack
boxes; the floor space between it and the bed was taken up by a stand
with a portable TV and VCR, in spite of there being similar equipment
in the living room.
I stepped all the way inside. Through the closed window I could hear
the swish of tires on the pavement of Upper Market; headlight beams
slid over the bedroom's walls and ceilings. That, I thought, was the
price tenants paid for the view: bedrooms on the street side,
inconducive to sleep.
The bed was piled with pillows. There was no room for nightstands,
so the things one usually keeps there were on the floor: a clock radio,
water carafe and glass, Kleenex box, TV remote control. In addition to
these commonplace items, I noted several paperback biographies of
celebrities, yellowing copies of Variety, and an ashtray filled with
what looked to be marijuana roaches. I went to the closet—a large one
in which my wardrobe would have taken up maybe a third—and found it
crammed with clothing. The shelf above the pole was stacked with
sweater boxes, the floor covered with a jumble of shoes. The armoire
was in a similar state—the clothing jammed so tightly that it would
have required ironing before it could be worn. On top of the armoire
sat a big stuffed unicorn; it stared haughtily down at me.
Amy lounged in the doorway, sipping wine. "Trace was into things,"
she said.
"I can see that."
"She loved to shop, was always charging stuff. Clothes, cosmetics,
furniture, stuff for the apartment."
Laura Kostakos said Tracy had never abused their credit cards. What
did "abuse" mean to people of their financial standing? And what about
last year, when Tracy had established her own credit? She couldn't have
been earning enough to pay cash for everything, and most companies
place low limits on new cards.
Amy seemed to take my silence for disapproval of her friend's
spending habits. She said, "Look, Trace might have been into things,
but she was a good person. She was generous, always buying people
presents. And she only bought quality. The stuff for the kitchen, for
instance— there's a Sharp microwave, a Cuisinart, a whole set of
Calphalon cookware. The stainless is Dansk—"
"Amy, would you mind if I look over the room alone? I could
concentrate better."
She shut her mouth abruptly, turned, and strode back toward the
living room.
Touchy, I thought, looking after her. Touchy, and quite mercurial. I
wasn't sure about the public defender's claim that Amy hadn't told
everything she knew at Bobby Foster's trial, but there was more to her
than initially met the eye.
I searched the room carefully, taking my time. Few things that I
found interested me, except for a thick notebook in which Tracy had
written sketches of characters she portrayed in her comedy routines. I
set it aside to take with me; it would help me get to know her better,
and I could copy it and return the original before Laura Kostakos
realized it was gone.
What did interest me was how few things of a personal nature I
found. There were no letters, postcards, souvenirs, diaries, not even
an appointments calendar. Of course, I thought, they might have been
removed by the police or Laura Kostakos. Or perhaps Tracy had not been
one to save things or keep a journal. Finally, noting it was after
eight o'clock, I took the notebook containing the character sketches
and returned to the living room.
Amy slumped on the couch, working on another glass of wine. When I
came in, she looked up
The room, its dim light revealed, was fairly good sized— about
twelve feet square—but so crammed with furniture and possessions that
it seemed a cell. A king-sized waterbed covered with a white goosedown
comforter stood against the wall perpendicular to the window. Part of
the window itself was blocked by a huge antique armoire; the rocking
chair Amy had mentioned stood in front of the unobstructed portion. The
dresser was laden with cosmetics and jewelry in clear acrylic stack
boxes; the floor space between it and the bed was taken up by a stand
with a portable TV and VCR, in spite of there being similar equipment
in the living room.
I stepped all the way inside. Through the closed window I could hear
the swish of tires on the pavement of Upper Market; headlight beams
slid over the bedroom's walls and ceilings. That, I thought, was the
price tenants paid for the view: bedrooms on the street side,
inconducive to sleep.
The bed was piled with pillows. There was no room for nightstands,
so the things one usually keeps there were on the floor: a clock radio,
water carafe and glass, Kleenex box, TV remote control. In addition to
these commonplace items, I noted several paperback biographies of
celebrities, yellowing copies of Variety, and an ashtray filled with
what looked to be marijuana roaches. I went to the closet—a large one
in which my wardrobe would have taken up maybe a third—and found it
crammed with clothing. The shelf above the pole was stacked with
sweater boxes, the floor covered with a jumble of shoes. The armoire
was in a similar state—the clothing jammed so tightly that it would
have required ironing before it could be worn. On top of the armoire
sat a big stuffed unicorn; it stared haughtily down at me.
Amy lounged in the doorway, sipping wine. "Trace was into things,"
she said.
"I can see that."
"She loved to shop, was always charging stuff. Clothes, cosmetics,
furniture, stuff for the apartment."
Laura Kostakos said Tracy had never abused their credit cards. What
did "abuse" mean to people of their financial standing? And what about
last year, when Tracy had established her own credit? She couldn't have
been earning enough to pay cash for everything, and most companies
place low limits on new cards.
Amy seemed to take my silence for disapproval of her friend's
spending habits. She said, "Look, Trace might have been into things,
but she was a good person. She was generous, always buying people
presents. And she only bought quality. The stuff for the kitchen, for
instance— there's a Sharp microwave, a Cuisinart, a whole set of
Calphalon cookware. The stainless is Dansk—"
"Amy, would you mind if I look over the room alone? I could
concentrate better."
She shut her mouth abruptly, turned, and strode back toward the
living room.
Touchy, I thought, looking after her. Touchy, and quite mercurial. I
wasn't sure about the public defender's claim that Amy hadn't told
everything she knew at Bobby Foster's trial, but there was more to her
than initially met the eye.
I searched the room carefully, taking my time. Few things that I
found interested me, except for a thick notebook in which Tracy had
written sketches of characters she portrayed in her comedy routines. I
set it aside to take with me; it would help me get to know her better,
and I could copy it and return the original before Laura Kostakos
realized it was gone.
What did interest me was how few things of a personal nature I
found. There were no letters, postcards, souvenirs, diaries, not even
an appointments calendar. Of course, I thought, they might have been
removed by the police or Laura Kostakos. Or perhaps Tracy had not been
one to save things or keep a journal. Finally, noting it was after
eight o'clock, I took the notebook containing the character sketches
and returned to the living room.
Amy slumped on the couch, working on another glass of wine. When I
came in, she looked up
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