lit window of the antiques shop where she worked, and swore unhappily when she saw that the store wasn’t empty, that the office lamp was on, which meant that the old man, Hale Appleton, was loitering in the shop. She wanted to take some money out of the safe, which was something she did on a fairly routine basis, and it would be
so
much easier not to have to argue about it or ask for it.
Not that old Mr. Appleton would stop her from taking the money, or nearly anything else that she wanted. She I would always think of him as
Mr
. Appleton, since that’s what he had told her to call him when she’d gotten her first job at the shop nearly four years ago. He was alone in the world—no relations, no debts, no friends, not even a pet. She had become a stand-in for his lost daughter, which was an easy enough way for her to gain access to more than the cash that he paid her each Friday afternoon. It seemed to her that he was such a witless, sentimental old coot that he would believe almost any kind of deception if she flattered him or acted in any way sincere, which was fortunately typical of many of the men she met, although she wasn’t entirely sure about Phil Ainsworth, who wasn’t easy to read. …
She parked in a place where she could watch the shop. He rarely stayed past midnight. She knew exactly what he was doing at his desk, what his secret habits were. In fact, she had begun snooping in the old man’s desk within months of going to work for him, pilfering the cash that he left lying around, looking through his things. She had taken odds and ends from the store shelves, too, which she resold to shops in Los Angeles. He had repaid her with kindness.
Over time they had done a lot of simple talking, about themselves, their families, where they had come from, and it had begun to seem to her that there were too many unaccountable things about him. He simply didn’t have enough history, and what he did have was patchy and inconsistent. And he couldn’t keep dates straight—not even his own age. He talked wistfully about his drowned daughter, although at first it was impossible to know whether she had in fact drowned or had simply disappeared or even whether he had any daughter at all, dead or alive. He was laden with guilt, and yet he talked about her returning to him.
What was he hiding? The question had consumed her, and she reasoned that she could find some profit in the answer. At first she had imagined that he had some sort of criminal past. But there was no evidence of it. Background checks, credit checks, pervert lists, DMV checks—all of them had been simple to do, and yet she could recover almost nothing about him. The stuff he had squirreled away in the office desk was more interesting, especially the newspaper articles about the drowned girl and the old house out in Placentia, torn down, apparently, in the 1930s. His own name, Hale Appleton, had figured into all of the articles, and yet, given his apparent age, he couldn’t have been ten years old at the time. The name might have been a reference to his grandfather, although if that were the case then his namesake grandfather would have had a drowned and disappeared daughter himself—a nearly impossible coincidence.
He had a business account at the bank across the street, a minimum balance so that he could cash checks and run his little business, but he took all the profits out of the account, leaving in only the same small sum. He gave discounts to cash customers, bought and sold estates with cash, and was probably the only merchant left in the world who wouldn’t take credit cards. She had studied his books, which were haphazard, and that, of course, made it easy to steal from him. He spent nothing on himself. His drove a big, ten-year-old Cadillac, which he had bought for next to nothing from a widow whose children were moving her into a nursing home. At first she had thought he was laundering money, but for whom? In the several years she had
so
much easier not to have to argue about it or ask for it.
Not that old Mr. Appleton would stop her from taking the money, or nearly anything else that she wanted. She I would always think of him as
Mr
. Appleton, since that’s what he had told her to call him when she’d gotten her first job at the shop nearly four years ago. He was alone in the world—no relations, no debts, no friends, not even a pet. She had become a stand-in for his lost daughter, which was an easy enough way for her to gain access to more than the cash that he paid her each Friday afternoon. It seemed to her that he was such a witless, sentimental old coot that he would believe almost any kind of deception if she flattered him or acted in any way sincere, which was fortunately typical of many of the men she met, although she wasn’t entirely sure about Phil Ainsworth, who wasn’t easy to read. …
She parked in a place where she could watch the shop. He rarely stayed past midnight. She knew exactly what he was doing at his desk, what his secret habits were. In fact, she had begun snooping in the old man’s desk within months of going to work for him, pilfering the cash that he left lying around, looking through his things. She had taken odds and ends from the store shelves, too, which she resold to shops in Los Angeles. He had repaid her with kindness.
Over time they had done a lot of simple talking, about themselves, their families, where they had come from, and it had begun to seem to her that there were too many unaccountable things about him. He simply didn’t have enough history, and what he did have was patchy and inconsistent. And he couldn’t keep dates straight—not even his own age. He talked wistfully about his drowned daughter, although at first it was impossible to know whether she had in fact drowned or had simply disappeared or even whether he had any daughter at all, dead or alive. He was laden with guilt, and yet he talked about her returning to him.
What was he hiding? The question had consumed her, and she reasoned that she could find some profit in the answer. At first she had imagined that he had some sort of criminal past. But there was no evidence of it. Background checks, credit checks, pervert lists, DMV checks—all of them had been simple to do, and yet she could recover almost nothing about him. The stuff he had squirreled away in the office desk was more interesting, especially the newspaper articles about the drowned girl and the old house out in Placentia, torn down, apparently, in the 1930s. His own name, Hale Appleton, had figured into all of the articles, and yet, given his apparent age, he couldn’t have been ten years old at the time. The name might have been a reference to his grandfather, although if that were the case then his namesake grandfather would have had a drowned and disappeared daughter himself—a nearly impossible coincidence.
He had a business account at the bank across the street, a minimum balance so that he could cash checks and run his little business, but he took all the profits out of the account, leaving in only the same small sum. He gave discounts to cash customers, bought and sold estates with cash, and was probably the only merchant left in the world who wouldn’t take credit cards. She had studied his books, which were haphazard, and that, of course, made it easy to steal from him. He spent nothing on himself. His drove a big, ten-year-old Cadillac, which he had bought for next to nothing from a widow whose children were moving her into a nursing home. At first she had thought he was laundering money, but for whom? In the several years she had
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