W is for Wasted (Kinsey Millhone Mystery) by Sue Grafton Page B

that speak of a job well done. I flipped off the power and turned the machine on its back to have a look. This was pointless, as I’m no more knowledgeable about the workings of a vacuum cleaner than I am about the internal combustion engine.
    When I heard someone knocking at my door, I assumed it was Henry wanting to properly introduce the cat. I crossed to the front door and peered out the porthole. Felix was standing on my porch, looking off across the yard. He was wearing yet another short-sleeve shirt, this one polyester with a Polynesian motif—parrots, thatch-roofed huts, palm trees, hula girls, and surf in garish yellows and blues.
    I opened the door. “What are you doing here?”
    I knew I sounded accusatory, but I was dismayed by his showing up at my residence.
    He didn’t actually shuffle his feet, but he shifted his weight, looking down at my welcome mat, where I could still see the mouse parts the cat had left.
    “I seen your car out front and thought you might be home.” His shorts were the sort that basketball players wear, a flabby black material, extending well below his knees. The fabric was perforated with tiny holes that were probably meant for ventilation in the heat of hard play.
    “How did you know where I lived?”
    He glanced over his shoulder and then down again, anything to avoid making eye contact. It was the first time it occurred to me that Felix might be slow. It was also possible he was stoned or drunk. I made a mental note to find out the nature and extent of his substance abuse.
    He lifted one shoulder. “Other day you said you jogged, so I waited until you went by this morning and followed you home.”
    “You saw me this morning? I didn’t see any of you.”
    “I was down at that bathhouse when you run by. I left the shelter early because I was curious where you lived. Dandy and Pearl stayed in and had breakfast. They won’t hardly miss a meal. Bacon, eggs, and biscuits the church ladies cook up. I watched you turn around and I fell in behind when you passed the second time.”
    “Why would you do that? This is my home. You want to talk to me, you don’t show up here. You go to my office like everyone else.”
    “Something I thought you should know.”
    “I can hardly wait.”
    “Pearl knows who stole Terrence’s backpack.”
    I stared at him briefly while I sorted through my responses. I was offended at the intrusion, but I wasn’t sure he understood the concept of personal boundaries. At the same time, it wasn’t my place to lecture him about social norms. More to the point: my curiosity took precedence. “You want to come in?”
    “Naw. That’s okay. I’m fine out here.”
    “Well, it’s chilly and I don’t want to stand around letting the heat out.”
    I stepped back and he inched his way into my living room. He exhibited no interest in the place. He scarcely lifted his gaze from the floor, so I took heart that he probably wasn’t casing the joint. I closed the door behind him and gestured at one of my canvas director’s chairs. Sitting was apparently outside his comfort zone.
    Since he remained standing, I followed suit. “What’s the story?”
    “Pearl was at the liquor store and she saw one of them fellas that hang out at the off-ramps with cardboard signs. She saw this one guy toting Terrence’s backpack plain as day. She recognized it from the frame and even the same color bungee cords. She knew where he was headed. Bums have this hobo camp up the hill from the bird refuge? She waited ’til he was out of sight and then followed him and hid in the bushes to have her a look—”
    “Pearl hid in the bushes and no one spotted her?”
    “I guess not. She said there was no sign of Terrence’s cart, probably because they couldn’t have drug it up the hill. But she saw his cookstove and waterproof bags where he kept his gear. Also, his camo box.”
    “Camo as in camouflage?”
    “Like different color spots painted on to look like leaves. She’s