G Is for Gumshoe

fifties, but she might have been younger. Disease is an aging process in itself. Her chest was sunken, with breasts as flat as the flaps on an envelope. She wore a white silk blouse, expensive-looking pale gray gabardine slacks, vivid green satin slippers on her feet.
    "Mrs. Gersh?"
    She was startled, eyes flying open in a blaze of blue. For a moment, she seemed disoriented and then she collected herself.
    "You must be Kinsey," she murmured. "I'm Irene Gersh." She held out her left hand and clutched mine briefly, her fingers wiry and cold.
    "Sorry if I frightened you."
    "Don't worry about it. I'm a bundle of nerves.
    Please. Find a chair and sit. I don't sleep well as a rule and I'm forced to catnap when I can."
    A quick survey showed three white mesh lawn chairs stacked together in one comer of the porch. I lifted the top chair, carried it over to the chaise, and sat down.
    "I hope Jermaine will have the presence of mind to bring us tea, but don't count on it," she said. She shifted into a more upright position, adjusting the lap robe. She studied me with interest. It was my impression that she approved, though of what I couldn't say. "You're younger than I thought you'd be."
    "Old enough," I said. "Today's my birthday. I'm thirty-three."
    "Well, happy birthday. I hope I didn't interrupt a celebration."
    "Not at all."
    "I'm forty-seven myself." She smiled briefly. "I know I look like an old hag, but I'm relatively young… given California standards."
    "Have you been ill?".
    "Let's put it this way… I haven't been well. My husband and I moved to Santa Teresa three years ago from Palm Springs. This was his parents' house. When his father died, Clyde undertook his mother's care. She passed away two months ago."
    I murmured something I hoped was appropriate.
    "The point is, we didn't need to move here, but Clyde insisted. Never mind my objections. He was raised in Santa Teresa and he was determined to come back."
    "I take it you weren't enthusiastic."
    She flashed a look at me. "I don't like it here. I never did. We used to come for visits, maybe twice a year. I have an aversion to the sea. I always found the town oppressive. There's an aura about it that I find very dark. Everybody's so smitten with the beauty of it. I don't like the attitude of self-congratulation and I don't like all the green. I was born and raised in the desert, which is what I prefer. My health has deteriorated since the day we arrived, though the doctors can't seem to find anything wrong with me. Clyde is thriving, of course. I suspect he thinks this is a form of pouting on my part, but it's not. It's dread. I wake up every morning filled with debilitating anxiety. Sometimes it feels like a surge of electricity or a weight on my chest, almost overwhelming."
    "Are you talking about panic attacks?"
    "That's what the doctor keeps calling it," she said.
    I murmured noncommittally, wondering where this was all going to lead. She seemed to read my thoughts.
    "What do you know about the Slabs?" she asked abruptly.
    "The Slabs?"
    "Ah, doesn't ring a bell, I see. Not surprising. The Slabs are out in the Mojave, to the east of the Salton Sea. During the Second World War, there was a Marine base out there. Camp Dunlap. It's gone now. All that's left are the concrete foundations for the barracks, known now as the Slabs. Thousands of people migrate to the Slabs every winter from the North. They call them snowbirds because they flee the harsh Northern winters. I was raised out there. My mother's still there, as far as I know. Conditions are very primitive… no water, no sewer lines, no city services of any sort, but it costs nothing. The snowbirds live like gypsies: some in expensive RVs, some in cardboard shacks. In the spring, most of them disappear again, heading north. My mother's one of the few permanent residents, but I haven't heard from her for months. She has no phone and no actual address. I'm worried about her. I want someone to drive down there and see if she's all right."
    "How often does she usually get in touch?"
    "It used to be once a month. She hitches a ride into town and calls from a little cafe" in Niland. Sometimes she calls from Brawley or Westmorland, depending on the ride she manages to pick up. We talk, she buys supplies and then hitchhikes back again."
    "She has an income? Social Security?"
    Mrs. Gersh shook her head. "Just the checks I send. I don't believe she's ever had a Social Security number. All the years I remember, she