B is for Burglar (29 page)

I had one split second in which to decide whether to tell the truth. I held my hand out and gave her my name. “I'm a private detective,” I said.

“Is that right?” she said, wide-eyed. “What in the world can I do for you?”

“Well, I'm not sure yet.” I said. “Are you Mrs. Pickett?”

“Yes, I am,” she said. “I hope you're not investigatin'
John.” Her voice rode up and down musically, infused with drama.

I shook my head. “I'm looking into the death of a woman who lived here in the neighborhood.  . . .”

“And I bet you're talkin' about Marty Grice.”

“That's right,” I said.

“Aw, and wadn't that the awfullest thing? I can't tell you how upset I was when I heard about that. Nice woman like her to meet up with such a fate. But now idn't that just the way.”

“Terrible,” I said.

“And you know what? They never did catch whoever did it.”

“She was a patient of Dr. Pickett's, wasn't she?”

“She sure was. And a sweeter person you couldn't hope to meet. You know, she used to stop in here all the time. She'd set right there and we'd have us a chat. When my arthritis was actin' up, she'd help out with the phones and what not. I never saw John so upset as when we had to go out there and identify the remains. I don't believe he slept for a week.”

“Was he the one who took the dental X rays during the autopsy?”

“The pathologist did that. John hand-carried the X rays he'd done in the office and they compared 'em right on the spot. There wasn't any doubt, of course. It was just a formality, is what they told us. He'd taken those X rays not six weeks before she died. I felt so sorry for that husband of hers I just thought I'd choke. We went over to the funeral too, you know, and I made the awfullest fool of myself that ever was. Cried like a baby
and John did too. Oh, but now he's the one you'll want to talk to, I'm sure. This is his day off, but he should be home soon. He's out runnin' some errands. You can wait if you like or come back later on.”

“You can probably help me as well as he could,” I said.

“Well, I'll do what I can,” she said dubiously. “I'm no expert, but I've assisted him all our married life. He's often said I could probably fill a tooth as well as he could, but now I don't like that Novocain. I won't fool with needles. It makes my hands turn to ice and I get all goose-bumpy on my arms.” She rubbed her arms, giving a mock shiver to illustrate how upsetting it was. “Anyway, you go on and ask what you want. I don't mean to interrupt.”

“I understand Dr. Pickett had a patient named Elaine Boldt,” I said. “Could you check your records and tell me when she came in last?”

“The name sounds familiar, but I can't say I know her offhand. She wouldn't be anyone regular, I will say that, because I'd know her if she'd been here more than once.” She leaned closer to me. “I don't suppose you're allowed to tell me how this applies,” she said in a confidential tone.

“No, I'm not,” I said, “but they were friends. Mrs. Boldt lived right next door to Mrs. Grice.”

Mrs. Pickett nodded slightly, giving her eyebrows a lift as though she got the drift and wouldn't repeat a word of it. She went over to the file cabinets and pulled open the top drawer. I was right next to her. I wondered if she'd mind my looking over her shoulder, but she didn't seem to object. The drawer was packed so tightly
she could barely squeeze her fingers in. She started reciting the names on the tags.

“Let's see. Bassage, Berlin, Bewley, Bevis . . . Uh oh, looka here now. That's out of place,” she said. She switched the two files around and started where she'd left off. “Birch, Blackmar, Blount. I have Boles. Is that the name you gave?”

“No, Boldt,” I said. “B-o-l-d-t. I know you billed her once and I just saw a reminder for a six-month checkup.”

“I believe you're right. I wrote that recall card myself and I remember now. Via Madrina, wadn't it?” She looked back into the file drawer, checking a few folders forward and a few folders back. “I bet you for some reason he's got that on his desk,” she said. ‘You come on in here and we'll take a look.”

I followed her down a short hallway and into a small office on the left that had probably once been a powder room. Dr. Pickett's desk was stacked with files and his wife put her hands on her hips as though she'd never laid eyes on such a sight.

“Oh my stars. Now if that's not a mess.” She began to check through the nearest pile.

“Why would he have it on his desk?” I asked.

“We might have had a request for dental records is all I can think of,” she said. “Sometimes patients transfer out of state.”

“You want me to help?”

“I sure do, hon. This might take all day at this rate.”

I pitched in, riffling through the stack nearest me, then rechecking the pile she'd done to make sure she hadn't overlooked anything. There was no Elaine Boldt.

“I got one more place,” she said. She held a finger up and marched us back to the front desk where she opened the top desk drawer and reached for a small gray metal file box. “This is the recall file. If she got a notice, she'd be in this box. I don't guess she gave any hint when she might have been in.”

“Nope,” I said. “I'd guess December, though, if she just got a six-months' notice.”

Mrs. Pickett gave me an appreciative glance. “Good point. I guess that's why you're a detective instead of me. All right, let's see what December looks like.” She sorted through about fifteen cards. Already, I was worried about Dr. Pickett's annual income if he saw fewer patients than one a day.

“Light month,” I remarked, watching her.

“He's semiretired,” she said, absorbed in her hunt. “He still takes care of these old people in the neighborhood, but he tries to limit his practice. He's got varicose veins worse than me and his doctor doesn't want him on his feet all day. We get out and walk every chance we get. Keeps the circulation up. Here it is.” She held an index card up, handing it to me with a mixture of triumph and relief. They might be near retirement age, but the office was still well run.

I studied the card. All it had on it was Elaine Boldt's name and address and the date she'd been in. December 28. Was I on the right track? I turned the notion over in my mind.

“Marty Grice would have come in first,” I said, “and then recommended Dr. Pickett to Elaine.”

“That's not hard to verify,” Mrs. Pickett said. “See?
On the back of the card, I have that line says ‘referred by' and here's Mrs. Grice's name sure enough. Actually, we do that so if folks skip out on their bill, we have some way to trace back.”

“Could I see Marty's chart?” I asked.

“Well, I don't see why not.”

She went back to the file cabinet and pulled a slim folder out of the drawer marked G–I and passed it to me. Marty's name was neatly typed across the tag on the top. I opened the file. There were three sheets inside. The first was a medical questionnaire, asking for information about medications, known allergies, and past illnesses. Marty had completed the form and signed it, automatically authorizing “all necessary dental services.” The second was a dental history inquiring about root canals, bleeding gums, occasional bad breath, and grinding or clenching of teeth. The third sheet contained information about treatment actually rendered, with a line drawing of the top and bottom rows of teeth laid out like a Mercator projection, current fillings marked in ballpoint pen. Marty's name was neatly typed on the top line. Below were Dr. Pickett's brief handwritten notes. A routine visit. She'd had her teeth cleaned. There were apparently no dental caries. X rays had been done and she was scheduled to return in June. I stared at it for a long time, running the whole sequence of events through my head. Everything seemed to be in order except for the date: December 28. I moved over to the window and held the chart to the light. I could feel a chill smile forming because somehow I'd known it would come down like that. I just
hadn't believed I would actually find the proof. Yet here it was. Someone had neatly whited out the name originally typed in and typed Marty's name right over it. I ran my finger across the top line, feeling for the name typed underneath as though it were done in Braille. Elaine Boldt's name was visible as a faint imprint under the name Marty Grice. The last few pieces were falling into place. I was certain hers were the charred remains recovered from the Grices' house that night. I closed my eyes. It suddenly seemed very strange. I'd been tracking Elaine for ten days without realizing I'd already seen her in a photograph in the homicide file, burned beyond recognition. Marty Grice was alive and I suspected that she and Pat Usher were one and the same. There were details to nail down yet, but I had a very good idea how the murder had been set up.

“Are you feelin' all right?”

“I'm fine,” I said briefly.

“Did you want to talk to John?”

“Not right now, but at some point, yes. You've been a big help, Mrs. Pickett. Thanks.”

“Well, I don't know what I did, but you're certainly welcome.”

I shook her hand, dimly aware of the mystified gaze that followed me as I left. I got in my car and sat there, trying to figure out what to do next. Jesus, how had they assured that the stomach contents would match? That must have been a slick one. The autopsy report indicated the blood type was O-positive, the most common type, so that was easy enough. Marty and Elaine were close in height. It wasn't as though the murder victim
was completely unknown. Everyone assumed it was Marty, and the dental X rays had simply been used to confirm her identity. There was no reason to imagine that the dead woman was anyone else. Leonard and his sister had talked to her on the phone at nine and Lily claimed Marty had hung up to go answer the door. The call to the police station was a little flourish someone thought up for the effect. Mike was right about the time. At 8:30 that night, there
was
a woman's body wrapped up in a rug. It just wasn't his aunt. Elaine must have been bludgeoned to death sometime earlier, with enough of her jaw and teeth left intact to make identification possible. So many things were suddenly falling into place. Wim Hoover must have recognized Marty going in or out of Elaine's apartment. Marty or Leonard apparently got to him before he got to a phone.

I started the car and pulled out of the lot, turning left. I headed over to the police station and parked out front in a fifteen-minute green zone across the street. Once inside the station, I stopped at the counter on the left. Beyond the counter, there was a doorway leading back into the squad room.

Some cop in plainclothes I'd never laid eyes on spotted me standing there as he passed the door. He paused.

“You need some help?”

“I'm looking for Lieutenant Dolan.”

“Let me check. I was just back there and I didn't see him.”

He disappeared. I waited, glancing over my shoulder into Identification and Records. The black clerk was the only one there and she was typing away like crazy. I kept
going back over it in my mind. It was so clear now how it all fit. Marty Grice had gone to Florida and lived in Elaine's apartment. It wasn't hard to figure out what she'd done. Lost some weight. Had her hair restyled and dyed. No one down there knew her from Adam so it wasn't as if she had to hide. She probably just got herself spiffied up once she had Elaine's bucks to do it with. I thought back to my encounter with her: the bruised, puffy face, the tape across her nose. She hadn't been in any automobile accident. She'd had cosmetic surgery— a new face to go along with her new identity. She'd told me herself that she was “retired” and didn't expect to work another day in her life. She and Leonard had fallen on hard times and there sat Elaine Boldt with money to burn and a tendency to indulge herself. How Marty must have seethed at the sight. Murder had been an equalizing force, with grand larceny providing a pension fund after the fact. Now all she had to do was wait until Leonard freed up and the two were set. It was Dolan's case. If the murder weapon turned up, I thought he'd have enough evidence to act on. For now, at least I could tell him what was happening. I didn't think it was smart to keep it to myself.

The plainclothesman returned. “He's gone for the day. Is there something I can help you with?”

“Gone?” I said I bit back my customary expletive but inside my head, I was saying, “Shit!”

“I'll be in touch first thing in the morning.”

“Sure. You want to leave him a note?”

I took one of my cards out and gave it to him. “Just tell him I'll stop by and fill him in.”

“Will do,” he said.

I went back to my car and took off. I had a theory about where the murder weapon was, but I wanted to talk to Lily Howe first. If she'd figured out what was going on, she'd be in danger. I glanced down at my watch. It was 6:15. I spotted a pay phone at a gas station and pulled in. My heart had begun to thud with dread. I didn't want Mike in jeopardy. If he realized his aunt was alive, he'd be in trouble too. Hell, we all were. My hands were trembling as I paged through the telephone book, feverishly scanning for the other Grice listings. I found a Horace Grice on Anaconda, which looked like a good bet, and then had to scramble around in the bottom of my handbag for twenty cents. I dialed, holding my breath while the phone rang once, twice, four times, six. I let twelve rings go by and then I put the receiver back. I ripped the page out of the phone book and shoved it into my bag, hoping I'd have an opportunity to call again.

I got back in my car and headed out to Lily Howe's place. Where were Leonard and Marty at this point? Could they have skipped or was it possible they were still together somewhere in town—at Lily Howe's perhaps? I missed Carolina Avenue and had to circle back, peering at house numbers as I passed. I spotted the Howes' residence and slowed, much to the annoyance of the people in the car behind me. I drove on by and did a turnaround in a driveway six doors down. As I pulled in to the curb to park, my heart gave a lurch. Leonard and his lady friend had just pulled into Lily's drive.