B is for Burglar (6 page)

 

 

Having narrowed the list of travel agencies to six possibilities, I put in a call to Beverly Danziger and filled her in on my excursion to Florida. I wanted to bring her up to date even though the trip hadn't netted me much. I also had a couple of questions for her.

“What about family?” I asked. “Are your parents alive?”

“Oh, they've both been gone for years. We were never a close-knit family in the first place. I don't even think there were uncles or cousins she'd kept in touch with.”

“What about jobs? What sort of work has she done?”

Beverly laughed at that. “You must not have a clear sense of Elaine quite yet. Elaine never lifted a finger in her life.”

“But she does have a social-security card,” I said. “If she's worked at all, it gives me one more avenue to pursue. For all we know, she's waiting tables someplace for a lark.”

“Well, I don't think she's ever had a job, and if she did, it's not something she'd ever do again,” Beverly said primly. “Elaine was spoiled. She felt she should be
handed everything and what she wasn't handed, she took right out from under your nose anyway.”

I really wasn't much in the mood to listen to Beverly unload past grievances. “Look, let's skip to the bottom line here. I think we ought to file a missing persons report. That way we can open up the scope of this thing. It should also eliminate some possibilities and believe me, at this point, everything helps.”

The silence was so complete, I thought she'd hung up on me.

“Hello?”

“No, I'm here,” she said. “I just don't understand why you want to talk to the
police
of all people.”

“Because it's the next logical step. She may well be somewhere in Florida, but suppose she's not. At the moment, we only have Pat Usher's word for that. Why not get some broadscale coverage? Let the cops put out an APB. Let the Boca Raton P.D. get some sort of inquiry routed through Sarasota and see what they come up with. They can circulate a description through the state and local police down there and at least determine that she's not ill or dead or under arrest.”

“Dead?”

“Hey, I'm sorry. I know it sounds alarming, and it may be nothing like that, but the cops will have access to information I just can't get.”

“I don't believe this. I just wanted her signature. I hired you because I thought it would be the quickest way to find her. I don't think it's really a police matter. I mean, I simply don't want you to do that.”

“All right. What, then? You can't ask me to find your sister for you and then start cutting off lines of inquiry.”

“I don't see why not if I don't think it's appropriate. I don't see why you can't just let it go at this.”

This time I was silent, wondering at the nature of her uneasiness. “Beverly, did I miss something here? Are you telling me to drop it?”

“Well, I don't know. Let me think about it and I'll call you back. I just didn't think it would be a problem and I'm not sure I want you to go on with this. Maybe Mr. Wender can proceed without her. Maybe he can find some loophole that will let him hold out only her portion of the estate until she turns up.”

“You didn't seem to feel that way two days ago,” I said.

“Maybe I made a mistake,” she said. “Let's just don't worry about it right now, okay? I'll be in touch if I want you to go on with it. In the meantime, why don't you send me a report and an itemized bill of some kind? I'll have to talk to my husband about what to do from here.”

“All right,” I said with puzzlement, “but I have to tell you, I'm worried.”

“Well, don't be,” she said and the phone clicked in my ear.

I stared at the receiver. Now what was all that about? Her anxiety had been unmistakable, but I couldn't ignore the message. She hadn't fired me outright, but she'd put me on hold and I wasn't technically supposed to proceed without her instructions to do so.

Reluctantly, I went back through my index cards and typed up a report. I was stalling for time and I knew it, but I wasn't ready to let go. I put a carbon in my files and slipped the original in an envelope, which I addressed to Beverly, enclosing an itemization of my expenses to that point. Beyond the seven-hundred-and-fifty-dollar retainer she'd given me, she'd authorized an additional two hundred and fifty dollars for a total “not to exceed one thousand dollars without further written notice”—which was contractual double-talk for the fact that so far, we were covered. With the plane fare, the rental car, long-distance calls, and approximately thirty hours of my time, the charges came to $996 plus change. She owed me two hundred and forty-six bucks. I suspected she'd pay me off and wash her hands of it. My guess was that she'd enjoyed hiring a detective, officiously stirring up trouble for Elaine, who'd annoyed her by not signing on the dotted line as she'd been asked. Now suddenly, she must have realized that she'd opened up a big can of worms.

I locked up the office and dropped the report in a mailbox on my way home. Elaine Boldt was still among the missing and that didn't sit well with me.

 

 

 

 

My phone rang at 2:08
A.M.
I picked up the receiver automatically, my brain still blank with sleep.

“Kinsey Millhone.” The voice was male and the tone was neutral, like someone reading at random from a telephone book. Somehow I knew it was a cop. They all sound like that.

“Yes. Who's this?”

“Miss Millhone, this is Patrolman Benedict of the Santa Teresa Police Department. We've been called on a 594 at 2097 Via Madrina, apartment 1, and a Mrs. Tillie Ahlberg is asking for you. Would it be possible for you to lend some assistance? We have a policewoman with her, but she's asked for you specifically and we'd appreciate it if you could respond.”

I raised up on one elbow, a few brain cells switching to ignition. “What's a 594?” I said. “Malicious mischief?”

“Yes ma'am.”

It was clear Patrolman Benedict didn't want to risk anything by rushing right in with a lot of facts.

“Is Tillie okay?” I asked.

“Yes ma'am. She's unharmed, but she's upset. We don't mean to disturb you, but the lieutenant okayed us to get in touch.”

“I'll be there in five minutes,” I said and hung up.

I pushed the quilt back and grabbed for my jeans and sweatshirt, pulling on boots without ever getting up off the couch. I usually sleep naked in a fold of quilt because it's so much easier than opening the sofa bed. I went into the bathroom, brushed my teeth and splashed water on my face, combing my unruly hair with my fingers as I snatched up my keys and moved to the car. I was wide awake by now, wondering what kind of 594 we were talking about. Tillie Ahlberg was clearly not the perpetrator or she'd have called an attorney instead.

The night air was cold and the fog had rolled in off the beach and halfway across town, filling the empty streets with a fine mist. Stoplights blinked dutifully from red to green to red again, but there was no traffic and I ran the lights every chance I got. There was a black-and-white parked out in front of 2097 and the lights in Tillie's ground-floor apartment were all on, but things seemed quiet; no flashing red lights, no neighbors gathered on the sidewalk. I announced myself on the intercom and somebody buzzed me in. I pushed through the door to the right of the elevator and moved quickly down the corridor to Tillie's apartment at the end. Several people in robes and pajamas stood in the hall near the door, but a patrolman in uniform was encouraging them to go on back to bed. When he spotted me, he approached, hands on his hips as though he
didn't know what else to do with them. He looked like he'd probably still be asked for his I.D. when he ordered a drink, but up close I could see signs of age: fine lines near his eyes, a slight loosening of the taut skin along his jaw. His eyes were old and I knew he'd already seen more of the human condition than he could assimilate.

I held out my hand. “Are you Benedict?”

“Yes ma'am,” he said, shaking hands with me. “You're Miss Millhone, I take it. Nice to meet you. We appreciate this.” His grip was firm, but brief. He nodded toward the door to Tillie's apartment, which stood ajar. “You can go on in if you want. Officer Redfern is with her, taking down particulars.”

I thanked him and moved into the apartment, glancing to my right. The living room looked like something left in the path of a tornado. I stopped and stared for a moment. Vandalism in a place like this? I moved into the kitchen. Tillie was sitting at the table with her hands tucked between her knees, the freckles standing out on her pale face like red pepper flakes. A uniformed policewoman, maybe forty years old, was seated at the table taking notes. She had short-cropped blond hair and a birthmark like a patch of rose petals on one cheek. Her name tag identified her as Isabelle Redfern and she talked to Tillie in low, earnest tones like someone trying to persuade a flier not to leap off a bridge.

When Tillie caught sight of me, tears spilled out of her eyes and she began to shake, as though my appearance were tacit permission to fall apart. I knelt down beside her, taking her hands. “Hey, it's okay,” I said, “what's going on?”

She tried to speak, but nothing came out at first except a wheezing sound like someone stepping on a rubber duck. Finally, she managed to choke out a response. “Someone broke in. I woke up and saw this woman standing in the door to my room. My God, I thought my heart would stop. I couldn't even move I was so terrified. And then . . . and then, she started . . . it was like this hissing sound and she ran in the living room and started tearing everything up. . . .” Tillie put a handkerchief over her mouth and nose, closing her eyes. Officer Redfern and I exchanged a look. Bizarre stuff. I put my arm around Tillie's shoulders, giving her a little shake.

“Come on, Tillie,” I said, “it's over now and you're safe.”

“I was so scared. I was so scared. I thought she was going to kill me. She was like a maniac, like a totally crazy person, panting and hissing and crashing around. I slammed the bedroom door shut and locked it and then dialed 911. Next thing I knew it got quiet, but I didn't open up the door until the police got here.”

“That's great. You did great. Look, I know you were scared, but you did it just right and now it's okay.”

The policewoman leaned forward. “Did you get a good look at this woman?”

Tillie shook her head, beginning to shake again.

This time the policewoman took Tillie's hands. “Take a couple of deep breaths. Just relax. It's over now and everything's fine. Breathe deeply. Come on. Do you have any tranquilizers on hand or alcohol of some kind?”

I got up and moved over to the kitchen cabinets,
opening doors at random, but there didn't seem to be any liquor at all. I found a bottle of vanilla extract and poured the contents into a jelly glass. Tillie downed it without even looking.

She began to breathe deeply, calming herself. “I never saw her before in my life,” she said in somewhat more ordered tones. “She was crazy. A lunatic. I don't even know how she got in.” She paused. The air smelled like cookies.

The policewoman looked up from her notes. “Mrs. Ahlberg, there was no sign of forced entry. It had to be someone who had a key. Have you given a key to anyone in the past? Maybe someone who was house-sitting? Someone who watered your plants when you were away?”

At first Tillie shook her head and then she stopped and shot a look at me, her eyes filled with sudden alarm.

“Elaine. She's the only one who ever had one.” She turned to the policewoman. “My neighbor in the apartment right above me. I gave her a key last fall when I took a little trip to San Diego.”

I took over then, filling in the rest; Elaine's apparent disappearance and her sister's hiring me.

Officer Redfern got up. “Hold on. I want Benedict to hear this.”

 

 

It was 3:30 in the morning by the time Redfern and Benedict were finished, and Tillie was exhausted. They asked her to come down to the station later that morning
to sign a statement and in the meantime, I said I'd stay with her until she had herself under control again.

When the cops finally left, Tillie and I sat and stared at each other wearily.

“Could it have been Elaine?” I asked.

“I don't know,” she said. “I don't think so, but it was dark and I wasn't thinking straight.”

“What about her sister? Did you ever meet Beverly Danziger? Or a woman named Pat Usher?”

Tillie shook her head mutely. Her face was still as pale as a dinner plate and there were dark circles under her eyes. She anchored her hands between her knees again, tension humming through her like a wind across guitar strings.

I moved into the living room and surveyed the damage more closely. The big glass-fronted secretary had been tipped over and lay facedown on the coffee table, which looked to have collapsed on impact. The couch had been slashed, the foam hanging out now like pale flesh. Drapes were torn down. Windows had been broken, lamps and magazines and flowerpots flung together in a heap of pottery shards and water and paper pulp. This was what insanity looked like when it was on the loose. That or unbridled rage, I thought. This had to be connected to Elaine's disappearance. There was no way I'd believe it was an independent event, coincidental to my search for her. I wondered if there was a way to find out where Beverly Danziger had been tonight. With her porcelain good looks and her blinking china blue eyes, it was hard to picture her loping around all looney-tunes, but how did I know for sure?
Maybe she'd driven up to Santa Teresa the first time on an institutional pass.

I tried to imagine what it would be like to wake in the dead of night to some hissing female on the rampage. An involuntary shiver took me and I went back into the kitchen. Tillie hadn't moved, but her eyes came up to my face with a look of dependency.