B is for Burglar (10 page)

He nodded, preparing himself as though for a television interview, staring straight ahead. “Well now, the fire engine woke me up ten o'clock at night. Two of 'em. I don't sleep good anyhow and I heard the siren come right up here close so I got up and went out. Neighbors was runnin' from ever' which way. Black smoke outen that house like you never saw. These firemen, they bashed their way in and pretty soon flames et up the front porch. Whole backside got saved. They found Marty, that was Leonard's wife, layin' on the floor. It'd be right about over there,” he said, pointing toward the front door. “I never seen her myself, but Tillie said she was charred head to foot. Just a bunch of stumps, like a piece of wood.”

“Oh really. Tillie didn't mention that to me.”

“She seen the smoke and called right up. Nine-one-one
it was. I was sound to sleep. Woke up when the fire engine come blastin' down the road. I thought they'd go right on by, but then I seen the lights and I got up and put a robe on and went out. Poor Leonard wasn't even home. He drove up about the time they got the fire out. Collapsed right on the street when he heard she was dead. I never saw a man so tore up. My wife, May, she never woke up at all. She'd tooken a pill and she's deaf as a broom anyway. You've seen that yourself. Fire broke out here, she'd been roast pork.”

“What time was it when Mr. Grice got home?”

“I don't know the exact time. Fifteen, twenty minutes after the fire engines come as best I recollect. He was out to dinner with his sister as I hear tell and he comes home to find his own wife dead. His knees give out and down he went. Right on the sidewalk with me standin' not this far away. Turned white and dropped like a big hand had give him a thump and knocked him out. It was the awfullest thing you ever saw. They brought her out zipped up in a plastic sack—”

“How'd Tillie happen to see her?” I interrupted. “I mean, if she was zipped up in a body bag?”

“Oh, that Tillie, she sees everything. Ask her. She prob'ly pushed through when the door got bashed in and seen the body for herself. Makes me sick to think of it.”

“I understand Leonard's been staying with his sister since then.”

“That's what I heard, too. Her name is Howe. Lives on Carolina. It's in the book if you want to get in touch.”

“Good. I'll try to see him this afternoon. I'm hoping he can tell me something about where Mrs. Boldt might have gone.”

I got up and held out my hand. “You've been a big help.”

Mr. Snyder struggled to his feet and shook my hand, walking to the door with me.

I looked over at him with curiosity. “What do you think your wife was referring to when she mentioned the hammering that night? Do you have any idea what she meant?”

He waved impatiently. “She don't know what she's talkin' about. She got that all confused.”

I shrugged. “Well, I hope Mr. Grice is doing all right at any rate. Did he have good insurance coverage? That would be a big help, I'm sure.”

He shook his head, pulling at his chin. “I don't think he come out too good on that. Him and me has the same insurance comp'ny, but his policy didn't amount to much as I understand it. Between the fire and his wife's being gone now, he's about ruined. He collects disability for a bad back, you know, and she was sole support.”

“God, that's terrible. I'm sorry to hear that,” I said, and then took a chance. “What insurance company?”

“California Fidelity.”

Ahh. I felt my little heart go pitty-pat. This was the first break I'd had. I worked for them.

 

 

California Fidelity Insurance is a small company that handles all the ordinary coverage: life and health,
homeowner's, auto, and some commercial lines, with branches in San Francisco, Pasadena, and Palm Springs. Santa Teresa is the home office, occupying the second floor of a three-story building on State Street, which cuts straight through the heart of town. My corner consists of two rooms—one inner, one outer—with a separate entrance. Early in my career, I worked for CFI, doing insurance investigations on fire and wrongful-death claims. Now that I'm out on my own, we maintain a loose association. I cover certain inquiries for them every month in exchange for office space.

I let myself into the office now and checked the answering machine. The light was blinking, but the tape was blank except for some hissing and a couple of high-pitched beeps. For a while, I had a live answering service, but the messages were usually botched. I didn't think prospective clients were that keen to confide their troubles to some twenty-year-old telephone operator who could barely spell, let alone keep the numbers straight. An answering machine is irritating, but at least it tells the caller than I am female and I pick up on the second ring. The mail wasn't in yet, so I went next door to talk to Vera Lipton, one of the California Fidelity claims adjusters.

Vera's office is located in the center of a warren of cubicles separating adjusters. Each small space is equipped with a desk, a rolling file, two chairs and a telephone, rather like a little bookie joint. Vera's niche is identifiable by the pall of smoke hovering above the shoulder-high partitions. She's the only one in the company who
smokes and she does so with vigor, piling up stained white filter tips like ampules of distilled nicotine. She's also addicted to Coca-Cola and she usually has a row of empty bottles marching around her desk, accumulating them at the rate of one every hour. She's thirty-six, single, and she collects men with ease, though none of them seems to suit her. I peered into her cubicle.

“What'd you do to your hair?” I asked when I caught sight of it.

“I was up all night. It's a wig,” she said. She stuck a fresh cigarette between her teeth, biting gently while she lit up. I've always admired her smoking style. It's jaunty and sophisticated, dainty and tough. She pointed to the wig, which was streaked with blond, a wind-blown effect.

“I'm thinking of dyeing my hair this shade. I haven't been a blond for months.”

“I like it,” I said. Her usual color was auburn, a mix of several Clairol offerings that varied in hues from Sparkling Sherry to Flame. Her glasses today had tortoiseshell rims and big round lenses tinted the color of iced tea. She wore glasses so well it made other women wish their eyesight would fail.

“You must have a new man in your life,” I said.

Vera shrugged dismissively, shaking her head. “I got two actually, but I wasn't up doing what you think. I read a book on how the new technology works. Lasers and analog-to-digital converters. I got curious about electricity yesterday, you know? Turns out nobody really knows what it is, which is worrisome if you ask me.
Great terminology though. ‘Pulse amplitude' and ‘oscillation.' Maybe I'll run into a guy I can say that to. What's with you? You want a Coke?”

She had already opened her bottom file drawer where she kept a little cooler packed with ice. She pulled out a Coke in a bottle about the size of a Playtex nurser, and uncapped it by wedging it under the metal drawer handle and giving a quick downward snap. She proffered the bottle, but I shook my head and she drank it down herself. “Have a seat,” she said then and set the bottle on the desk top with a thunk.

I moved aside a stack of files and sat down in the extra chair. “What do you know about a woman named Marty Grice who was murdered six months ago? I heard she was insured through CFI.”

Vera touched daintily at the corners of her mouth with her thumb and index finger. “Sure, I was assigned to that one. I went out and took a look at the place two days after it happened. God, what a mess. I don't have the proof of loss yet, but Pam Sharkey said she'd get it to me in the next couple of weeks.”

“She's the agent on it?”

Vera nodded, taking a drag of her cigarette. She blew the smoke straight up. “The big life-insurance policy lapsed, but there was a little twenty-five-hundred-dollar policy in effect. That's probably not enough to bury a dog these days. There's also a homeowner's for the fire loss, but the guy was desperately underinsured. Pam swears up and down she advised him to upgrade, but he didn't want to be saddled with the added expense. You know how people get. They try to save six bucks and end
up blowing two-three hundred thousand when the bottom drops out.” She tapped the cigarette on the lip of the empty Coke bottle, neatly knocking the ash into it.

“Why's the settlement taking so long?”

Vera's mouth turned down and she lowered one eyelid—a gesture that conveyed the message “big deal,” though I don't know how. “Who knows?” she said. “The guy's got a year to file the claim. Pam says he's been a basket case since his wife died. He can hardly manage to sign his own name.”

“Did she leave a will?”

“Not that I heard. The whole thing's been sitting in probate court for the last five months or so, in any event. What's your interest in it? Are you looking into her death?”

“Not really. I'm looking for a woman who lived next door when it happened. She left town a couple of days afterward and hasn't been seen since then by the people who count. I keep thinking there's a connection. I was hoping you'd tell me there was a great big policy in effect.”

“The cops had the same idea. Your buddy Lieutenant Dolan was over here practically sitting in my lap for days. I kept saying, ‘Forget it! The guy's broke. He's not going to net a dime.' I guess I finally convinced him because I haven't heard from him since. What are you thinking, that Grice and this doll next door were in cahoots?”

“It did cross my mind. I haven't met him yet and I have no idea whether there could have been a relationship between them, but it does look suspect. From what
I'm told, she left town abruptly and she was upset. My first instinct was that maybe she'd seen something and took off to avoid getting caught up in it.”

“Maybe so.” Vera sounded dubious.

“But you don't believe it.”

“I'm just looking at his end. If the guy killed his wife for fun and profit, he sure went about it wrong. Why let a policy lapse like that? If he were smart, he'd have jacked the face value up two-three years ago, let enough time pass so it didn't look too obvious and then . . . whap, his wife is dead and he collects. If he killed her with no payoff, he's an idiot.”

“Unless he just wanted her out of his way. Maybe that was all he cared about. Maybe letting the policy lapse was a ploy.”

“Hey, listen, what do I know? I'm not a homicide dick.”

“Me neither. I'm just trying to figure out why this woman disappeared and where she might have gone. Even if you're right and Grice had nothing to do with it, she still might have witnessed something. This burglar business sounds too tidy for words.”

Vera smiled cynically. “Hell, maybe she did it herself.”

“God, you're more suspicious than I am.”

“Well, you want Grice's number? I got it somewhere here.” Vera paused to toss the tag end of her cigarette into the Coke bottle. There was a quick spitting sound as the ember touched the thimbleful of Coke that remained. She extracted a file from the bottom of a stack and found the telephone number and the address.

“Thanks,” I said.

She gave me a speculative look. “You interested in an unemployed aerospace engineer? He's got bucks. He invented some little dingus they use now in all the satellites.”

“How come you don't want him?” I asked. Vera tended to offer up her rejects like hostess gifts.

She made a face. “He was fine for a while, but now he's on a health kick. Started taking algae pills. I don't want to kiss a man who eats pond scum. I thought you might not object since you live so clean. Maybe you two could jog together and nibble dried seaweed snacks. If you're interested, he's yours.”

“You're too good to me,” I said. “I'll keep an eye out. I might run into someone who's up for him.”

“You're way too picky about men, Kinsey,” she said reprovingly.

“
I'm
picky?! What about you?”

Vera stuck another cigarette between her teeth and I watched her flick a tiny gold lighter into play before she spoke.

“I figure guys are like Whitman's Samplers. I like to take a little bite out of each and then move on before the whole box gets stale.”

 

 

 

 

It was 1:30 by now and as nearly as I could remember, I hadn't eaten lunch. I pulled into a fast-food restaurant, parked, and went in. I could have hollered my order into a clown's mouth and eaten in the car as I drove, but I wanted to show I had class. I wolfed down a cheeseburger, fries, and a Coke for a dollar sixty-nine and was back on the streets again in seven minutes flat.

The house where Leonard Grice was supposedly staying was located in a dingy tract of houses just off the freeway, a neighborhood of winding streets that had been named after states, starting with the East Coast. I rambled down Maine, Massachusetts, New York, and Rhode Island Drives, getting stuck in tricky cul-de-sacs where Vermont and New Jersey turned into dead ends. It looked like the builder had gotten as far as Colorado Avenue before the money ran out or his knowledge of geography failed. There was a long stretch of vacant lots with stakes visible at intervals, each tied with a little white rag to mark off the undeveloped parcels of land.

Most of the houses had gone up in the fifties. The
trees had flourished, overpowering the small lots. The houses were alternately pale pink and pale green stucco, mirror images of one another like a whole tray of loaf cakes on a bakery shelf. All had the same rock-covered roofs, as though some volcano nearby had erupted, raining down a thin debris. The whole tract seemed dominated by wide-mouthed garages and I was subjected to untidy views of lawn equipment and camper shells, toys, tools, dusty luggage, banged-up refrigerators. There were surprisingly few cars visible and the impression I got was of a community abandoned in the wake of some natural disaster. Maybe a plague had passed this way or maybe toxic wastes had risen up through the soil, killing all the dogs and cats and burning holes in children's feet. At the intersection of Maryland and Virginia, I turned right.