B is for Burglar (19 page)

“You have any theories about who killed your aunt?”

“No, do you?”

I shook my head. “I'd get that shed cleaned out if I were you.”

“Yeah, sure. That was the deal, wasn't it?”

He got on his cycle and did one of those jumps to start it up. “Hey, you know what? I don't remember your name.”

I gave him my card, then got in my VW. He waited to make sure I was under way and then he roared off.

 

 

I intended to let the case sit for the weekend because I wasn't sure what else to do. Saturday morning, I went over the police reports again at home, added note cards to my collection up on the bulletin board, but for the
time being, I simply had to sit it out. Come Monday, it was possible I'd get a response from the classified ads I'd placed in the Florida papers or maybe I'd hear from the DMV in Tallahassee or Sacramento. I was still waiting for the plane ticket Julia Ochsner had mailed, hoping it would give me information of some kind. If nothing new came to light, I was going to have to start all over again and see if I could develop a few new leads. I still had local vets to check, trying to get a rundown on the cat.

I took a few minutes to do recalls on the three cab companies. The dispatcher I'd talked to at Green Stripe said he hadn't had a chance to dig through his files yet. The owner of City Cab had looked and found nothing and Ron Coachella at Tip Top wasn't in yet, but the dispatcher on duty said he'd be in shortly. So much for that.

I went down to the office. I hadn't meant to, but I couldn't help myself. I was feeling itchy and restless and dissatisfied. I don't like not succeeding at things. California Fidelity was closed for the weekend. I unlocked my door and picked up the mail that had been shoved through the slot. There was an envelope with Julia Ochsner's return address on it. I tossed it on the desk while I checked my messages. There was only one and it had apparently just come in.

“Hello, Kinsey. This is Ron Coachella over at the cab company? I got the information you want. Tip Top did pick up the fare at 2097 Via Madrina . . . let's see—on January the ninth at ten-fourteen
P.M
. Driver's name was Nelson Acquistapace at 555-6317. I told him you'd
be in touch. I've got the trip sheet down here and you're welcome to stop by and pick up a copy so he can look at it. Twenty bucks might help his memory, if you know what I mean. Aside from that, just remember . . . ‘If you want the top ride in town, call Tip Top,' ” he sang and hung up.

I smiled, making a note of the driver's name and number. I put on a pot of coffee and opened the note from Julia. Her handwriting was of the old school, surprisingly firm, a clear cursive with grand flourishes and well-formed capital letters. She said she was enclosing the ticket, that the June rains were in full force, and that Charmaine Makowski had given birth to a nine-pound nine-ounce boy the night before and wanted everyone to know that she never expected to sit down again. Charmaine and Roland had not yet named the child but were accepting suggestions. Julia said that most of the appellations proffered so far were not fit to repeat. Julia thought it was a hoot. Warmest regards, said she.

I studied the ticket, which was tucked in a TWA folder. It looked like it had been generated at the Santa Teresa airport, round-trip from Santa Teresa to LAX and from LAX to Miami. All four flight coupons had been removed but the carbon remained. The ticket had been paid for by credit card. Four flight coupons torn out. Now, that was interesting. Had she come back to town at some point? If so, why had the carbon been down in Boca Raton in Pat Usher's trash? I went back to my list of travel agents, trying to figure out which one Elaine Boldt ordinarily used. I decided on Santa Teresa Travel which has an office within easy walking distance
of the condominium on Via Madrina. It was just a guess, but I had to start someplace. I put in a call, but there was no answer and I assumed the agency was shut down for the weekend.

I made a list of leads to pursue on Monday. I checked the ticket again. I didn't see any indication that she'd had the cat in tow, but I wasn't sure how that worked. Did kitty cats get tickets like everybody else? I'd have to ask. There were some luggage tags still stapled to the back of the folder, but that doesn't mean much. At the airport here in town, you can pick up your bags without anybody verifying the tags. I remembered Elaine's luggage as fairly distinctive anyway, dark red leather with the designer signature writ large on the fabric trim. I'd priced that stuff once and decided to open a Keogh account instead.

I put a call through to Nelson Acquistapace, the Tip Top cab driver. He was home in bed with a head cold, but said Ron had told him what I needed. He had to pause and blow his nose twice. “Why don't you pick up the trip sheet and bring it over here? I'm on Delgado, just half a block down from Tip Top,” he said. “I'll be outside around in back.”

I picked up the trip sheet and arrived at his place by 9:35. I found him sitting in the backyard of a white frame bungalow tucked into a jungle of overgrown pittosporum bushes. He was lying on a hammock in a free-standing metal frame in the only patch of sunlight. The rest of the property was in deep shade, rather chilly and uninviting. He looked to be in his sixties, balding, heavyset in a dark green velour bathrobe. He had a
square of pink sprigged flannel on his chest and he smelled like Vicks VapoRub. He'd set up a small metal table with his cold remedies, a box of Kleenex, an empty juice glass, and some crossword-puzzle books that I recognized.

“I know the guy who writes those puzzles,” I said. “He's my landlord.”

His eyebrows shot up. “This guy lives in town here? He's a whiz! He drives me up the wall with these things. Look at this one. Eighteenth-Century English Novelists and he includes all their books and their characters and everything. I had to go read Henry Fielding and Laurence Sterne and people I never even heard about just to get through the thing. It's better than a college education. I'm tellin' you. What is he, some kind of professor?”

I shook my head, feeling absurdly proud. You'd have thought Henry was a rock star the way this guy was reacting. “He used to run that little bakery at the corner of State and Purdue. He started doing the crossword puzzles when he retired.”

“Is that right? You sure it's the same guy? Henry Pitts?”

I laughed. “Sure I'm sure. He tries those things out on me all the time. I don't think I've ever finished one yet.”

“You tell him I want to meet him sometime. He has a very twisted sense of humor, but I like that. He did one all made up of botanical oddities, remember that? I went crazy. I was up all night. I can't believe the guy
lives here in Santa Teresa. I thought he was a full professor at MIT, someplace like that.”

“I'll tell him you said that. He'll be thrilled to hear he has a fan.”

“You tell him to stop by here anytime. Tell him Nelson Acquistapace is at his service. He needs a cab, just call Tip Top and ask for me.”

“I'll do that,” I said.

“You got the trip sheet? Ron said you were looking for some lady who disappeared. Is that right?”

I took the trip sheet out of my purse and passed it over to him.

“Don't get too close, sweetheart,” he said. He took a handkerchief out of his robe pocket and dusted his nose with it, honking into it before he put it back. He unfolded the sheet, holding it at arm's length to look at it. “I left my glasses inside. Which one?”

I pointed to the Via Madrina address.

“Yeah, I remember her, I think. I took her to the airport and dropped her off. I remember she was picking up that last flight from here to L.A. Where was she going, I forget now.”

“Miami, Florida.”

“Yeah, that's right. I remember now.”

He was studying the trip sheet as though it were a pack of Tarot cards in some tricky configuration. “You know what this is?” He was tapping the paper. “You want to know why this fare is so high? Look at that. Sixteen bucks. It doesn't cost that much to go from Via Madrina to the airport. She made a stop and had me
wait maybe fifteen minutes with the meter running. An intermediate stop. Now, just let me think where it was. Not far. Some place on Chapel. Okay, yeah, I got it now. That clinic down near the freeway.”

“A clinic?” That took me by surprise.

“Yeah, you know. An emergency facility. For the cat. She dropped him off for some kind of emergency treatment and then she got back in the cab and we took off.”

“I don't suppose you actually saw her get on the plane, did you?”

“Sure. I was done for the night. You can see for yourself from the trip sheet. She was my last fare so I went upstairs to the airport bar and had a couple of beers out on the patio. I told her I was gonna be up there so she even turned around and waved at me when she was walkin' out to the plane.”

“Was she alone?”

“As far as I could tell.”

“Had you ever picked her up before?”

“Not me. I just moved up here from L.A. in November last year. This is paradise. I love this town.”

“Well,” I said, “I appreciate your help. At least, we know she got on the plane. I guess now the question is, did she ever reach Boca Raton?”

“That's where she said she was going,” he said, “though I tell you somethin'. With that fur coat, I told her she ought to head someplace cold. Get some use out of it. She laughed.”

I felt myself hit the pause button mentally, a quick freeze frame. It was odd, that image, and it bothered me. I pictured Elaine Boldt with her fur coat and turban,
on her way to warmth and sunshine, waving back over her shoulder to the taxi driver who'd taken her to the airport. It was disturbing somehow, that last glimpse of her, and I realized that until now I hadn't really pictured that at all. I'd been weighing the possibility that she was on the run, but in my heart of hearts, I'd pictured her dead. I'd kept thinking that whoever killed Marty Grice killed her too. I just couldn't figure out why. Now the uncertainty had crept in again. Something was off, but I couldn't figure out what it was.

 

 

 

 

Well, at least now I had a tiny mission in life. When I left Nelson, he was taking his temperature with a digital thermometer, confessing sheepishly a secret addiction to gadgets like that. I wished him a speedy recovery and hopped in my car, circling back around to Chapel.

The veterinary clinic is a small box of glass and cinderblock painted the color of window putty and tucked into the dead end formed when Highway 101 was cut through. I love that whole series of dead-end streets—relics of the town as it used to be, a refreshing departure from the pervading Spanish look. The small frame houses in that neighborhood are actually Victorian cottages built for the working class, with hand-turned porch rails, exotic trim, wooden shutters, and peaked roofs. They look like shabby antiques now, but it's still possible to imagine a day when they were newly constructed and covered with fresh paint, the full-grown trees no more than slender saplings planted in the midst of newly seeded lawns. The town then must have been
dirt roads and carriages. I'm not above wishing more of it remained.

I parked in the lot behind the clinic and went in through the back door. I could hear dogs barking hoarsely somewhere in the rear; shrill cries for mercy, freedom, and relief. There were only two animals in the waiting room, both bored-looking cats who had formed themselves into bolster pillows. Their humans spoke to them in what was apparently cat-English, using high-pitched voices that made my own head hurt. Now and then when some dog set up a howl in the back, one or the other of the cats would appear to smile faintly.

There must have been two vets working because both cats got called at the same time and were carted off down the hall, leaving me alone with the receptionist behind the counter. She was in her late twenties, blueeyed, pale, with an Alice-in-Wonderland blue ribbon across her straight blond hair. Her name tag read “Emily.”

“May I help you?”

She spoke as though she'd never progressed beyond the age of six; a breathy, wispy tone, softly modulated, perhaps especially cultivated to soothe distressed beasts. Occasionally I run into women who talk like that and it's always puzzling, this perpetual girlhood in a world where the rest of us are struggling to grow up.

Dealing with her made me feel like a linebacker. “I wonder if you could give me some information.”

“Well, I'll try,” she whispered. Her voice was sweet and musical, her manner submissive.

I was going to show her the photostat of my P.I. license but I worried that it would seem brutal and coarse. I decided to hold off on that and whip it out if I had to turn the screws.

“Back in January, a woman brought a cat into the clinic for some kind of emergency treatment and I want to find out if she ever came back to pick it up.”

“I can check our records if you like. Can you tell me the name, please?”

“Well, the woman's name was Elaine Boldt. The cat was Mingus. It would have been the night of January ninth.”

Two patches of mild pink appeared on her cheeks and she licked her lips, staring at me fixedly. I wondered if she'd sold the cat to a vivisectionist.

“What happened?” I asked. “Do you know which one I'm talking about?”

“Well yes, I know which one. He was here for
weeks
,” she said. Her speech had taken on a nasal cast, coming out through her nostrils now as though by ventriloquist. She wasn't exactly whining, but it was the tone of voice I've heard kids use in department stores when their moms accuse them of misbehavior and threaten to jerk their arms off. It was clear she was feeling defensive about something, but I wasn't sure quite what. She reached for a small tin box and walked her fingers through a file of index cards. She pulled out the record, snapping it onto the countertop self-righteously.