B is for Burglar

"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 1 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 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.