B is for Burglar

"Sure. I can do anything you want. If you got glass, I'll reglaze the window for you too. I love doing things like that."

I left her to install the heavy-duty hardware. Belatedly, I snatched up several articles of dirty clothing strewn about my living room. There's nothing like an outsider's idle glance to make you conscious of your own environment. I chucked two beach towels, a sweatshirt, and a dark cotton sundress on top of some other stuff in the washing machine. I tend to use my washer as a dirty-clothes hamper anyway since I'm pinched for space. I tossed in a cup of detergent. I cranked the dial around to permanent press, just to keep the cycle short, and I was on the verge of popping the door shut again when I spotted Elaine's passport poking up out of the back pocket of a pair of blue jeans. I think I must have hooted my surprise because Becky stuck her head out of the bathroom door.

"Did you call me?"

"No, that's all right. I just found something I'd been looking for."

"Oh. Okay. Good for you." She went back to work. I put the passport at the back of my bottom desk drawer and locked it. Thank God I have the passport, I thought. Thank God it had turned up. It was like a talisman, a good omen. Cheered, I decided I might as well type up my notes, so I hauled out my little portable typewriter and set it up. I could hear Becky thumping around with the window, and after a few minutes, she stuck her head out of the bathroom again. "Hey, Kinsey? This thing is all gimmicked up. You want me to fix it?"

"Sure, why not?" I said. "If you get the window to work right, I've got some other things you can take care of too." "Hey, great," she said and disappeared again. I could hear a big wrenching noise as she pried the window frame away. It was worrisome. All that pep and enthusiasm. I thought I heard something crack.

"Don't worry about the noise," she called out. "I saw my dad do this once and it's a snap."

After a moment, she passed through the room, tiptoeing elaborately, finger to her lips. "Sorry to disturb your work. I have to go out to the truck and get some line. You go right ahead," she murmured. She was speaking in a hoarse whisper as though it would be less intrusive if she used a softer tone. I rolled my eyes heavenward and went on typing. Three minutes later, she came back to the front door and tapped. I had to get up to let her in. She apologized again briefly and went back into the bathroom where she settled in. I did a cover letter for Julia and caught up with my accounting. Becky was in the other room going bang-bang-bang with her trusty hammer.

After a few minutes, she appeared again. "All done. Want to come try it?"

"Just a minute," I said. I finished typing the envelope and got up, moving into the bathroom. I wondered if this was what it felt like to have a little kid around the house. Noise, interruptions, the constant bid for attention. Even the average mother amazes me. God, what fortitude.

"Look at this," she said happily. She raised the window. Before, it had been like lifting a fifty-pound weight. It would stick midway and then shriek, flying up unexpectedly, glass nearly cracking as it whacked into the frame. To lower the window, I practically had to hang by my hands, humping it down inch by inch. Most of the time I just left it shut. Now it slid up without a hitch.

She stepped back so I could try it. I reached over and lowered it, apparently unprepared for the improvement because the window dropped so fast, it made the window weights thump against the studs in the wall.

Becky laughed. "I told you it worked."

I was staring from her to the window frame. Two ideas had popped into my head simultaneously. I was thinking about Dr. Pickett and the dental X rays and about May Snyder's claim that she heard someone going bang-bang-bang the night Marty died.

"I have to go someplace," I said. "Are you nearly done?"

She laughed again; that uneasy, false merriment that burbles out when you think you're dealing with someone who's come unhinged. "Well, no. I thought you said you had other things you wanted me to do."

"Tomorrow. Or maybe the next day," I said. I was moving her toward the door, reaching for my handbag.

Becky allowed herself to be pushed along.

"Did I say something?" she asked.

"We'll talk about it tomorrow," I said. "I really appreciate your help."

I drove back to Elaine Boldt's neighborhood and circled the block, looking for Dr. Pickett's office on Arbol. I'd seen it before; one of those one-story clapboard cottages once so prevalent in the neighborhood. Most of them had been converted into branch offices for real-estate companies and antiques stores that looked like someone's tiny, crowded living space with a sign hung out front.