B is for Burglar

"The pathologist did that. John hand-carried the X rays he'd done in the office and they compared 'em right on the spot. There wasn't any doubt, of course. It was just a formality, is what they told us. He'd taken those X rays not six weeks before she died. I felt so sorry for that husband of hers I just thought I'd choke. We went over to the funeral too, you know, and I made the awfullest fool of myself that ever was. Cried like a baby and John did too. Oh, but now he's the one you'll want to talk to, I'm sure. This is his day off, but he should be home soon. He's out runnin' some errands. You can wait if you like or come back later on."

"You can probably help me as well as he could," I said.

"Well, I'll do what I can," she said dubiously. "I'm no expert, but I've assisted him all our married life. He's often said I could probably fill a tooth as well as he could, but now I don't like that Novocain. I won't fool with needles. It makes my hands turn to ice and I get all goose-bumpy on my arms." She rubbed her arms, giving a mock shiver to illustrate how upsetting it was. "Anyway, you go on and ask what you want. I don't mean to interrupt."

"I understand Dr. Pickett had a patient named Elaine Boldt," I said. "Could you check your records and tell me when she came in last?"

"The name sounds familiar, but I can't say I know her offhand. She wouldn't be anyone regular, I will say that, because I'd know her if she'd been here more than once." She leaned closer to me. "I don't suppose you're allowed to tell me how this applies," she said in a confidential tone.

"No, I'm not," I said, "but they were friends. Mrs. Boldt lived right next door to Mrs. Grice."

Mrs. Pickett nodded slightly, giving her eyebrows a lift as though she got the drift and wouldn't repeat a word of it. She went over to the file cabinets and pulled open the top drawer. I was right next to her. I wondered if she'd mind my looking over her shoulder, but she didn't seem to object. The drawer was packed so tightly she could barely squeeze her fingers in. She started reciting the names on the tags.

"Let's see. Bassage, Berlin, Bewley, Bevis… Uh oh, looka here now. That's out of place," she said. She switched the two files around and started where she'd left off. "Birch, Blackmar, Blount. I have Boles. Is that the name you gave?"

"No, Boldt," I said. "B-o-l-d-t. I know you billed her once and I just saw a reminder for a six-month checkup."

"I believe you're right. I wrote that recall card myself and I remember now. Via Madrina, wadn't it?" She looked back into the file drawer, checking a few folders forward and a few folders back. "I bet you for some reason he's got that on his desk," she said. 'You come on in here and we'll take a look."

I followed her down a short hallway and into a small office on the left that had probably once been a powder room. Dr. Pickett's desk was stacked with files and his wife put her hands on her hips as though she'd never laid eyes on such a sight.

"Oh my stars. Now if that's not a mess." She began to check through the nearest pile.

"Why would he have it on his desk?" I asked.

"We might have had a request for dental records is all I can think of," she said. "Sometimes patients transfer out of state."

"You want me to help?"

"I sure do, hon. This might take all day at this rate."

I pitched in, riffling through the stack nearest me, then rechecking the pile she'd done to make sure she hadn't overlooked anything. There was no Elaine Boldt.

"I got one more place," she said. She held a finger up and marched us back to the front desk where she opened the top desk drawer and reached for a small gray metal file box. "This is the recall file. If she got a notice, she'd be in this box. I don't guess she gave any hint when she might have been in."

"Nope," I said. "I'd guess December, though, if she just got a six-months' notice."

Mrs. Pickett gave me an appreciative glance. "Good point. I guess that's why you're a detective instead of me. All right, let's see what December looks like." She sorted through about fifteen cards. Already, I was worried about Dr. Pickett's annual income if he saw fewer patients than one a day.

"Light month," I remarked, watching her.

"He's semiretired," she said, absorbed in her hunt. "He still takes care of these old people in the neighborhood, but he tries to limit his practice. He's got varicose veins worse than me and his doctor doesn't want him on his feet all day. We get out and walk every chance we get. Keeps the circulation up. Here it is." She held an index card up, handing it to me with a mixture of triumph and relief. They might be near retirement age, but the office was still well run.