I’d scarcely opened that section when I spotted a photograph in the middle of the page and found myself staring at the shoplifter I’d observed Friday afternoon. I drew back, looked again, and then read once quickly to get the gist. Audrey Vance, sixty-three, had passed away unexpectedly the day before, Sunday, April 24. The midsixties age range was about where I’d placed the woman, and the likeness was unmistakable. How odd was that? I skipped to the last line, which suggested that in lieu of flowers, donations should be made to the American Heart Association in Audrey’s name.
The notice was short and on the stingy side. I went back to the beginning and read again with care. Audrey was described as “vivacious and fun-loving, admired by all who knew her.” Not a word about her parents, her education, her hobbies, or good deeds. Her survivors included a son, Don, of San Francisco, and a daughter, Elizabeth, also living in San Francisco. There were numerous unnamed nieces and nephews “left to mourn her passing.” In addition, she would be greatly missed by her fiancé and loving companion, Marvin Striker. The visitation was at Wynington-Blake Mortuary, Tuesday, 10:00 to noon, with a service to follow at 2:00 at Wynington-Blake. There was no mention of the burial.
I could hardly take it in. I wondered if the trauma of her arrest had triggered her collapse. It was not beyond the realm of possibility. Audrey had looked matronly and middle class, not out of place in an upscale department store. Until I saw her shoplift, I’d have pegged her as the type who returned her library books on time and wouldn’t have dreamed of fudging on her income tax forms. What a shock she must have experienced when the loss-prevention officer caught up with her. She’d made it as far as the mall and must have thought she was in the clear, even with the store alarm bleating behind her. From what Claudia had said about her weeping and wailing, she was either a first-rate actress or truly desperate. Sincerity aside, she must have felt humiliated being hauled off in handcuffs. I was thrown in jail once myself and I can tell you it’s not an experience you want to repeat. Habitual criminals are probably undismayed by the booking process, associating as they do with other miscreants for whom pat-downs and strip searches are the norm. All they care about is finding a bail bondsman as fast as possible so they can fork over the 10 percent and get themselves cut loose. Poor Audrey Vance. What a strange turn of events. I wondered how much, if anything, her fiancé knew about her ordeal.
Following on the heels of my initial surprise, I experienced a twinge of guilt. I’d been thrilled to hear about her arrest, happy to know she was being called to account. The idea that she’d been slapped with consequences suited me just fine. We’re each responsible for our own choices, and if she’d elected to break the law, why should she have been spared? At the same time, as much as I’d rejoiced at her comeuppance, I hadn’t expected her to die. In this country (at least as far as I know), shoplifting isn’t deemed a capital offense. I didn’t imagine wielding such influence in the universe that my very enmity had pushed her into the grave. Where I faulted myself was in my sense of moral superiority.
Idly, I wondered if she’d been charged with a felony or a misdemeanor. The two pairs of pajamas at full price (including tax) would have pushed her over the four-hundrd-dollar limit, shifting her offense from petit to grand theft. But what about the sale? Was she more or less culpable in the eyes of the law? At 75 percent off, was a felony discounted down to a lesser charge?
In either case, the poor woman was dead and that seemed bizarre. Maybe she’d suffered from a chronic medical condition that left her vulnerable to stress. Or maybe she’d experienced chest pains and (like so many women) had decided to say nothing because she didn’t want to make a fuss. Even if she was under a doctor’s care, death might have come as a surprise. She might have appeared to be in perfect health, asymptomatic, and still toppled over dead with little apparent provocation. I’d been a witness, standing by in the final days of her life, with no idea how little time she had left. It was freakish to contemplate and I could hardly get it out of my mind.
I grabbed my jacket and car keys, taking the paper with me. I drove to the office in hopes of distracting myself with the business of doing business. Once at my desk, I caught up with my paperwork. I was doing okay until the telephone rang. “Millhone Investigations.”
“Kinsey?” A woman’s voice.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“This is Claudia Rines. Did you see the article in this morning’s paper?”
I put an automatic hand against my heart. “I did and I feel like such a turd. What are the odds of a heart attack? Jesus. I wonder if she knew what was happening to her.”