B is for BURGLAR Read online

  “Mr. Snyder?”

  The curtain was released and the door opened a crack. The man appeared to be in his seventies, corpulent and benign. Old age had given him back his baby fat and the same look of grave curiosity.

  I held out a business card. “My name is Kinsey Millhone. Could I have a few minutes of your time? I’m trying to track down Elaine Boldt, who lives in that big condominium over there, and Tillie Ahlberg suggested I talk to you. Can you help me out?”

  Mr. Snyder released the catch on the screen door. “I’ll do what I can. Come on in.” He held the screen door open and I followed him inside. The house was as dark as the inside of a soup can and smelled of cooked celery.

  From the rear of the house, a shrill voice called out.

  “What’s that? Who all is out there, Orris?”

  “Someone Tillie sent!”

  “Who?”

  “Hold on a minute,” he said to me, “she’s deaf as a yard of grass. Take a seat.”

  Mr. Snyder lumbered toward the back. I perched on an upholstered chair with wooden arms. The fabric was a dark maroon plush with a high-low pattern of foliage, some nondescript sort that I’d never seen in real life. The seat was sprung; all hard edges and the smell of dust. There was a matching couch stacked with newspapers and a low mahogany coffee table with an inset of oval glass barely visible for all the paraphernalia on top: dog-eared paperbacks, plastic flowers in a ceramic vase shaped like two mice in an upright embrace, a bronze version of praying hands, six pencils with erasers chewed off, pill bottles, and a tumbler that had apparently held hot milk which had left a lacy pattern on the sides of the glass like baby’s breath. There was also an inexplicable pile of pancakes wrapped in cellophane. I leaned forward, squinting. It was a candle. Mr. Snyder could have moved the entire table outside and called it a yard sale.

  From the back end of the house, I could hear his exasperated explanation to his wife. “It’s nobody selling anything,” he snapped. “It’s some woman Tillie sent, says she’s looking for Mrs. Boldt. Boldt!! That widda woman lived upstairs of Tillie, the one played cards with Leonard and Martha now and again.”

  There was a feeble interjection and then his voice dropped.

  “No, you don’t need to come out! Just keep set. I’ll take care of it.”

  He reappeared, shaking his head, his jowls flushed. His chest was sunken into his swollen waistline. He’d had to belt his pants below his big belly and his cuffs drooped at the ankles. He hitched at them irritably, apparently convinced he’d lose them if he didn’t hang on. He wore slippers without socks and all the hair had been worn away from his ankles, which were narrow and white, like soup bones.

  “Switch on that light there,” he said to me. “She likes to pinch on util’ties. Half the time, I can’t see a thing.”

  I reached over to the floor lamp and pulled the chain. A forty-watt bulb came on, buzzing faintly, not illuminating much. I could hear a steady thump and shuffling in the hall.

  Mrs. Snyder appeared, moving a walker in front of her.

  She was small and frail and her jaw worked incessantly. She stared intently at the hardwood floor and her feet made a sticky sound as she walked, as though the floor had been shellacked and had never dried properly. She paused, hanging on to her walker with shaking hands. I stood up, projecting my voice.

  “Would you like to sit here?” I asked her.

  She surveyed the wall with rheumy eyes, trying to discover the source of the sound. Her head was small, like a little pumpkin off the vine too long, looking shrunken from some interior softening. Her eyes were narrow inverted V’s and one tooth protruded from her lower gum like a candle wick. She seemed confused.

  “What?” she said, but the question had a hopeless ring to it. I didn’t think anybody answered her these days.

  Snyder waved at me impatiently. “She’s fine. Just leave her be. Doctor wants her on her feet more anyway,” he said.

  I watched her uncomfortably. She continued to stand there, looking puzzled and dismayed, like a baby who’s learned how to pull itself up on the sides of a crib, but hasn’t figured out how to sit down again.

  Mr. Snyder ignored her, settling on the couch with his knees spread. His belly filled the space between his legs like a duffel bag, as cumbersome on him as a clown suit with a false front. He put his hands on his knees, giving me his full attention as though I might be soliciting his entire history for inclusion on “This Is Your Life.”

  “We been in this house forty year,” he said. “Bought it back in nineteen and forty-three for four thousand dollar. Bet you never heard of a house that cheap. Now it’s worth one hunnert and fifteen thousand. Just the lot we’re settin’ on. That don’t even count the house. They can knock this place down and build anything they want. Hell, she can’t even get that walker into the commode. Now Leonard, next door, nearly sold his house for a hunnert and thirty-five, had it in escroll and everything and then the deal fell out. That about done him in. He’s the one I feel sorry for. House burnt. Wife dead. You know what the kids these days would say… his carnal was bad.”

  He went right on talking while I took mental notes. This was better than I’d hoped. I had thought I’d have to tell a few fibs, leading the conversation around judiciously from Elaine’s whereabouts to the subject of the murder next door, but here sat Orris Snyder giving testimony extemporaneously. I realized he’d stopped. He was looking at me.

  “You’ve sold this house? I saw the sign out front.”

  “Sold,” he said with satisfaction. “We can move us up to that retirement place when the kids get everything here packed up. We’ve got a regular reservation. We’re on the list and everything. She’s old. She doesn’t even know where she is half the time. Fire broke out in this place, she’d lay there and cook.”

  I glanced at his wife, who had apparently locked her knees. I was worried she would pass out, but he didn’t seem to give it much thought. She might as well have been a hall tree.

  Snyder went on as though prompted by questions from an unseen audience. “Yessir, I sold it. She like to have a fit, but the house is in my name and I own it free and clear. Paid four thousand dollar. Now I call that a profit, wouldn’t you?”

  “That’s not bad,” I said. I glanced over at his wife again. Her legs had begun to tremble.

  “Why don’t you get on back to bed, May?” he said and then looked at me with a disapproving shake of his head. “She can’t hear good. Hearing comes and goes. Got tintypes of the ear and all she can see is living shapes. She got the leg of that walker hung up on the broom-closet door last week and stood there for forty-six minutes before she got loose. Old fool.”

  “You want me to help you get her back to bed?” I asked.

  Snyder floundered on the couch, turning himself sideways so he could get up. He pushed himself to his feet and then went over to her and shouted in her face. “Go lay down awhile, May, and then I’ll get you some snackin’ cake,” he said.

  She stared steadfastly at his neck, but I could have sworn she knew exactly what he was talking about and was just feeling stubborn and morose.

  “Why did you put the light on? I thought it was day,” she said.

  “It only cost five cent to run that bulb,” he said.

  “What?”

  “I said it’s pitch-black night outside and you got to go to bed!” he hollered.

  “Well,” she said, “I think I might in that case.”

  Laboriously, she thumped the walker around, navigating with effort. Her eyes slid past me and she seemed suddenly to discern me in the haze.

  “Who’s that?”

  “It’s some woman,” Snyder broke in. “I was telling her of Leonard’s back luck.”

  “Did you tell her what I heard that night? Tell about the’ hammering kept me awake. Hanging pictures… bang, bang, bang. I had to take a pill it made my head hurt so bad.”

  “That wasn’t the same night, May. How many times I told you that? It couldn’t have bee
n because he wasn’t home and he’s the one did that kind of thing. Burglars don’t hang pictures.”

  He looked over at me then, twirling his index finger beside his temple to indicate that she was rattlebrained.

  “Banged and banged,” she said, but she was only muttering to herself as she thunked away, moving the walker in front of her like a clothes rack.

  “She hasn’t a faculty left,” he said to me over his shoulder. “Pees on herself half the time. I had to move every stick of dining-room furniture out and put her bed in there right where the sideboard stood. I told her I’d outlive her the day I married her. She gets on my nerves. She did back then too. I’d just as soon live with a side of meat.”

  “Who’s at the door?” she said insistently.

  “Nobody. I’m talkin’ to myself,” he said.

  He shuffled into the hallway behind her. His hovering had a tender quality about it in spite of what he said. In any event, she didn’t seem aware of his aggravation or his minor tyrannies. I wondered if he’d stood there and timed her for the forty-six minutes while she struggled with the broom-closet door. Is that what marriages finally come down to? I’ve seen old couples toddle down the street together holding hands and I’ve always looked on faintly misty-eyed, but maybe it is all the same clash of wills behind closed doors. I’ve been married twice myself and both ended in divorce. I berate myself for that sometimes but now I’m not sure. Maybe I haven’t made such a bad trade-off. Personally, I’d rather grow old alone than in the company of anyone I’ve met so far. I don’t experience myself as lonely, incomplete, or unfulfilled, but I don’t talk about that much. It seems to piss people off ��� especially men.

  Chapter 8

  *

  Mr. Snyder returned to the living room and sat down heavily on the couch. “Now then.”

  “What can you tell me about that fire next door?” I asked. “I saw the place. It looks awful.”

  He nodded, preparing himself as though for a television interview, staring straight ahead. “Well now, the fire engine woke me up ten o’clock at night. Two of ‘em. I don’t sleep good anyhow and I heard the siren come right up here close so I got up and went out. Neighbors was runnin’ from ever’ which way. Black smoke outen that house like you never saw. These firemen, they bashed their way in and pretty soon flames et up the front porch. Whole backside got saved. They found Marty, that was Leonard’s wife, layin’ on the floor. It’d be right about over there,” he said, pointing toward the front door. “I never seen her myself, but Tillie said she was charred head to foot. Just a bunch of stumps, like a piece of wood.”

  “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.

  “I was up all night. It’s a wig,” she said. She stuck a fresh cigarette between her teeth, biting gently while she lit up. I’ve always admired her smoking style. It’s jaunty and sophisticated, dainty and tough. She pointed to the wig, which was streaked with blond, a wind-blown effect.

  “I’m thinking of dyeing my hair this shade. I haven’t been a blond for months.”

  “I like it,” I said. Her usual color was auburn, a mix of several Clairol offerings that varied in hues from Sparkling Sherry to Flame. Her glasses today had tortoiseshell rims and bi
g round lenses tinted the color of iced tea. She wore glasses so well it made other women wish their eyesight would fail.

  “You must have a new man in your life,” I said.

  Vera shrugged dismissively, shaking her head. “I got two actually, but I wasn’t up doing what you think. I read a book on how the new technology works. Lasers and analog-to-digital converters. I got curious about electricity yesterday, you know? Turns out nobody really knows what it is, which is worrisome if you ask me. Great terminology though. ‘Pulse amplitude’ and ‘oscillation.’ Maybe I’ll run into a guy I can say that to. What’s with you? You want a Coke?”

  She had already opened her bottom file drawer where she kept a little cooler packed with ice. She pulled out a Coke in a bottle about the size of a Playtex nurser, and uncapped it by wedging it under the metal drawer handle and giving a quick downward snap. She proffered the bottle, but I shook my head and she drank it down herself. “Have a seat,” she said then and set the bottle on the desk top with a thunk.

  I moved aside a stack of files and sat down in the extra chair. “What do you know about a woman named Marty Grice who was murdered six months ago? I heard she was insured through CFI.”

  Vera touched daintily at the corners of her mouth with her thumb and index finger. “Sure, I was assigned to that one. I went out and took a look at the place two days after it happened. God, what a mess. I don’t have the proof of loss yet, but Pam Sharkey said she’d get it to me in the next couple of weeks.”