“Marty Grice, a neighbor of ours. Now that was an awful thing. She was killed… oh gosh, I guess six months back. It doesn’t seem that long ago.”
“What happened to her?”
“Well, they think she interrupted a burglar breaking into the house. I guess he killed her on the spot and then tried to burn the place down to cover it up. It was horrible. You might have read about it in the paper.”
I shook my head. There are long periods when I don’t read the paper at all, but I remembered the house next door with its charred roof and windows broken out. “That’s too bad,” I said. “Do you mind if I keep this?”
“Go right ahead.”
I glanced at it again. The image was faintly disturbing, capturing a moment not that long ago when both women grinned with such ease, unaware that anything unpleasant lay ahead. Now, one was dead and the other missing. I didn’t like that combination at all.
“Were Elaine and this woman good friends?” I asked.
“Not really. They played bridge together now and then, but they didn’t socialize aside from that. Elaine is a bit standoffish where most people are concerned. Actually, Marty used to get a little snippy about Elaine’s attitude. Not that she ever said anything much about it to me, but I can remember her being a bit snide once in a while. Elaine does treat herself well-there’s no doubt about that-and she tends to be insensitive to the idea that people really can’t afford to live as well as she does. That fur coat of hers is a case
in point. She knew Leonard and Marty were in financial straits, but she’d wear the coat over there to play bridge. To Marty, that was just like waving a red flag in front of a bull.”
“That’s the same coat she was wearing when you saw her last?”
“Yes, indeed. A twelve-thousand-dollar lynx fur coat with a matching hat.”
“Wow,” I said.
“Oh, it’s beautiful. I’d give my eyeteeth to have a coat like that.”
“Can you remember anything else about her departure that night?”
“I can’t say that I do. She was carrying some sort of luggage-I guess a carry-on-and the cab driver brought down the rest.”
“Do you remember what cab company?”
“I really didn’t pay much attention at the time, but she usually called City Cab or Green Stripe, sometimes Tip Top, though she didn’t like them much. I wish I could be more help. I mean, if she left here on her way to Florida and never got there, where did she end up?”
“That’s what I want to know,” I said.
I gave Tillie what I hoped was a reassuring smile, but I was feeling uneasy.
I went back to the office and did a quick calculation of the expenses I’d run up so far; maybe seventy-five bucks for the time spent with Tillie and the time going through Elaine’s apartment, plus the time in the library and on the telephone and the long-distance charges. I’ve known PI.s who conduct entire investigations on the phone, but I don’t think it’s smart. Unless you’re dealing with people face-to-face, there are too many ways to be deceived and too many things to miss.
I called a travel agent and got myself booked round-trip to Miami. The fare was ninety-nine bucks each way if I flew in the dead of night and didn’t eat, drink, or go to the John. I also reserved a cheap rental car on the far end.
My plane didn’t leave for hours yet, so I went home and got in a three-mile jog, then stuck a toothbrush and toothpaste in my purse and called it packing. At some point, I was going to have to track down Elaine’s travel agent and find out what airline she had taken and whether perhaps she’d booked herself through to Mexico or the Caribbean. In the meantime I hoped I could catch Elaine’s friend in Florida before she flew the coop, taking with her my only link to Elaine’s whereabouts.
Chapter 3
It was still dark when the plane touched down in Miami at 4:45 A.M. The airport was sparsely populated at that hour, the lighting as subdued as a funeral home’s. In the baggage claim area, stacks of abandoned suitcases were piled together in shadowy glass-fronted cabinets. All the airport shops were closed. Travelers slept here and there on the unyielding plastic seats, resting their heads on bulging canvas totes, their jackets hunched up over their shoulders. The intercom paged a passenger to the white courtesy telephone, but the name was garbled and I didn’t think anyone would respond. I had only managed to sleep for about an hour on the plane and I felt rumpled and out of sorts.
I picked up my rental car and a sheet map and by 5:15 was headed north on U.S. 1. Twenty miles to Fort Lauderdale, another fifteen to Boca Raton. Dawn was turning the sky a pearly translucent gray and clouds were piled up like heads of cauliflower in a roadside stand. The land on either side of the highway was flat, with white sand creeping up to the edges of the road. Patches of saw grass and stunted cypress cut into the horizon and Spanish moss hung from the trees like tattered rags. The air was already moist and balmy and the streaks of orange from the rising sun hinted at a hot day to come. To kill some time, I stopped at a fast-food place and ate some brown and yellow things that I washed down with a carton of orange juice. All of it tasted like something the astronauts would have to reconstitute.
By the time I reached the community where Elaine Boldt had her Florida condominium, it was nearly seven o’clock and the sprinkler system was sending out jets of water across the closely clipped grass. There were six or seven buildings of poured concrete, each three stories high, with screened-in porches punctuating the low clean lines. Hibiscus bushes added touches of bright red and pink. I circled through the area, driving slowly along the wide avenues that curved back as far as the tennis courts. Each building seemed to have its own swimming pool cradled close and there were already people stretched out on plastic chaise longues sunning themselves. I spotted the street number I was looking for and pulled into a small parking lot out in front. The manager’s apartment was on the ground floor, the front door standing open, the screen door secured against the onslaught of big Florida bugs that were already making warning sounds in the grass.
I knocked against the aluminum frame.
“I’m right here.” It was a woman’s voice, disconcertingly close.
I cupped one hand, shading my eyes so that I could see who I was talking to through the screen door.
“Is Mr. Makowski here?”
The woman seemed to materialize on the other side, her face level with my knees.
“Hold on. I’ve been doing my sit-ups and I can’t get to my feet yet. Lord, that hurts.” She hauled herself into a kneeling position, clinging to the arm of a chair. “Makowski’s off fixing the toilet in 208. What can I do you for?”
“I’m trying to get in touch with Elaine Boldt. Do you have any idea where she might be?”
“You that investigator who called from California?”
“Yes, that’s me. I thought I should talk to someone down here and see if I could get a lead on her. Did she leave a forwarding address?”
“Nope. I wish I could help you out, but I don’t know much more than you do. Here, come on in.” She lurched to her feet and held the screen door open. “I’m Charmaine Makowski, or what’s left of her. Do you exercise?”
“Well, I jog, but that’s about it,” I said.
“Good for you. Don’t ever do sit-ups. That’s my advice. I do a hundred a day and it always hurts.” She was still winded, her cheeks tinted pink from the effort. She was in her late forties, wearing a bright yellow sweat suit, her belly protruding in pregnancy. She looked like a ripe Florida grapefruit.
“You got it,” she said. “Another one of life’s little jokes. I
thought it was a tumor ‘til it started to kick. Know what that is?”
She was pointing to a bump just below her waist. “That’s what a belly button looks like turned inside out. It’s embarrassing. Makowski and I didn’t think we could have any kids. I’m almost fifty and he’s sixty-five. Oh hell, what difference does it make? It’s more fun than menopause, I guess. Have you talked to that woman up in 315? Her name is Pat Usher, but you probably know that. She claims Elaine let her sublet, but I doubt that.”
“What’s the story on that? Mrs. Boldt never talked to you about the arrangement?”