Irene had apparently been watching for my arrival. I paid the driver and emerged from the cab in time to see her moving toward me down the front walk, followed by a gentleman I assumed was Clyde Gersh. Again, I was struck by the aura of illness that surrounded her. She was stick-thin and seemed unsteady on her feet. The shirtwaist dress she wore was a jade-green silk that only emphasized the unearthly pallor of her skin. She’d clearly gone to some trouble with her appearance, but the effect was stark. Her foundation makeup was too peachy a shade, and the false lashes made her eyes jump out of her face. A swath of blusher high on each cheek gave her the look of someone in the throes of a fever. “Oh, Kinsey. God bless you.” She reached for me with trembling hands that were cold to the touch.
“How are you, Irene? Is there any sign of her?”
“I’m afraid not. The police have taken the report and they’ve issued on of those … oh, what do you call them . . .”
Clyde spoke up. “A ‘be on the lookout’ bulletin.”
“Yes, that’s it. Anyway, they’ll have a patrol car cruising the neighborhood. I’m not sure what else they can do for the time being. I’m just sick.”
Clyde spoke up again, extending his hand. “Clyde Gersh.”
Irene seemed flustered. “Oh, I’m sorry. This is Miss Millhone. I don’t know what I was thinking of.”
Clyde Gersh was probably in his late fifties, some ten years older than his wife. He was tall and stooped, wearing an expensive-looking suit that seemed to hang on his frame. He had a thinning head of gray hair, a lined face, his brow knotted with concern. His features had the droopy quality of a man resigned to his fate. His wife’s state of health, whether real or self-induced, must have been a trial to him. He’d adopted an air of weary patience. I realized I had no idea what he did for a living. Something that entailed a flexible schedule and wingtip shoes. A lawyer? Accountant?
The two of us shook hands. He said, “Nice to meet you, Miss Millhone. I’m sorry for the circumstances.”
“Me, too. I prefer ‘Kinsey,’ if you would. What can I do to help?”
He glanced apologetically at his wife. “We were just discussing that. I’m trying to talk Irene into staying here. She can hold down the fort while we get out and bump doors. I told the director of this two-bit establishment he’ll have a lawsuit on his hands if anything’s happened to Agnes. …”
Irene shot him a look. “We can talk about this later,” she said to him. And to me, “The nursing home has been wonderful. They feel Mother was probably confused. You know how willful she is, but I’m sure she’s fine. …”
“Of course she is,” I said, though I had my doubts.
Clyde’s expression indicated he had about as much faith as I did. “I’m just heading out if you’d care to join me,” he said. “I think we should check the houses along Concorde as far as Molina and then head north.”
Irene spoke up. “I want to come, Clyde. I won’t stay hereby myself.”
An expression of exasperation flickered briefly in his face, but he nodded agreement. Whatever opposition he may have previously voiced, he now set aside, perhaps in deference to me. He reminded me of a parent reluctant to discipline a kid in front of company. The man wanted to look good. I glanced along the street for some sign of Dietz.
Irene caught my hesitation. “Something wrong, dear? You seemed worried.”
“Someone’s meeting me here. I don’t want to take off without leaving word.”
“We can wait if you like.”
Clyde gestured impatiently. “You two do what you want. I’m going on,” he said. “I’ll take this side and you can take that. We’ll meet here in thirty minutes and see how it looks.” He gave Irene’s cheek a perfunctory kiss before he headed off. She stared after him anxiously. I thought she was going to say something, but she let the moment pass.
“Would you like to tell someone at the nursing home where we’ll be?”
“Never mind,” I said. “Dietz will figure it out.”
13
we started with the house diagonally across from the nursing home. Like many others in the neighborhood, it was substantially constructed, probably built in the early years of the century. The facade was wide, the two-story exterior shingled in cedar tinted with a pale green wash. A prominent gabled porch sat squarely in the center, matching large bay windows reflecting blankly the sprawling branches of an overhanging oak. I thought I saw movement in an upstairs window as we came up the walk. Irene was clinging to my arm for support. Already, I could tell she was going to slow me down, but I didn’t have the heart to mention it. I was hoping her anxiety would ease if she could help in the search.
I pressed the bell, which jangled harshly. Moments later, the front door opened a crack and a face appeared, an older woman. The burglar chain was still judiciously in evidence. Had I been a thug, I could have kicked the door open with a well-placed boot.
“Yes?”
I said, “Sorry to bother you, but we’re talking to everybody in the neighborhood. An elderly woman’s disappeared from the nursing home across the street and we’re wondering if you might have seen her. About seven this morning. We think that’s when she left.”
“I don’t get up until eight o’clock these days. Doctor’s orders. I used to get up at five, but he says that’s ridiculous. I’m seventy-six. He says there’s nothing going on at that hour that I need to know about.”
“What about your neighbors? Have you heard anybody mention …”
She waved an impatient hand, knuckles speckled and thick. “I don’t talk to them. They haven’t cut that hedge in the last fifteen years. I pay the paperboy to come in once a month and trim it up. Otherwise, it’d grow clear up through the telephone wires. They have a dog comes over in my yard, too. Does his business everywhere. I can’t step a foot out without getting dog doodie on my shoe. My husband’s always saying, ‘Pee-you, Ethel. There’s dog doodie on your shoe again.’ ”
I took out one of my business cards, jotting the number of the nursing home on the back. “Could I leave you my card? That way if you hear anything, you can give me a call. We’d appreciate your help.”
The woman took it reluctantly. It was clear she didn’t have much interest in geriatric runaways. “What’s this woman’s name?”
“Agnes Grey.”
“What’s she look like? I can’t very well identify someone I’ve never laid eyes on before.”
I described Agnes briefly. With Irene standing there, I couldn’t very well suggest that Agnes looked like an ostrich.
“I’ll keep an eye out,” she said. And then the door closed.
We tried the next house, and the next, with about the same results. By the time we reached the corner, forty-five minutes had gone by. It was slow work and so far, unproductive. No one had seen Agnes. We headed east on Concorde. A UPS truck approached and we waited on the curb until we’d seen it pass. I put a hand under Irene’s arm as we crossed the street, supervising her safety as Dietz supervised mine.
A fine tremor seemed to be vibrating through the dark green silk of her dress. I studied her uneasily. Years of bleaching had left her hair a harsh white-blond, very thin, as if she’d succeeded finally in eliminating any whisper of color from the wispy strands. She had no brows to speak of, just two brown lines she’d penciled in by hand, wide arcs like a child might have drawn on a happy face. I could see that she might have been considered a beauty once upon a tune. Her features were fine, the blue eyes unusual in their clarity. One of her false lashes had come loose, sticking out like a tiny feather. Her complexion was too pale to seem healthy, but the texture of her skin was remarkable. She reminded me of an obscure one-role movie actress of the forties-someone you’re surprised to find alive after all these years. She put a trembling hand on mine, her fingers so icy that I drew back in alarm. Her breathing was rapid and shallow.
“Irene, my God. Your hands are like ice. Are you all right?”
“This happens now and then. I’ll be fine in a minute.”
“Let’s find you a place to sit down,” I said. We were approaching a three-story clapboard house, tall and narrow with a porch on three sides. The yard was sunny, with the grass newly mown and not much attention to the flower beds. I knew it was a board-and-care because Rosie and I had been given the address. I’d never actually seen the inside of the house. Once Rosie realized there was no wheelchair access, we had crossed it off our list. I remembered the owner as an energetic fellow in his seventies, pleasant enough, but apparently not equipped to handle anyone who wasn’t ambulatory. I’d already opened the shrieking iron gate and I could see the front curtain move as someone peered out. This seemed to be a neighborhood where people were on the watch. I couldn’t believe Agnes had managed to get even half a block without someone spotting her.