G Is For Gumshoe

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 su

We reached the front porch and Irene sank down on the bottom step. She put her head between her knees. I put a hand on the back of her neck, peering closely at her face. I could hear the wheezing in her throat.

"You want to lie down?"

"No, please. I'll be fine. It's my asthma acting up. I don't want a fuss made. Just let me sit here for a bit."

"Just slow your breathing down, okay? You're starting to hyperventilate. I don't want you passing out."

I checked the street for Clyde, but he was nowhere to be seen. I climbed the steps and crossed to the front door. The owner of the board-and-care emerged just as I was preparing to ring the bell.

He was a man who might have been hefty in his youth. Once-muscular shoulders had softened with age, sloping beneath his shirt. He was clean-shaven and balding, his extended forehead giving him a look of babyhood. He had pouches under his eyes and a mole stuck to his left cheek, like a raisin. "Something I can help you with?" His eyes strayed to Irene and I found my gaze following his. If she fainted, I was going to have a real problem on my hands.

"She'll be all right. She's feeling light-headed and just needs to sit down for a bit," I said. "A woman's disappeared from the nursing home down the block and we're checking with the neighbors, hoping someone's seen her."

He had focused on my face, surveying me quizzically. "You look familiar. Do I know you?"

"Kinsey Millhone," I said. "I was here a couple of weeks ago with a friend of mine-"

"Right, right, right. I remember now. Spunky little redhead with a sister in a wheelchair. I was sorry we couldn't accommodate her. She the one who's missing?"

"No. This is someone else," I said. I held a hand up above my own head, describing her again. "Tall, very thin. She's been gone since early this morning and we can't seem to get a line on her. I can't believe she got far."

"Some of those old folk move fast," he said. "They can fool you if you don't keep an eye out. Wish I could help you, but I've been working in the back. Have you called the police?"

"They were notified first thing. I understand they've searched this whole area. We thought we'd try again."

"Happens occasionally, especially in this neighborhood. Usually they turn up."

"Let's hope. Thanks, anyway."

His gaze strayed back to Irene still sitting on the bottom step. "How about a glass of water for your friend?"

"She'll be okay, but thanks," I said. I closed the conversation with my usual request for assistance. "Here. Let me leave you my card. If you see the woman or talk to anyone who might have noticed her, could you let me know? If I'm not available, you can always call the nursing home."

He took my card. "Certainly," he said. Someone spoke to him from inside, a feeble voice, faintly petulant. He excused himself and went in.

I helped Irene up. We made our way down the walk and out the gate. She was shaky on her feet, her face drawn and tense.