B Is for Burglar

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?"
    "Nope. Not a word. All I know is this Usher woman showed up a few months ago and moved in. At first nobody objected because we all just figured it was a two-week visit or something like that. People in the building can have any kind of company they want for short periods of time, but the rules say you can't sublet. Prospective buyers are screened real carefully and if we allowed sublets it would just be an invitation for any Tom, Dick, or Harry to move in here. The whole community would start to deteriorate. Anyway, after a month, Makowski went up to have a little chat with her and she claims she paid Elaine for six months and doesn't intend to move. It's driving Makowski around the bend."
    "Does she have a signed lease?"
    "She has a receipt showing she's paid Elaine some money, but it doesn't say for what. Makowski's had her served with an eviction notice, but she's taking her sweet time getting out. You haven't met her yet, I take it."
    "I'm just on my way up. Do you know if she's in?"
    "Probably. She doesn't go out much except to the pool to work on her tan. Tell her 'drop dead' from the management."
    Three-fifteen was located on the third floor in the crook of the L-shaped building. Even before I rang the bell, I had the feeling that I was being inspected through the fish-eye spy hole in the middle of the door. After a moment, the door opened to the width of the burglar chain, but no face appeared.
    "Pat Usher?"
    "Yes."
    "My name is Kinsey Millhone. I'm an investigator from California. I'm trying to locate Elaine Boldt."
    "What for?" Her tone was flat, guarded, no lilt at all and no graciousness.
    "Her sister's been trying to get in touch with her to sign a legal document. Can you tell me where she is?"
    There was a cautious silence. "Are you here to serve me papers?"
    "No." I took out the photostatic copy of my license and passed it through the crack. The license disappeared smoothly, like a bank card being sucked into an instant-cash machine. After an interval, it came back.
    "Just a minute. I'll see if I can find her address."
    She left the door ajar, still secured by the chain. I felt a little flash of hope. Maybe I was making progress. If I could track Elaine down in another day or two, I'd feel pretty smug, which sometimes counts as much as money whatever business you're in. I waited, staring down at the welcome mat. The letter B was defined in dark bristles, surrounded by bristles in a lighter shade. Did they have enough mud in Florida to justify a mat like that? It was coarse enough to rip the bottom of your shoe off. I glanced to my left. Just off the balcony, I could see palm trees with little beaded skirts near the top. Pat Usher was back, still talking through the crack.
    "I must have thrown it out. She was in Sarasota last I heard."
    Already, I was tired of talking to the door and I felt a surge of irritation. "Do you mind if I come in? It's about the settlement on somebody's estate. She could pick up two or three thousand dollars if I can just get her signature.' Appeal to greed, I thought. Appeal to the secret yearning for a windfall. Sometimes I use it as a ploy when I am tracking down a deadbeat who's run out on a bill. This time it was even true, so my voice had this wonderful sincere ring to it.
    "Did the manager send you up here?"
    "Come on, would you quit being paranoid? I'm looking for Elaine and I want to talk to you. You're the only person so far who seems to have any idea where she