B Is for Burglar

boiled out through the fire-bared lath and plaster here and there. On the bed table, there was a framed photograph of Leonard with an appointment card for a teeth cleaning and exam tucked in the edge of the glass.
    I moved the card aside, peering closely at Leonard's face. I thought about the snapshot I'd seen of Marty. Such a dumpy little thing: overweight, plastic eyeglass frames, a hairdo that looked like a wig. Leonard was much more attractive and in happier times presented a trim appearance, a rather distinguished face, graying hair, a steady gaze. His shoulders were rounded, possibly because of his back problems, but it gave the impression of something weak or apologetic in his nature. I wondered if Elaine Boldt had found him appealing. Could she have come between these two?
    I put the picture back and picked my way down the stairs. As I moved along the hall toward the kitchen, I noticed a door ajar and I pushed it open gingerly. Before me yawned the basement, looking like a vast, black pit. Shit. In the interest of being thorough, I knew I'd have to check it out. I made a face to myself and went out to my car to get the flashlight out of the glove compartment.

Chapter 13
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    The basement stairs were intact. The fire had apparently been contained before it reached this far. The damage to the rooms above seemed to be the result of some accelerant that had ensured at least a superficial combustion throughout the house. The beam from my flashlight cut through the dark, illuminating a narrow, moving path filled with things I didn't want to touch. I reached the bottom of the stairs. There wasn't a lot of headroom. The house was more than forty years old and the foundation was dank and spider-pocked. The air felt dense, like the atmosphere in a greenhouse, except that everything down here was dead, exuding that fenny perfume of old fire and old damp, abandonment and rot.
    I angled the light along the joists, tracing the beams to the hole where daylight spilled down. Had the floor burned through and the body tumbled into the basement? I moved closer, craning to see better. The edges of the hole looked cut to me. Maybe the fire inspector had taken samples of the boards for lab tests. To my left, I could see the furnace, a silent squat bulge of gray, with sooty ducting extending in all directions. The floor was hard-packed dirt and cracked concrete, the entire space filled with junk. Paint cans and old window screens were stacked up under the stairs and there was an ancient galvanized sink in the corner, the pipes corroded away.
    I toured the perimeter, poking the light into spaces where eight-legged creatures skittered away from me, horrified. Later I was glad I'd been such a conscientious little bun, but at the time, I only wanted to get out of there as quickly as I could. An empty house always seems to make those noises that have you wondering it an ax murderer is creeping through the premises in search of prey. I shone the flashlight over to the far wall where the stairs jutted up a short distance to the bolted double doors leading out to the side yard. Daylight slanted through the cracks but the smell of fresh air didn't sift down this far. I knew the double doors were padlocked on the outside, but the wood was old and crumbly and didn't seem that secure. From what Lily Howe had said, the burglar hadn't even bothered with breaking and entering. He'd marched right up to the front door and rung the bell. Had they struggled? Had he panicked when she opened the door and killed her instantly? The intruder might have been a woman, of course, especially if the weapon had actually been a baseball bat. Ever since Title IX, women have become more adept at the sportier side arms; death by discus, javelin, shot put, bow and arrow, hockey puck... the possibilities are endless, one would think.
    I moved back toward the stairs shivering involuntarily with the darkness at my back. I took the steps two at a time, nearly knocking myself out when I banged into a crossbeam. I cursed soundly to myself, bursting out of the basement and into the hall again as though pursued. Something feathery caught my eye and when I realized it was a delicate centipede whiffling down my front, I did this erratic quick dance step, brushing my shirt like I'd suddenly burst into flames. God, the things I do for money, I thought savagely. I went out the back door, locking it behind me, and sat down on the porch steps. My breathing finally slowed, but it