E Is for Evidence

regarding payment of the claim. Using the standard rule, I was guessing five hundred thousand dol-lars replacement cost, with additional payment for the inventory loss.
    The Christmas party was indeed in progress. The fes-tivities were centered in the inner offices where a punch bowl had been set up on a drafting table. Desks had been cleared and were covered with platters of cold cuts, cheeses, and crackers, along with slices of fruitcake and homemade cookies. The company employees numbered about sixty, so the noise level was substantial, the general atmosphere getting looser and livelier as the champagne punch went down. Some sort of Reggae version of Christ-mas carols was being blasted through the intercom system.
    There was still no sign of Lance Wood, but I spotted Heather on the far side of the room, her cheeks rosy with wassail. Terry Kohler caught my eye and shouldered his way in my direction. When he reached me, he leaned down close to my ear.
    "We better get your handbag before this gets out of control," he said. I nodded vigorously and inched my way behind him through the reception area to Lance's office. The door was standing open and his desk was being used as a bar. Liquor bottles, ice, and plastic glasses were arranged across the surface, with several people helping themselves to both the booze and the comfort of the boss's furniture. My handbag had been tucked into a narrow slot between a file cabinet and a bookcase jammed with technical manu-als. I put away my camera and sketch pad, hefting the bag onto my right shoulder. Terry offered to fetch me some punch, and after a moment of hesitation, I agreed. Hey, why not?
    My first impulse was to leave as soon as I could grace-fully extricate myself. I don't generally do well in group situations, and in this instance I didn't know a soul. What kept me was the sure knowledge that I had nowhere else to go. This might be the extent of my holiday celebration, and I thought I might as well enjoy it. I accepted some punch, helped myself to cheese and crackers, ate some cookies with pink and green sugar on top, smiled pleas-antly, and generally made myself amenable to anyone within range. By 3:00, when the party was really getting under way, I excused myself and headed out the door. I had just reached the curb when I heard someone call my name. I turned. Heather was moving down the walk be-hind me, holding out an envelope embossed with the Wood/Warren logo.
    "I'm glad I caught you," she said. "I think Mr. Wood wanted you to have this before you left. He was called away unexpectedly. This was in my out box."
    "Thanks." I opened the flap and peered at the con-tents: inventory sheets. "Oh great," I said, amazed that he'd remembered in the midst of his vanishing act. "I'll call on Monday and set up a time to talk to him."
    "Sorry about today," she said. "Merry Christmas!" She waved and then moved back to the party. The door was now propped open, cigarette smoke and noise spilling out in equal parts. Ava Daugherty was watching us, her gaze fixed with curiosity" on the envelope Heather'd given me, which I was just tucking into my handbag. I returned to my car and drove back into town.
    When I stopped by the office, I passed the darkened glass doors of California Fidelity. Like many other busi-nesses, CF had shut down early for Christmas Eve. I un-locked my door, tossed the file on my desk, and checked for messages. I put a call through to the fire chief for a quick verification of the information I had, but he, too, was gone. I left my number and was told he probably wouldn't return the call until Monday.
    By 4:00, I was back in my apartment with the draw-bridge pulled up. And that's where I stayed for the entire weekend.
    Christmas Day I spent alone, but not unhappily.
    The day after that was Sunday. I tidied my apartment, shopped for groceries, made pots of hot tea, and read.
    Monday, December 27, I was back in harness again, sitting at my desk in a poinky mood, trying to wrestle the fire-scene inspection into a coherent narrative.
    The phone rang. I was hoping it was Mrs. Brunswick at the bank, calling back to tell me the five-thousand-dollar snafu had been cleared up. "Millhone Investigations," I said.
    "Oh hi, Kinsey. This is Darcy, next door. I just won-dered when I could pop over and pick up that file."
    "Darcy, it's only ten-fifteen! I'm working on it, okay?" Please note: I did not use the "F" word, as I know she takes offense.
    "Well, you don't have to take