G Is for Gumshoe

think there was something charming about her helplessness…"
    "This goes way beyond helpless. That woman's terrified. So was Agnes."
    "It's always been like that. She's phobic about everything-closed spaces, spiders, dust. You know what she's afraid of? The hook and eye on a door. She's afraid of African violets. Jesus, violets. And it just gets worse. She suffers from allergies, depression, hypochondria. She's half dead from fear and probably hooked on all the prescription drugs she takes. I've taken her to every kind of doctor you can name and they all throw up their hands. The shrinks love to see her coming, but then they lose interest when the old voodoo doesn't work. She doesn't want to get better. Trust me. She's hanging on to her symptoms for dear life. I try to have compassion, but all I feel is despair. My life is a nightmare, but what am I supposed to do? Divorce her? I can't do it. I couldn't live with myself if I did that. She's like a little kid. I thought when her mother died… I thought once Agnes was gone, she'd… improve. Like a curse being lifted. But it won't happen that way."
    "Do you have any idea what it is?"
    He shook his head. He had the hopeless air of a rat being badgered by a cat.
    "What about her father? Could this be connected to him? She says he died in the war…"
    "Your guess is as good as mine," he said, smiling wistfully. "Irene probably married me because of him…"
    "Wanting a father?"
    "Oh sure. Wanting everything-comfort, protection, security. You know what I want? I want to live one week without drama… seven days without tears and uproar and dependency and neediness, without all the juice being drained right out of me." He shook his head again. "Not going to happen in my lifetime. It's not going to happen in hers either. I might as well blow my brains out and be done with it."
    "She must have suffered some kind of childhood trauma-"
    "Oh, who gives a damn? Forty years ago? You're never going to get to the bottom of it and if you did, what difference would it make? She is who she is and I'm stuck."
    "Why don't you bail out?"
    "Leave Irene? How am I supposed to do that? Every time I think of leaving, she ends up flat on her back. I can't kick her when she's down…"
    I heard a tap at the front window. Dietz was peering in. I let out a deep breath. I was never so relieved to see anyone.
    "I'll get that," I said and moved to the front door. Dietz came in, his gaze straying to Clyde, who had leaned his head against the back of the chair, eyes closed, playing dead. Dietz's mere presence caused the tension in the air to dissipate, but he could tell at a glance that all was not well. I lifted my brows slightly, conveying with a look that I'd fill him in once we were alone. "How'd it go?" I asked.
    "Tell you about it in a minute. Let's get out of here."
    I said, "Clyde…"
    "I heard. Go ahead. We can talk later. Irene will sleep for hours. Maybe I'd be smart to get a little shut-eye myself."
    I hesitated. "One question. Yesterday, when we were scouring the neighborhood for Agnes… do you remember anyone with a toolshed or a greenhouse on the property?"
    He opened his eyes and looked at me. "No. Why?"
    "The pathologist mentioned it. I said I'd get back to her."
    He shook his head. "I was bumping front doors. There might have been a shed in somebody's backyard."
    "If you remember something of the sort, will you let me know?"
    He gestured a yes both dismissive and resigned.
    I picked up the box and we walked out to the car. Dietz tucked me in the passenger seat.
    "What's the matter, she didn't like the tea set?" he said. He shut the door on the passenger side and I was forced to hold my reply until he'd rounded the car and gotten in himself. He fired up the engine and pulled out. I gave him a quick rendition of Irene's collapse.
    "What do you think she's sitting on?" he asked when I was done.
    "Beats me. I can think of a few possibilities. Abuse of some kind, for one," I said. "She might have been a witness to an act of violence, or maybe she did something she feels guilty about."
    "A little kid?"
    "Hey, kids sometimes do things without meaning to. You never know. Whatever it is, if she has any conscious recollection, she's never mentioned it. And Clyde doesn't seem to have a clue."
    "You think Agnes knew about it?"
    "Oh sure. I mink Agnes even tried to tell me, but she couldn't bring herself to do it. I sat with her late one night down in a Brawley convalescent home and she told me