G Is for Gumshoe

the wedding announcement in the papers. "The bride, in a peau-de-soie maternity smock, was accompanied by her obstetrician…"
    "Judge Hopper's waiting for us upstairs," the husband said. He smelled of Brylcreem and cigarettes, his blue jeans pleated up around his waist with a length of rope.
    The clerk handed over the certificate. "Why don't I have June get the judge on the phone and have him come down here?"
    A second clerk, her eyes rolling, picked up the telephone and made a quick call while the bride crept haltingly toward the door. She seemed to be singing to herself. "Uh… uh… unh…"
    The groom didn't seem that distressed. He simply matched his pace to hers, his gaze pinned on her shuffling feet. "You're not breathing right," he said crossly.
    The clerk turned to us. "What can I do for you folks?"
    Dietz was still staring off at the departing couple with a look of uneasiness.
    I held out the copy of the birth certificate. "I wonder if you can help us," I said. "We suspect maybe this birth certificate's been tampered with and we'd like to check for the original in Sacramento. Is there any way you can do that? I notice there are some file numbers."
    The clerk held the paper at arm's length, her thumbnail moving from point to point across the document. "Well, here's your first problem right here. You see that district number? That's incorrect. This says Brawley on the face of it, but the district number's off. Imperial County would be thirteen something. This fifty-nine fifty indicates Santa Teresa County."
    "It does? That's great," I said. "You mean you'll have a copy of it here?"
    "Oh sure. That little two in the margin tells you the book number and this number here is the page. Just a minute and I'll have someone pull the microfilm. Machines are right through there. You just have a seat and someone will be with you directly."
    We waited maybe five minutes and then the second clerk, June, appeared with a microfilm cartridge, which she loaded into the machine.
    Once we located the page, it didn't take us long to find Irene's name. Dietz was right. The date and time of birth and the physician's name were the same on both documents. Irene's name, the ages of both parents, and her mother's occupation were also the same. Everything else had been altered.
    Her father's name was Patrick Bronfen, his occupation car salesman. Her mother's first name was Sheila, maiden name Farfell.
    "Who the hell is this?" I said with disbelief. "I thought her mother's name would be Anne."
    "Isn't Sheila the name Agnes mentioned to the cop who brought her into emergency?"
    I turned around and stared at him. "That's right. I'd forgotten."
    "If it's true, it might imply that Agnes and Sheila are the same person."
    I made a face. "Sure shoots our Bronte theory. But hey, check this." I pointed to the screen. The address listed was the same one given for Emily Bronfen, whose death had occurred ten years before Irene's birth- fourteen years before the tea set had been packed away in the box. I found myself squinting, trying to make sense of it. Dietz seemed equally mystified. What the hell was this?

24
    We paid eleven dollars and waited another ten minutes for a certified copy of Irene's birth certificate. I didn't think she'd believe us unless she saw it for herself. As we left the Hall of Records, I paused briefly at the counter, where the clerk who had helped us was sorting through a pile of computer forms.
    "Do you have a city map?" I asked.
    She shook her head. "The docent might have one at the information booth around the corner on the first floor," she said. "What street are you looking for? Maybe I can help."
    I showed her the address on the birth certificate. "This says eleven oh-seven Sumner, but I've never heard of it. Is there such a street?"
    "Well, yes, but the name was changed years ago. Now it's Concorde."
    "Concorde used to be Sumner?" I said, repeating the information blankly. News to me, I thought. And then I got it. I lowered my head for a moment. "Dietz, that's what Agnes was talking about in the emergency room. She didn't say 'it used to be summer.' She was saying 'Sumner.' That's where the nursing home is. She knew the street."
    "Sounds good," Dietz said. He took me by the elbow and we pushed through the double doors, heading back to the public garage where his car was parked.
    We were getting close to the answer and I was beginning to fly. I could feel my brain cells doing a little tap dance of delight. I was