The Groaning Board

black cap on her head. She’d
fed and walked Izz. Now she was sitting in Smith’s living room while Smith
addressed a letter to her son, who was doing summer stock in Ohio.
    “She’s staying with A.T. until...”
    “Until the funeral?”
    “No, until she gets her inheritance.”
    “What inheritance?”
    “Ellen’s the beneficiary of Mickey’s
will. A.T. told me.“
    “How nice for her.”
    Smith’s lips formed a circle. “Oh.”
    “ ‘Oh’ is right. If Ellen thought she
was Mickey’s beneficiary, she had a solid motive.”
    “It distresses me to hear that. She’s
applied to Princeton, Yale, and Harvard. I wrote letters of recommendation for
her. The Tarot will tell us...” She began searching for her cards under her
correspondence.
    “Not now, please. I’d like to get
this over with. And just for the record, I’m sure the cops have been over the
place thoroughly. If there’s a burglar-alarm system we can’t chance it.”
    “We’ll see.” Smith put a stamp on the
envelope. Pulling black leather gloves on her hands, she said, “Let’s go.”
    “I’ve got a flashlight,” Wetzon said.
“How will we get in?”
    “I have a few appropriate tools
here.” Smith picked up a black Saks Fifth Avenue shopping bag.
    With the onset of evening, the heat
had dissipated some. But the pavement still radiated with what it had absorbed
for over a week. A rich sprinkling of stars filled the deep purple sky.
    They walked the short distance to The
Groaning Board, passing the crowded restaurants on Third and Second Avenues. It
was ten o’clock on a weekday night. Didn’t anyone have to be at work early the
next day? Or were they all so young they had the energy to go without a night’s
sleep? Probably the latter.
    The side streets, however, were
almost totally residential and country quiet. The Groaning Board was shrouded
in darkness, except for the lighted sign in the window that said: “Due to
Micklynn Devora’s death, The Groaning Board will be closed until Monday, July
15th. Memorial contributions may be sent to CityMeals on Wheels or God’s Love
We Deliver.“
    Ah, Wetzon thought, there were the
two charities.
    A metal grill and a padlock protected
The Groaning Board entrance. On the door leading to Micklynn’s duplex: no
evidence of an alarm system.
    “You be the lookout,” Smith said.
“I’ll work on the outside door. We can always go downstairs afterward.” She
pawed through her Saks bag and came up with a crochet hook.
    “You have to be kidding,” Wetzon
said.
    “Shshsh. Anyone coming?”
    “No.” Although no one was on the
street, who knew if someone was watching from one of the dark or curtained
windows above them? Besides, Smith would soon find the crochet hook
disappointing.
    “Oops!”
    “What, oops?” Wetzon swiveled to
Smith. The door was open. “Did you do that with the hook? Nice going, partner.’
Wetzon reached into her shoulder bag and pulled on black gloves.
    “I didn’t do anything,” Smith said.
“It was open.”
    “Uh-oh. Someone must be up there.”
    Smith nudged her. “Go across the
street and see if there’s a light.”
    “Would a burglar be stupid enough to
put on a light?” But Wetzon crossed the street and scoured the two upper floors
of Micklynn’s carriage house. Not a glimmer. She came back to Smith shaking her
head.
    “Let’s do it, then.” Without waiting
for Wetzon, Smith pushed open the door and stepped aside. “Now go ahead of me
with your light.”
    “So I can shield you, I suppose.”
    “That’s not a bad idea, since I’m the
one in our partnership who keeps her eye on the prize.”
    “Cracker Jack prizes.” Wetzon pushed
past Smith. “Close that door.”
    Smith closed the door. “The green
stuff, sweetie pie. The big bucks. What life is really about.”
    “Life is with people, Smith.”
    “Oh, pu-leeze. Shall we bring on the
violins?”
    The stairs creaked under their feet.
Wetzon whispered, “Hug the wall. That way if someone jumps out at us, we won’t
take a header down these stairs.”
    They paused when they got to the top
of the stairs, where a big potted azalea drooped, begging for water. “You’ll
get nothing from me, death plant,” Wetzon muttered, trying the door. It was
locked, and what’s more, it had yellow crime-scene tape sealing it. “Shit,” she
said.
    “No problem. Stand aside, partner.”
Smith took a Chinese cleaver from the shopping bag and cut the tape, unsealing
the door, and scarring it at