The Groaning Board

the same time. “Kelsey Millhiser to the rescue.”
She began worrying the lock with a long, skinny knitting needle.
    Wetzon lifted the doormat. No key
there. “Kelsey Millhiser? Who’s that?” She lifted the azalea pot. A small brass
key lay in the tray under the pot. She handed it to Smith.
    “You know. The Sue Grafton private
eye.”
    “Kinsey Milhone, Smith.”
    “Whatever.”
    They stepped into the apartment and
Wetzon moved her light around, keeping it close to the floor. At first she didn’t
notice anything different from her earlier visit. In the kitchen, however, she
became aware of the faint scent of pine. The sink and countertops were all
pristine.
    It was when they moved on into the
living room and Smith exclaimed, “What a great place!” that Wetzon began to
realize how clean everything was. How orderly. No clutter. No magazines or
newspapers. It could have been a showplace, not a home. And—she flashed her
light over the sofa—no cat hair.
    A short time later, upstairs, they
found the bedrooms were also immaculate, nothing out of place.
    “I had no idea,” Smith said. “I
always thought she was such a pig.”
    “She wasn’t any too neat.” Wetzon
shone her light around the hallway. “Someone’s cleaned everything up, but good.
Trashing in reverse.”
    “Okay, where should we start?”
    “Where would you hide something
small?”
    “In one of my shoes.”
    “Unlikely. Micklynn wore
Birkenstocks. Do the drawers, and look inside the socks. I’ll try the bed. She
may have put it between the box spring and the mattress.”
    With surprising speed they went
through everything thoroughly. “Nothing,” Smith said, major disappointment in
the set of her shoulders. “Is the phone working?”
    Wetzon picked it up and got a dial
tone. “It is. Why?“
    “I want to see if Twoey’s back from London.” She reached for the phone.
    “Not on your life. The police can
check phone records.“
    “Who do you suppose she has on her
speed dial?” Smith said.
    “Speed dial, huh? Why not?”
    Wetzon pressed #1 and listened to the
automatic dialing. “Hello?” A.T. said. “Hello?” Wetzon hung up quietly. “A.T.,”
she told Smith. Pressing #2, she got no answer. Sheila Gelber? Possibly.
    #3 was Arthur Margolies. #4 was Hem
Barron’s office. Hem Barron. Interesting. Were they still having an affair?
    #5 was another answering machine. “ You
have reached Dr. Bowers’ Animal Medical Clinic. Our hours are eight a.m. to six P.M., Monday through
Friday, and nine to one on Saturday. If this is an emergency ...” The
message continued, providing an emergency number, followed by the daytime phone
number, which Wetzon jotted down.
    “Are you going to tell me what you’re
doing?”
    “Writing down the vet’s number.”
    “I haven’t seen a sign of a dog or
cat, or even a goldfish,” Smith said.
    “Micklynn had a cat. It must have
died recently, because she was so upset she wouldn’t talk about it.”
    “Old-maid types do gravitate toward
animals. I don’t see what any of this has to do with anything.”
    Wetzon cradled the phone and trained
the flashlight full into Smith’s eyes. “Take that, bitch,” she said. “For Izz
and me and every animal lover in this world.”
    Smith covered her eyes. “It was a
joke, for pity sakes. You think you’re the only one with a sense of humor?”
    “I beg your forgiveness,” Wetzon said
facetiously. “I think I’ll pop in on Dr. Bowers on my way down tomorrow.” In
the second bedroom, which looked as if Micklynn used it as a storeroom, were
papers, recipes, bills, letters from happy clients, all in individual bins, all
labeled.
    Ellen’s room was almost
pathologically motel room neat and without the odds and ends girls collected
that would have given it some kind of personality.
    Wetzon shook her head. “I don’t
understand the anonymity. It’s as if someone went through the whole place and
cleaned out everything personal.”
    “Try the speed dial, sweetie, then we
can leave.”
    There it was again. Speed dialing
ranked with call waiting in Wetzon’s mind as particularly narcissistic living
improvements. Just as digital clocks that flashed the time kept children from
learning how to tell time, and cash registers that told you what the change was
kept people from learning how to make change, so with speed dialing phone
numbers would also be forgotten.
    As for call waiting, it was just
plain rude. What was wrong with a nice old-fashioned