The Groaning Board

because we saw Todd coming from the pier as we were arriving. And
Ellen admitted he was there.”
    “It was very indiscreet of her, but
she’s still a child. She doesn’t understand adult thinking.”
    “Oh, please, Smith. She obviously
understands money. But it’s too bad, all of it.”
    Smith put the briefcase back on the
floor of the closet and closed the door. “Too bad?”
    “Never mind,” Wetzon said. “I think
we should get going.”
    They tiptoed down the stairs.
    “Don’t you want to take a quick look
around at The Groaning Board kitchen?”
    “What time is it? I promised Twoey
I’d meet him...” Wetzon flashed the light on her wrist. “It’s almost eleven.”
    That’s when the sound of something
shattering came from the room below. They froze. Wetzon switched off the light.
    “Damn,” Smith whispered. Someone was
moving around downstairs.
    “Shshsh.” They were trapped. Whoever
it was down there was looking for something. “Another few minutes and he’ll he
up here.”
    “Can you believe it, a prowler,”
Smith whispered, outraged. “Call 911.”
    “ Were prowlers, for godsakes, or have you forgotten?”
    Still, it wasn’t a bad idea. Wetzon
groped for and found the phone on the kitchen wall, called 911, and using a
Spanglish accent, mumbled, “Dere’s a prowler adda Groaning Board.” She gave the
address. “Come quick. Who I am? I’m coming out of restaurant wit my boyfrent.”
She hung up and grabbed Smith. “Come on.”
    “Shshsh. I want to see if he’s still
down there.”
    “Oh, please, Smith, come on. Before
we get caught here. How will we explain?” She opened the door and started down
the outside stairs just as sirens began to whine.
    Smith threw on all the lights.
    “Fuck!” a voice cursed below.
    Wetzon ran, Smith right behind her.
They were on the sidewalk when the cop car made the turn and came toward them.
Putting her arm around Smith’s waist, Wetzon said, “You are my own true love.”
    Smith giggled.
    They crossed the street like slightly
tipsy lovers and walked past the swirling lights, then stopped, obtrusively, to
stare, as any innocent citizen of New York would. The Groaning Board was
blazing with light. While Smith and Wetzon and others watched, the cops pounced
on a figure attempting to sneak out of the shop. He was dressed not so
differently from Smith and Wetzon, all in black, like a cat burglar.
    This cat burglar, however, had a
familiar face. It was Hem Barron.

Chapter Forty-Nine

     
     
    Veterinary
medicine was a good profession for a New Yorker. The pet industry was booming.
    Dr. Jennifer Bowers ran a busy animal
medical clinic in the heart of cat and dog country on the Upper East Side on East Eightieth Street.
    Wetzon arrived at 600 East Eightieth
Street at eight-thirty in the morning and gave her name to a skinny girl
whose jeans were carefully sliced with airholes in the knees, the edges evenly
frayed. The waiting room had a gamey odor.
    “Where is your pet?” The girl peered
at Wetzon as if she had a snake up her sleeve.
    “At home. I need to ask Dr. Bowers a
quick question, so I’ll pay for a visit.” Wetzon handed the girl her business
card and took her seat next to a droopy golden retriever with a mangled ear.
“Phoebe doesn’t bite,” her owner informed Wetzon and then went back to the
monologue of reassurance she was murmuring into the animal’s good ear.
    Across from Wetzon, a man cuddled a
wheezing Persian.
    When a woman and a small boy in tears
arrived carrying a whimpering dachshund with an apparent broken front paw, the
whole waiting room erupted with human and animal suffering. The golden wet the
floor.
    Thus it was almost ten o’clock before
Wetzon was shown into Jennifer Bowers’ surgery. Dr. Bowers, an attractive,
snubnosed woman in her early thirties, had a nice tan and sun- * streaked blond
hair pulled back in a ponytail. The preppie look, as befitted female residents
of the Upper East Side. A white lab coat semi-protected good-quality khakis.
After a no-nonsense handshake, Dr. Bowers said, “What can I do for you, Ms.
Wetzon?”
    “My firm is looking into the death of
Micklynn Devora.“
    “Yes, I read about it. I knew her, of
course. You’re aware of that or you wouldn’t be here.” She pointed to one of
three dilapidated plastic chairs. “Have a seat.”
    Wetzon sat gingerly. The chair was
lopsided and someone had taken a bite out of the seat. “You were on her speed
dial. I understand she owned