V Is for Vengeance

with a muted bang.
    I kept my camera at the ready, and when the truck crossed my line of vision, moving toward the exit, I stepped out onto the walkway and took pictures of the back end. There was no license plate. I made a beeline for my car, but by the time I started the engine and pulled out, the panel truck had merged with passing traffic and disappeared.
    I doubted the charity was legitimate. The name itself was so saccharine, it almost had to be a cover for a racket of some kind. At least it gave me a lead. In California, any organization claiming nonprofit status has to file articles of incorporation, listing the corporation’s address, the name and address of a “registered agent,” and the names of the directors. This was all part of the public record, available to anyone. I closed my eyes and patted my chest, mimicking a heartbeat. How much better could it get? One quick moment of payoff for all the hours I’d put in.
    If I was right, Georgia’s job was to collect stolen merchandise and drop the goods in donation bins for retrieval by her cohorts. Audrey’s landlady had mentioned the presence of a white panel truck on the occasions when Audrey was staying in her little rented house. I was guessing the driver was responsible for collecting the bags and delivering them to San Luis Obispo. In the past, Audrey had worked every other weekend. Her death had doubtless disrupted the routine, but maybe the gang was back in the swing and ready to carry on. It was possible my conclusion was wrong, but I couldn’t think of another explanation that made quite as much sense. I put my surveillance on hold. I’d have to test my suspicions, but meanwhile, I didn’t want my cover blown.
    I drove back into town and made another stop at the public library and proceeded to the reference department, where I checked both the current phone book and the current city directory for Helping Hearts, Healing Hands. No listing under “Charities.” Nothing under “Social Service Organizations,” “Women’s Shelters,” “Churches,” or “Rescue Missions.” I wasn’t surprised. I had other avenues to explore, but this was Saturday morning, which meant that all the usual sources—the Hall of Records, the courthouse, the tax assessor’s office—would be closed. I’d be back in business Monday morning, but for now I was out of luck.
    On the way home, I did a supermarket run for essentials and then spent a few minutes putting groceries away. I started a load of laundry and would have gone on in this thrilling vein—scrubbing toilets, vacuuming—if not for the ringing of my telephone. I picked up and found Vivian Hewitt on the line.
    I said, “Hey, Vivian. How are you?”
    “I’m fine, thanks. I hope you don’t mind my calling you at home, but something’s come up. Did I catch you at a bad time?”
    “Not at all. What’s happening?”
    “I did something I shouldn’t have and now I don’t know how to make it right.”
    “Wow, I’m all ears,” I said.
    “You’re going to think I’m awful.”
    “Would you just get on with it?”
    “I will, but you won’t like it.”
    “Vivian . . .”
    “Friday morning, Rafe left on a fishing trip and he won’t be back until Sunday night.”
    “I see.”
    “I’m just telling you why he’s not here to help me sort this out. Yesterday when I went over to Audrey’s to meet the locksmith, a delivery truck pulled in. Someone overnighted a package to Audrey and the driver needed a signature. When I said she wasn’t there, he asked if I’d sign for it and I agreed.”
    I said, “Ah.”
    “I don’t know what got into me. It was one of those situations where an opportunity presented itself and I took advantage. Now I’m thinking what I did was wrong.”
    “You know, I’m not exactly the person to consult when it comes to tricky ethical issues. I’d have done the same thing in your shoes.”
    “But what am I supposed to do now? I feel so guilty. Rafe would have a fit if he knew.”
    “It’s no big deal. Why don’t you call the company and tell them you made a mistake? Have them come pick up the package and return it to the sender.”
    “I thought of that myself. The problem is I didn’t pay attention to the name of the courier so I have no idea who to call.”
    “Isn’t there a label that gives the name?”
    “Nothing,” she said.
    “What about the locksmith? You think he’d remember?”
    “He was changing the lock on the back door, so he didn’t