V Is for Vengeance

this?”
    “Help yourself. I’ve never seen it done.”
    I took out my trusty leather zip case and removed the custom-made picks Pinky Ford had fashioned for me. Pinky had confessed that he sometimes constructed picks with complicated-looking bends and twists when in reality the only two items required were a tension wrench and a length of flat wire, bent at the tip. A bobby pin or a paper clip would do the same job. I removed the tension wrench from the case and inserted it into the lock, applying a gentle pressure while I eased the feeler pick to the back of the lock. The trick was to wiggle the pick as I pulled it out, easing it past the pins. With luck, the pick would toggle each pin in turn until it cleared the shear line. Once all the pins were up, the lock would pop open as though of its own accord. I have an electric lock pick that does the job in half the time, but I usually don’t have it with me. It’s a felony offense if you’re caught carrying burglar tools.
    During my initial instruction, Pinky had dismantled a number of different lock mechanisms to demonstrate the technique. After that he said it was a matter of developing the proper touch, which differed from person to person. Like any other skill, practice made perfect. There was a period when I was adept, but it had been a while since I’d had occasion to pick a lock, so the task required patience. Vivian watched with interest and I wouldn’t have put it past her to try it herself once I was gone. One minute became two and just when I was about to despair, the pins gave way. The door swung inward and we were at liberty to tour the place.
    “That was handy,” she remarked.
    “You bet.”
    In a circumstance such as this, I like to be systematic, starting at the front door and working my way back. Vivian was a step behind me as I turned to survey the space. “Have you been here recently?”
    “Not since she moved in.”
    The interior was a simple box, divided into four squares: living room, kitchen, bedroom, and a combination mudroom, bath, and laundry room. The living room contained a collection of mismatched furniture: chairs, two end tables, a couch, a sewing machine, and a credenza with a faux marble top, all pushed to the outside walls. All the drawers and cabinets were empty. On one of the tables there was an old-fashioned Princess phone. I picked up the handset and listened for a dial tone. The line was dead.
    “How long was she a tenant?”
    “A little over two years.”
    “You put an ad in the paper?”
    “We tried that but had no response, so we staked a For Rent sign in the yard, and she came knocking on my door, asking to see the place. My husband and I bought these two properties at the same time, thinking one of our kids would move in. When that didn’t work out, we decided to offer it for rent so we’d have money coming in. This end of town, we don’t get many prospects so I was happy to show her around. I told her we’d waive the cleaning fee as long as she didn’t have pets.”
    “Did she fill out a rental agreement?”
    “No need. She paid me cash, six months in advance. Took out her wallet, counted the bills, and put them in my hand.”
    “You must have been delighted.”
    “I was. Most of all, I liked the idea of someone living close by. We only have the one car and I was hoping she’d drive me into town now and then. I didn’t realize how seldom she’d be home, though ‘home’ is probably not the right term. She traveled a lot and only wanted the use of the place when she was in the area.”
    “How often was that?”
    “Every other Saturday.”
    In the absence of a dining room, the living room had been called into service, the center taken up with a harvest table big enough to seat ten. The room smelled of a pine-scented cleaning product. I leaned closer to the tabletop, peering at a slant so the light washed over the surface. No smudges and no fingerprints. That was interesting. I flicked a switch and the overhead light came on. I got down on my hands and knees and did an eyeball scan of the floor. By the table leg I found a three-inch T-shaped length of clear plastic, not much thicker than a thread. I held it up so Vivian could see. “Know what this is?”
    “Looks like a piece of plastic used to secure the price tags on items of clothing.”
    “Exactly,” I said. I put it in my pocket. Under the table leg, I found a second one that I added to the first.
    I continued to search, quizzing her as