V is for Vengeance (Kinsey Millhone 22)

“The police still have her purse,” he said apropos of nothing.

“Doesn’t surprise me. Too bad she didn’t take prescription meds. We might have tracked down her doctor and learned a thing or two.”

When he saw that I’d run out of drawers to tackle, he said, “Bedroom’s this way.”

I followed him into the bedroom where he pointed out the drawers she used. When I opened the first, I was greeted by a soft cloud of fragrance—lilac, gardenia, and something else.

Marvin took a step back. “Whoa . . .”

“What?”

“That’s the White Shoulders I gave her on our six-month anniversary. It was like her signature perfume.” He shook his head once and his eyes flooded with tears.

“Are you okay?”

He gave his eyes a quick swipe. “Took me by surprise is all.”

“You can wait for me in the other room if it’s easier.”

“No need.”

I went back to my search. Audrey’s tidiness extended to her lingerie. In both drawers, she was using fabric-covered boxes to store her neatly folded underpants, bras, and panty hose. I felt my way through the items without discovering anything. I pulled the drawers all the way out and checked for papers or other items taped under them or on the back. Zip.

I crossed to the closet and opened the door. There were rods for double hanging, cubbyholes, shelf dividers, wire baskets, and cedar-lined shelves tucked away behind clear Lucite doors. Her wardrobe struck me as skimpy for a working woman. Two suits, two skirts, and a jacket. Of course, this was California, and work clothes were more casual and relaxed than in other places.

Marvin’s side of the closet was as organized as hers. I said, “You guys are something else. She must have had a closet company come in and do this.”

“Matter of fact, she did.”

I removed stacks of folded sweaters, felt along the seams for anything hidden. I checked the pockets in her slacks and jackets, opened shoe boxes, and rooted through the laundry hamper. There was nothing of interest.

I returned to the small desk in the living room, where I sat down and worked my way through the drawers he’d cleared for her. No address book, no month-at-a-glance calendar, no appointment book. It was possible her route was preset and she had no need to make penciled reminders to herself. But what about the ordinary day-to-day transactions? Everyone has to-do lists, scraps of paper, scratch pads with scribbled notes. There was none of that here. Which meant what? If Audrey had decided to kill herself, she might have systematically deleted anything of a personal nature. I wasn’t sure why she’d be that secretive unless she was paranoid about anything connected to her shoplifting extravaganzas. She’d been working with a younger woman. If the two were linked to a larger retail-theft ring, even a fragment of information might be telling. So maybe the other woman was the one who kept track of their activities.

The flip side of the issue was just as troubling. What if she hadn’t killed herself? If she’d been murdered, she probably didn’t have warning and therefore she’d have had no opportunity to erase personal or professional references. Did she tidy up after herself as she went along? I had to credit her with a job well done. So far, she was invisible.

I sat in her desk chair and pondered the situation. Marvin had been good about keeping his comments to a minimum. I turned and looked at him. “When it came to business travel, what was the pattern?”

“She was usually gone three days a week.”

“The same three days or did it vary?”

“It was pretty much the same. She’d be gone Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, and every other Saturday. With outside sales, you usually have a regular route for customers you visit or stores you service. Plus, you make a certain number of cold calls, developing new contacts.”

“Was she in town last Friday when she was ordinarily gone?”

“I have no idea. She said she’d be away the usual three days. She worked from home on Monday and Tuesday and then took off, saying she’d be back first thing Saturday morning.”

“In time for her regular hair appointment.”

“Right. That and the real estate agent.”

I changed my focus. “Did she have hobbies? It may sound irrelevant, but I’m looking for any kind of crack in the wall.”

“No hobbies. No exercise program, no sports, and she didn’t cook. She used to make jokes about what a rube she was in the kitchen. If I didn’t do the cooking myself, we went to restaurants, did takeout, or ordered in. She liked anything that could be delivered. Lot of times we ate at the Hatch, which has a limited menu of bar food—burgers and fries, nachos, chili, and these premade burritos you can heat in the microwave.”