In the meantime, I had a chance to check the backyard. I don't know what I was looking for or what I thought I might find after six months. There were only overgrown bushes and weeds, a little orange tree crippled by the lack of water and covered with hard fruit turning brown because it hadn't been picked. The shed was one of those prefabricated metal jobs you can order through the Sears catalogue and put up anywhere. It was secured by a nice big fat padlock that looked sturdy enough. I cross the yard and inspected it. It was actually a simple warded lock I thought I could open in a few minutes, but I didn't have my little double-headed pick key with me and I wasn't crazy about the idea of standing out there fiddling with a padlock in broad daylight. Better I should come back when the sun went down and find out what Grice or his nephew kept in there. Old lawn furniture was my guess, but one can never be sure.

I took the house key back to Mr. Snyder and then got in my car and headed over to the office. I let myself in and made a pot of coffee. The mail wasn't in yet and there were no messages on my machine. I opened the French doors and stood out on the balcony. Where the fuck was Elaine Boldt? And where was Elaine Boldt's pussycat? I was running out of things to do and places to look. I typed up a contract for Julia Ochsner to sign and stuck that in my out box. When the coffee was ready, I poured myself some and sat down in my swivel chair and swiveled. When in doubt, I thought, it's best to fall back on routine.

I made a long-distance telephone call to a newspaper in Boca Raton, and another call to a paper in Sarasota, placing classified ads in the personals columns of each. "Anybody knowing the whereabouts of Elaine Boldt, female, Caucasian, age 43..." etc. "Please contact..." with my name, address, and phone number and an invitation to call collect.

That felt productive. What else? I swiveled some more and then put a call through to Mrs. Ochsner. She was on my mind anyway.

"Hello?" she said, picking up at long last. Her voice was tremulous, but held a note of anticipation, as though despite the fact she was eighty-eight, anyone might be calling and anything might come to pass. I hoped I'd always feel that way myself. At the moment, I wasn't so optimistic.

"Hi, Julia. This is Kinsey out in California."

"Just a minute, dear, and I'll turn the television down. I'm watching my program."

"You want me to call you back in a bit? I hate to interrupt."

"No, no. I'd prefer talking to you. Hold on."