“I don’t think she even knew I was there, to tell you the truth. She just lay there with her eyes half shut, kind of snorting but not saying anything, except calling for the dog every now and then. So if you were thinking of taking her some of her things, I wouldn’t bother, Miss … uh.”

“Warshawski. But you can call me Vic. No, I just wanted to make sure her papers were in order.”

Mrs. Hellstrom frowned. “Isn’t that what Chrissie Pichea is supposed to do, with her and her husband taking over Mrs. Frizell’s affairs for her? It’s awfully generous of them to take it on, when they have their own work to do, although I don’t think they should have been in such a hurry to put the dogs to sleep. At least they should have talked to me first, they must have known I’d been looking after them.”

“Yes, I agree. I have some financial expertise that Todd and Chrissie lack. And I feel some responsibility to Mrs. Frizell—I should have done something to protect the dogs.”

“I know how you feel, dear—Vic, did you say?—because I feel just the same. You go on in, but you may want to open a window. Even though I tried cleaning the floors a bit, the place, well, to be frank, dear, it smells.” She lowered her voice on the last phrase as if using a word too dreadful for polite conversation.

I nodded portentously and let myself in the back. I’d half expected Todd and Chrissie to have changed the locks, so I’d brought my picks with me, but they must not have felt there was anything in the place that needed guarding. So technically I wasn’t breaking, just entering.

Mrs. Hellstrom was right about the smell. Years’ accretion of dog, unwashed dishes, and unswept floors produced a thick, cloying atmosphere that made me feel faint.

I pushed open windows in the kitchen and the living room, in itself quite a task since the ropes and pulleys were stiff with disuse, and made a quick survey of the house. Mrs. Frizell seemed to do fine without the trappings of modern technology: she had a small radio, but no television, no CD, not even a turntable. She did own a camera, an ancient Kodak that wouldn’t have brought a nickel bag on the street.

Back in the living room I pulled a wobbly chair in front of the secretary. It was an old, dark piece of furniture with a rolltop-covered writing shelf in the middle, book shelves above, and drawers below. The rolltop had been wedged shut years before by the papers stuffed into its edges. Papers were crammed against the diamond-glass doors of the book shelves and were stuffed into the drawers. Everything was covered with a fine layer of grime.