Act of God by Jeremiah Healy

on vacation. You think the mail would help?”
    She ticked a couple of envelopes with a fingernail. “That’s where I’d start.”
    The mail wasn’t very much. Junk mail from contests telling her she may already have won, a couple of credit card solicitations. No charitable ones, though, and only one real bill.
    Her tab from New England Telephone.
    I opened that. The local calls wouldn’t appear, and I’d need a court order or police intervention to get them from the company. There were a few message units early in the billing period to an exchange in Meade, a suburb southwest of Boston where I’d had a case a few years ago. No charges for anything out-of-state.
    I said, “Does Roger Houle live in Meade?”
    “Yeah, now that you mention it. That on there?”
    She looked at the bill. “I guess that’s him.”
    Wickmire kept looking at the bill even though she’d answered my question.
    I said, “Something wrong?”
    “No, it’s just … Well, I thought she might have charged the call she made to me, but I don’t think the statement goes that far.”
    “What call?”
    “Last week. Darbra called me from wherever she was, and I kind of thought she might have charged it to her home phone, you know the way you can?”
    “You spoke to her while she was away?”
    “That’s what I said.”
    “What did she say?”
    “Just the usual. How’s Tigger, what’s the weather like up there, you know?”
    “When was this, Traci?”
    “Well, let’s see. I went out for drinks last … Tuesday? No, Wednesday. So it was Tuesday, like she was checking up on me.”
    “Checking up?”
    “Making sure I was taking care of Tigger.”
    “She ask you any other questions?”
    “No. She didn’t even come right out and ask about me feeding the cat. Darbra’s kind of like that.”
    “Like what?”
    “Always being indirect. She likes to come at you from the side, or behind, if it suits her.”
    “She didn’t say where she was?”
    “No, just the town.”
    “What?”
    “I said, just the town.”
    “I thought you told me before that you didn’t know where she was staying on vacation?”
    “Yeah, but I meant I didn’t know exactly where. She went to this beach town in New Jersey, but I don’t know the motel or whatever.”
    I tried to keep the impatience out of my voice. “Which town, Traci?”
    “Sunrise. Or Sunrise Beach, if there’s a difference.”
    “A difference?”
    “Like with Miami and Miami Beach. She used both names.”
    “Both.”
    “Both Sunrise and Sunrise Beach.”
    I glanced again at the current phone bill. “You figure all her old bills are in the top of the highboy?”
    “I think those are just the way-back ones. The more recent things she keeps in the desk in the living room.”
    Before leaving the bedroom, I went through the open suitcase. Nothing but the clothes and a toilet kit and a little sand that had sifted down into the corners of the case.
    Wickmire followed me back along the corridor to the living area. At the Governor Winthrop, I lowered the drop leaf and positioned the chair for sitting. The cubby-holes held rubber bands, pencils, a Flair pen and two Bic ballpoints, a small calculator, stamps, and blank envelopes.
    I raised the drop leaf. The first drawer had bundles of bills, these more current. I went through her charge card statements for the past year. Lots of clothes purchases, not much else, and no entertainment items. Either she paid cash or got treated. Same for her bank statements, but no indications of checks being deposited beyond her salary, which was only five-ten and change take-home twice monthly. It seemed she spent her money on rent and clothes and that’s it.
    “Traci?”
    “Yeah—Tigger, will you quit it? What?”
    “Darbra have a car?”
    “No. Can’t drive either.”
    “Can’t or doesn’t?”
    “Well, I guess I’m not sure she can’t, but I’ve never seen her.”
    “Then how did Darbra get to New Jersey?”
    When Wickmire didn’t answer, I turned