Riverside Drive. Laura Wormer Van

is it, a holiday or something?”

      Mabel looked down at the paper in her hand. “I tried every single name in the Trinity file—Lane Smith, George O’Shea, Alice Tilly, Ian Claremont, John Sawyer—”

      “How about that guy in manufacturing,” Sam said, “Peter, Peter—”

      “Johnson. I tried him too.” Pause. “Mr. Wyatt, none of them work there anymore.”

      “What?” Sam sat back in his chair, thinking a moment. “Were they fired or did they quit?”

      “They wouldn’t tell me,” Mabel said, “They just said, ‘He is no longer with the company.’”

      5

      Mrs. Goldblum at home

      Dear Mrs. Goldblum [the letter said], After repeated telephone conversations with you regarding your late husband’s employment with Horowitz & Sons, I am forced to reiterate the facts in letter form in the hope that the matter can be put to rest.

      You informed us that from the time of your husband’s death in 1970, until February of 1984, Bernard Horowitz issued certain sums of money to you. You informed us that these payments were from your late husband’s pension plan.

      If Mr. Horowitz did indeed make these payments, he did so out of his personal funds. Nowhere—and I have personally gone through every file—is there any record of a pension fund being set up for your husband. In fact, no employee at Horowitz & Sons had a pension fund with the company.

      In conclusion, Charger Industries has absolutely no obligation to the estate of the late Robert Goldblum. I hope this answers your questions.

      Sincerely,

      Phillip S. Robin

      “Hey, Mrs. G,” Rosanne said, coming into the kitchen, “Amanda gave me—Mrs. G, are you okay?”

      Mrs. Goldblum lowered the letter onto the table. “I’m quite fine, thank you.”

      “You don’t look so hot.” Rosanne edged closer. “Bad news?” she asked, nodding toward the letter.

      “No,” Mrs. Goldblum said softly, slipping the letter back into the envelope it arrived in. “There is some lovely chicken salad for your luncheon. It’s in the refrigerator.”

      “Thanks,” Rosanne said. She looked at Mrs. Goldblum a moment longer and then went over to the refrigerator. “Are you gonna want yours on lettuce or in a sandwich?”

      “No, thank you, dear. I’ve already eaten.”

      Rosanne frowned slightly. “Well, you sure eat fast then, since I’ve been here all morning.”

      “No, thank you, dear.” Mrs. Goldblum rose from her chair and, taking the letter with her, made her way toward the living room. Her hip was quite stiff today and she wondered if she shouldn’t be using her cane. And she wondered if she shouldn’t get over her keen dislike of having such a thing in the house.

      Carefully, she sat herself down at her secretary.

      Now then. The letter.

      Mr. Robin is wrong, Mrs. Goldblum thought. She pulled out the tissue in her sleeve and dabbed at her nose. Oh, why do one’s friends have to die? If dear Bernie was still alive, none of this confusion would have ever taken place.

      No pension plan—indeed!

      Does this Mr. Robin think Robert hadn’t planned for his retirement? Of course he had! Bernie told me that he had—right in this very room. Why, every month like clockwork, a check arrived from Horowitz & Sons for 416. And right on the check it said, “Pension Benefit—Estate of Robert Goldblum.” What is wrong with this Mr. Robin?

      What was she going to do now? Should she go to a lawyer? But how to find one? How to pay for one? Right now she had a little over 600 left in the bank. The rent would be due in two weeks. That would leave 320. There was the doctor’s bill that was overdue and Mrs. Goldblum was supposed to go back to see him this week. Well, that was out of the question. How could she face him with an overdue bill? And the dentist. Oh, dear. Such a jumble; how much was it she owed him? Eighteen hundred dollars?

      She would have to call Daniel. If she could locate him. The last time she had tried to call him, a recording said that the number had been changed. Did he give her his number last weekend?

      No, he hadn’t.

      Mrs. Goldblum’s cat, Missy, came sauntering in. Missy purred, arched her back and rubbed against Mrs. Goldblum’s leg. “Hello, Miss-Miss,” Mrs. Goldblum said, dropping her hand beneath the desk of the secretary. Missy rubbed her face in Mrs. Goldblum’s hand. “Yes, you are my good girl.”

      There was no point in calling Daniel, Mrs. Goldblum realized. Her son wouldn’t be able to help her. But maybe he could. Maybe he could come and straighten all of this out—

      She didn’t even have enough money to send him a ticket.

      Well.

      She would go to the bank and look in the safety deposit box again. There must be some bond or stock certificates left. Just to tide her over until this pension business was cleared up.

      “Oh, my,” Mrs. Goldblum sighed out loud. It seemed impossible that there was no money left. Where could it have gone?

      Oh, dear. This was a painful question she really hadn’t meant to raise.

      —50,000 for Daniel’s video business.

      —25,000 for Daniel’s video business to stay afloat.

      —10,000 for Daniel after the business failed.

      —16,000 for Daniel’s credit card problem.

      —20,000 for Daniel’s late child-support payments.

      —4,000 for Mrs. Goldblum’s lower plate.

      —5,000 after Daniel’s ex-wife’s and children’s pleas for help.

      And that was only the last year and a half.

      Mrs. Goldblum closed her eyes, choosing not to think back any further than that.

      Mrs. Goldblum flexed her hands. It was becoming a little more difficult to ignore these days, the arthritis. Particularly on humid days. It made one think in different terms. That is when they want you to go into a home, Mrs. Goldblum thought. When you speak of it taking sixteen and a half twists to open a six-ounce can of cat food.

      “What are you talking about, Mother?” Daniel had yelled on the phone.

      “About using the can opener, dear. About feeding Missy.”

      “Do you think I called all the way from Chicago to talk about a cat?”

      “I am simply answering your question, Daniel. You asked me how I am and I’m telling you how I am.”

      “You’re talking about can openers and cats!” he had cried.

      Rosanne breezed into the living room, breaking Mrs. Goldblum’s train of thought. “Before I forget again,” she said, holding out a large Saks Fifth Avenue shopping bag, “Amanda bought the wrong kind of shower curtain and can’t return it and wondered if you’d like it.” She pulled it out of the bag for Mrs. Goldblum to see.

      It was a pale pink. Mrs. Goldblum liked it very much indeed and reached out to touch it. “Wasn’t that thoughtful of her.”

      “Well, I don’t know, Mrs. G. Seems to me if Amanda was thoughtful she wouldn’t always be buyin’ the wrong stuff. ‘Member when she gave me the watch? ‘Member?”

      “I’m not sure that I do,” Mrs. Goldblum said.

      “Aw, sure ya do, Mrs. G,” Rosanne said. “When I told her to get some Windex and she came back with a watch? This one?” She held