The woman who opened the door at Kitty Jarvis’s building wore a paisley granny dress that had to be a relic from the sixties. A pair of round Benjamin Franklin glasses perched on her head. Long frizzy brown hair threaded with gray was held back with a clip. Georgia extended her hand. “Georgia Davis.”
“Elizabeth Start.” She shook Georgia’s hand. Georgia immediately thought of Elizabeth Smart, the woman who’d been abducted at fourteen and held captive nearly a year. As if she knew what Georgia was thinking, Start said, “I’m not Elizabeth Smart.”
Georgia grinned.
“Most people call me Betsy. Come on. We need to go through the back.” She threw on a coat and led Georgia around to a few steps that led down to a back door framed by latticework on both sides. She fished out a key, unlocked the door, and flipped a light switch as she went inside.
It was an unfinished basement, with a cracked concrete floor and a strong musty odor. The exterior walls, also concrete, were fortified with several green strips of hardened foam that indicated the foundation was cracked and had leaked water. It reminded Georgia of the basement in the house on the West Side where she’d grown up.
“So.” Betsy pointed to the center of the room. “Can you take these boxes of whatever out of here?”
Half a dozen boxes of assorted sizes and shapes occupied most of the basement floor. Georgia tried to pick up one, but it was too heavy. “How did they get here?”
“A delivery service. Not UPS, but I don’t know the name. My husband keeps telling me he’s called several times, but it’s been two weeks and nothing’s happened.” She shook her head and folded her arms. “It’s getting impossible to get anything done these days. No accountability. People don’t care about anything except themselves.”
“You have the shipping info?”
Betsy dug into the pocket of her dress and pulled out a folded paper. She handed it to Georgia. The paper was addressed to Scott Jarvis, 1280 West Morse Avenue, Chicago. The sender was International Yurt Limited, with an address in Washington State. Georgia frowned. “You wouldn’t know who their Chicago distributor is, would you?”
“Are you kidding? I’ve never heard of a yurt.”
Georgia pulled out her cell and took a picture of the label, which included a series of numbers, which she hoped was the order number.
She bent down to inspect the various boxes. When did Jarvis buy a yurt? And why? Georgia was surprised he had the money. Yurts weren’t cheap. If it was custom-made, the price could run five thousand dollars. Unless it was a gift. But then why would he blow himself up afterward? If he was given a shelter that could be assembled almost anywhere, didn’t that indicate a healthy desire to stay alive? Could it have been compensation for killing Dena? Or did his sister buy it for him? Maybe she wanted him out of her hair. He’d been living with her since he was discharged from the military.
Georgia straightened, took a step back, and bumped into something she hadn’t noticed. When she turned around, she realized it was a case for a huge musical instrument. “Sorry . . .”
“Oh, don’t worry. That’s just my cello. It’s here temporarily.”
Georgia raised an eyebrow.
“I used to play. In the Northwest Symphony Orchestra.”
“Really?”
Her cheeks reddened. “We played at Maine West in Des Plaines. They still do.”
“But you don’t?”
“I broke my leg a few years ago. Had to miss the season. There were only four concerts anyway. Then Ken needed me, and we got busy here. I just let it go.”
“Forever?”
“I suppose nothing is forever.”
“Sure. Maybe you’ll get back to it.”
She didn’t reply. Georgia took that as a “no.” Too bad. The world needed people who could add beauty, however big or small their contributions.
“I really should have Ken take it upstairs. It’s too damp down here,” she mused as if she was talking to herself.
Georgia cleared her throat. “Do you have any idea where Kitty went? Or when she’ll be back?”
“She said she had to get away for a while.” Betsy’s expression softened. “Can’t blame her.”
“She must have left an emergency contact. Or a phone number? An address?”
Betsy shook her head. “She didn’t want to be bothered. But she said she’d send the rent in if she stayed away longer than a few weeks.”
“So she’s planning to come back . . .”
“I assume so.”
“Would anyone else here know anything? A neighbor? Someone on her floor, maybe?”
“People here keep to themselves. My Kenny and I probably know more than anyone else.”
“That’s what Joel said.”
“So, what do you think? Can you get rid of this for us?”
“I’ll do my best to track it down and have it returned.”
Betsy gave Georgia a nod. “You’re an investigator, Joel says?”
“That’s right.”
“Is something wrong? I mean aside from that girl being shot by Kitty’s brother? And then him committing suicide?”
Isn’t that enough? Georgia bit back her reply. “There are—well—some loose ends I’ve been asked to look into.”
Betsy nodded again. The muscles around her mouth loosened. “Well, I’ll ask around. You know, the building.”
Georgia smiled. “Thanks.”