om habit,” Pescoli said.
“Should be more dates filled in. Kathryn Samuels-Piquard was one busy lady.”
“Maybe she hadn’t gotten to it yet, hadn’t transferred anything from her electronic one . . . or maybe she happened to call the dentist from this phone, or took the call if it was a reminder for her appointment, and her phone or electronic notepad wasn’t handy, so she jotted the info down here.”
“So, where’s this year’s calendar? The year isn’t over yet and this one starts January first,” Alvarez said.
“Which is almost here.”
“Could be she cleaned house before she left and filed it away or pitched it. She’s pretty neat.”
“Anal,” Pescoli agreed, carefully opening a drawer and seeing each piece of flatware nestled tightly into its mates—forks separated from salad forks, soup spoons in a different slot than teaspoons. She pulled open the door to the pantry with a gloved finger and saw all of the cans and boxes were kept together by brand in tidy rows. Next the refrigerator, where there was no food aside from half-empty bottles of salad dressing and mayonnaise. The glass shelves and white drawers were gleaming under the glare of the refrigerator’s bulb.
“It’s not anal, it’s organized. Not everyone is a slob, you know,” Alvarez pointed out. “This is how I keep my kitchen.”
Pescoli made a sound in her throat and thought of her own crammed pantry, her jammed closet with clothes she hadn’t worn or thrown out in years. Part of it was because of lack of time, and the other part was because she just didn’t care. “Are your clothes hung according to color?”
“Type of clothing, like pants or shirts, then color, then style.”
“Jesus.”
“Hey. It’s not that unusual. Come on, you’ve poked your nose in more than your share of closets. A lot of them were very organized.”
“Okay, fine.”
“So why throw a calendar out prematurely? An organized person wouldn’t.”
“Let’s find the damned thing, if we can.” Pescoli didn’t think the missing pages of the last year were a big deal, but she also didn’t like anything that seemed the least bit out of the ordinary. “If this was her routine, and the year isn’t over yet, and she was planning to return before the thirty-first, it should be around.”
“The garbage was probably picked up right before Christmas. If she threw it out . . .”
“Wait a sec.” Pescoli walked into the den again and knelt near the hearth where black, flaky ashes were visible in the firebox.
“What?” Alvarez asked, following.
“See those dark ashes in the grate?” Pescoli said, pointing toward the charred interior. “Would the judge leave ashes in the grate? Considering how neat she was, how spotless the rest of the house is kept, almost as if it was thoroughly cleaned before she left.”
“Nope.” Alvarez came over to her.
“I’ll bet that she rarely builds a fire here in her husband’s shrine. No way would she leave this fireplace with ashes in it.” Pescoli slid the screen open. “And those are not ashes from firewood, those big black flakes are paper.”
“The calendar?”
“Possibly. Or her will. Or maybe just a piece of paper with ID and account numbers she didn’t want to recycle, but still . . . there’s a shredder in her office.”
“Maybe the lab can find something.”
Pescoli rocked back on her heels. “Whoever made this fire might have been in a hurry; didn’t want to bother with taking the hood off the grate in the living room but wanted to make sure whatever it was got destroyed.” Her eyes narrowed as she thought, imagining the scene.
“So what was it?”
“If it was the calendar, then what did the killer want permanently erased?”
“A particular date with someone?”
“A lover?” Pescoli posed. “And his name was on the calendar? But if she wanted to hide it, that’s not too smart and the judge was pretty damned sharp.”
“Maybe she didn’t want to hide it, but he did.”