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“One doughnut! Not one of each kind.”
“You don’t know that for sure,” Lula said.
“Have you lost any weight on this diet?”
“No. I gained a couple, but I think it’s water retention.”
THE SENIOR CENTER is in a big old house that was remodeled to accommodate bingo. It runs night and day and it smells like crackers. I’ve learned from past experience that it’s best to park on the far perimeter of the lot. At least half the seniors who come for pinochle or bingo are legally blind from macular degeneration, and they park by feeling their way along with their bumpers.
I left Lula in the Jeep with the doughnuts, and I crossed the lot and went straight to the admin office just inside the Center’s front door. An older woman in a turquoise smock was at the desk. She looked up at me and smiled.
“Yes, dear,” she said. “How can I help you?”
“I’m looking for my grandmother’s friend, Dolly.”
“You must mean Dolly Molinski. She isn’t here right now. In fact, I haven’t seen her for some time.”
“Do you know where she lives? Do you have a phone number?”
“No, I’m afraid not. We don’t keep any of that information. I know she lives close, because she would walk to bingo when the weather was nice.”
I returned to the Jeep and called Connie. “Dolly Molinski,” I said. “Can you get me an address?”
A couple minutes later, Connie came back on the line. “She’s on Stanley Street. Number 401 Stanley.”
“I don’t know Stanley,” I said to her. “I’m at the Senior Center. Can you give me directions?”
“She’s two blocks away. Take Applegate to Stanley.”
I drove two blocks down Applegate, turned at Stanley, and parked in front of 401. It was a tidy little white house with a postage-stamp front lawn presided over by a three-foot-tall ceramic gnome. Lula and I marched up to the front door, and I knocked. The door opened and a lady not much taller than the gnome looked out at me. She had short snow-white hair, a pleasant round face, and she was wearing shocking-pink yoga pants and a matching short-sleeved T-shirt.
“Yes?” she asked.
“I’m looking for Dirk McCurdle,” I told her. “Is he here?”
“Yes,” she said, “but he’s sleeping. Honestly, I don’t know how that man can sleep like he does. I’ve already gone to my tai chi class, put a stew in the slow cooker, and fed the cats.”
“It’s important that I talk to him. Could you wake him?”
“I can try, but he’s a very sound sleeper.”
She sped off, and Lula and I stepped into the living room. It was filled with overstuffed furniture and cats. There was an orange cat on the couch, a striped cat next to the orange cat, a black cat draped over a chair back, and a second tabby cat sprawled on the floor.
“There’s cats everywhere in here,” Lula said. “And I’m allergic to cats. I’m gonna have a cat attack.”
Dolly hustled back into the room. “He’s still sleeping,” she said. “Maybe you can come back some other day.”
“Dirk!” I yelled. “Bond enforcement. I need to talk to you.”
Nothing.
“Are you sure he’s here?” I asked Dolly.
“Of course he’s here. It’s Tuesday. I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m real busy. I’m behind schedule. I’ve got kitty litters to clean, I gotta get the car in for service, and I’m meeting the girls for lunch.”
“Do you mind if I take a look for myself?” I asked her.
“No. Go right ahead. I’d get him up for you, bu
