The Sleuth Sisters (10 page)

Chapter Fourteen

Faye

After lunch, Barb went out to do some errands, so I was alone when the phone rang. The readout said
unknown
, so I used my business voice. “Smart Detective Agency. How can I help you?”

“My name is Martin Arnold,” said a raspy voice. “I want you to find my wife.”

“She’s missing?”

“Um, yeah. She disappeared a couple of weeks ago.”

“When?”

“Last Thursday. She went to Miami on business, but she didn’t come back.”

I checked the desk calendar. “That would be the twelfth?”

“Right.” He cleared his throat. “The cops say she took off, but she wouldn’t leave me.”

“What do you think happened?”

“I think someone kidnapped her.” His voice got louder. “You need to find her.”

“Have you been contacted with ransom information?”

“Uh, no.”

“Then why do you think she was kidnapped?”

“I told you, she wouldn’t leave me. She loves me.”

The guy’s manner seemed off somehow, like he was making up the answers to my questions. Still, I pulled a notepad from my organizer, selected one of my very pointed pencils and asked, “Have you contacted the police in Florida to see if there’s been an accident?”

“She isn’t dead. I’d know.”

I began a litany of questions we’d devised to get the idea of what a case would involve. At his hesitant replies, doubts as to Arnold’s honesty crept into my mind. Still, I was reluctant to reject a potential customer since we weren’t exactly charging Meredith Brown by the hour.

Despite my patience, the interview went from bad to worse. Arnold’s answers became more and more vague, and I sensed no emotion behind them. “She was supposed to come back Wednesday night,” he said, “but sometimes she stays to take ’em out on the town.”

“She didn’t call to let you know when that happened?”

“Uh, no. We aren’t like that. When she comes back, she’s back, you know?”

Peering at the chair opposite me, I tried to imagine the guy sitting there. No picture came to mind. “When did you realize she wasn’t coming home?”

“Um, I guess on Friday. That’s when I called the police down there and told them.”

“Who took the information?”

“I don’t know, some guy that wasn’t very helpful.”

“Was it a desk officer, or did they refer you to an investigator?”

“I guess it was the desk. I only talked to one person.”

“And what did he tell you?”

“He said he’d look into it. He called the next day to say my wife never used her return ticket. She checked out of her hotel, got into a cab, and disappeared. We’re in debt, so they decided she left me. The cop said there wasn’t any more they could do.”

“It’s hard to believe the Miami police would ignore something like this.”

He made an impatient noise. “They didn’t ignore me. They just didn’t sound concerned.”

Either worry was causing the guy to act weird, or this was some kind of scam. When I didn’t respond, the man’s tone turned irritated. “I’m worried, and I want you to go there and look for her. Tell me what you charge and I’ll send you the money right now.”

“I’ll have to consult my partner. We might not be able to take on another case right now.”

“But aren’t there two of you? One could go and the other could stay here.”

Now he was managing the agency for us! “I’ll let you know by the end of today.”

“You aren’t going to get many chances like this.” He tried once more. “I really need your help.” His jump from threat to pleading wasn’t convincing.

When Barb came back I told her about the call, ending with, “I got the feeling he was making it up as he went. Not many details, and he kept calling her ‘my wife.’ No name.”

“Somebody’s playing games with us.”

“Who would do that? And why?”

She blew a gust of air upward, her usual response to a hot flash. “Someone wants to make monkeys out of the ‘lady detectives’ maybe.” Her tone put quotation marks around the term.

“But he offered to pay.”

“Offered.” She mopped her forehead with a tissue. “The other possibility that occurs to me is someone wants to distract us.”

“Yeah!” That hit home. “Split our resources and keep us from proving Neil’s innocent.”

“Or guilty.” I hoped she was simply trying to remain neutral. Wanting Neil to be innocent, I wanted Barb to want it, too.

I called Mr. Arnold back and told him we couldn’t take his case. When I recommended a firm he might contact in Miami, he said he was writing the name down, but I doubted it. He hung up quickly in what seemed to me more a snit than real distress.

Chapter Fifteen

Barb

I have never minded eating alone. I don’t look around at couples dining together and wish my life were different. Used to the pitying looks a lone woman gets from the hostess, I ignore the
just
in the question, “Just one this evening?” Upon returning to Allport, I’d insisted my sister had no obligation to feed me, and she’d insisted it was no trouble at all. We eventually came to a compromise. I have dinner with her and Dale once a week and breakfast on Sundays. Who knows what Faye would do if she couldn’t cook for people.

Caroline’s Cafe is a trendy little restaurant in the old section of Allport. The lighting is dim but not cave-like, and the waitresses are personally friendly, not professionally so. I have yet to hear one of them say, “My name is Allison and I’ll be your server.” They apparently understand that I don’t need to know their name to ask for more butter.

It was Friday and the place was crowded. Something about the layout keeps it fairly quiet, however, so it doesn’t feel like one is eating in a mess hall. I was awaiting an example of Caroline’s excellent panini when I looked up and saw a man enter. I’d only seen him in car headlights before, but he was the man I’d met after my Correction Episode at the drugstore.

His gaze swept the room as he waited for the hostess and stopped when it came to me. His eyes lit with recognition and what might have been humor, but he merely nodded. The uniform he wore identified him as our new chief of police, which explained why Mr. Midnight had been on the street so late. He’d been checking out night-time activities, possibly suspicious ones, in his territory. And what had he found? Me.

To my distress, the hostess led him to the only remaining table, which was directly behind mine. As if aware of my discomfort, he sat down with his back to me. I decided ignoring him was best, though our chairs were practically touching. We’d have to meet someday, perhaps even work together, if the Smart Agency was to succeed.
But not now
, I told myself. A visit to his office and a formal introduction would be better.

It was awkward, though. I heard everything the waitress said to him and everything he said back. He ordered the fish, and I wondered if he was fighting that thickening waist, at least until he selected fried rather than broiled. He looked good, though. I tried to remember what I’d read in the paper. Retired from the Chicago Police Department, Chief Something-unpronounceable had returned to northern Michigan, the land of his childhood. His coming was hailed as a new day in law enforcement, when Millden County would be dragged into the twenty-first century. I doubted one man could do it.

“Have you got some sugar over there?” His voice, coming over my shoulder, startled me.

“What?” Great, I berated myself.
Now you appear to be deaf as well as creepy
.

“Sugar. She brought me coffee but nothing to put in it.”

Careful to avoid body contact, I handed over the little ceramic box of sugar packets. “Thanks.” Now I was sure there was humor in his voice. “Crowded in here tonight.”

“Yes.”

“Would it start a rumor if we shared a table and let that couple sit down?” He indicated the doorway, where a nervous-looking young man and his date stood waiting for a place to sit.

“Yes.”

There was a challenge in his voice. “Can you handle it?”

I had to smile. “Rumors have never bothered me.”

“Good.” Picking up his place-setting and coffee cup, he moved opposite me, signaling to the hostess that his table was free. “Ruairidh Clellan Neuencamp. They call me Rory.”

“I’m Barbara Evans, mostly known as Barb.”

“Nice to meet you, Barb. Will sharing a table really cause a flap?”

“You’re the new man in town. Everything you do will be evaluated over the next few months. And I’m a spinster. Anything I do with a member of the male sex will cause comment.”

He passed on the spinster epithet. “I vote we resolve not to notice.” How easy it was for a man to say “to hell with gossip”! After decades of trying, I was still aware of the effort it took.

“All right.” I put out a hand. “Rory, you said?”

His palm was slightly rough as we shook hands. “One parent Ojibway, the other Irish through and through. Ruairidh is a proud old Celtic name, but Rory doesn’t require glottals.”

Our meals arrived almost simultaneously, which kept us busy for a while. Wishing I’d ordered something less messy, I cut the panini into bits rather than biting off chunks and ending up with cheese dripping down my chin. Rory talked easily, telling me why he’d returned to the area and what he hoped the next ten years would be like.

“Big city cops either get old or get out. I decided from the first to put in my thirty and then find a quieter place to finish.” He lowered his eyes. “Twenty was too much for my wife.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.”

“I was too, for a while.” His tone was light, but a shade across his eyes let me know her desertion had hurt. “Anyway, last year I put in my papers and started looking for a place up here that needed an officer. I found Allport or they found me, I don’t know which.”

Thirty years on the force put him at somewhere between fifty-two and fifty-five, I guessed. The job had aged him, but not in a bad way. He looked like a man who’d seen it all and decided to grin it down, like Davy Crockett with a bear. “You’re willing to keep at it?”

“Yeah. I’m hoping this town will be just what I need, stimulating but not overwhelming.”

“That sounds like my home town,” I said. “Definitely not overwhelming.”

“You’ve always lived here?”

“No. I came back after almost thirty years in Washington state.”

“Doing what?”

Although I usually tell people I retired from the practice of law, somehow I didn’t mind giving Rory a more accurate picture. “Assistant D.A.”

He set his cup in its saucer with a clink. “You’ve had adventures of your own, then.”

“Like you said, you get out or you get old.”

His eyes met mine. “You’re one of those people who’ll never look old. High cheekbones, beautiful skin, the gifts of good genes.” He grinned, adding, “And clean living, I’m sure.”

How long had it been since a man told me I was attractive? I couldn’t remember. My face warmed, and I took a sip of water to keep from looking too grateful. “Of course.”

Through the rest of the meal, I waited for the question he had to want to ask. What had I been doing alone on the streets at midnight with a lumpy backpack? He didn’t ask, and instead of relaxing in his easy company, I became more agitated. Rory was attractive, but there was a question between us. A truthful answer would bring surprise, maybe disdain. A lie would ruin any chance we had of being friends. I had to pretend there was no question, but it left an empty space between us we’d have to step around each time we met.

Oh, god. We’d meet again, and each time I’d wonder what he was thinking about the night when I’d obviously been up to something. I’d wonder what he thought that had been.

I wanted to get away from Rory Neuencamp, but I couldn’t simply leave in the middle of dinner. Then he’d really wonder what I was hiding. I imagined the question lingering in his mind, moving toward the front,  receding as I asked about his experiences, then resurfacing:
What was she doing, all in black and out at midnight?
I felt like the man in the Poe story, waiting for the cop to notice the beating heart under the floor.

Rory seemed relaxed as he made casual conversation about people he’d met in town. I, on the other hand, became more tense, almost spilling my water at one point and dropping a forkful of panini into my lap. When the main course was gone, I skipped dessert with the excuse that I was dieting, wished him well in the job, and hurried away.

In the car, I cursed myself for all kinds of foolishness. The first attractive single man I’d met in Allport and I had two strikes against me: first, I appeared to be some sort of night stalker, and now he’d think I was socially anxious, ungracious, and possibly bulimic as well.

Still angry at myself, I spent the rest of the evening working on a letter to the mayor of Allport, my next Correction Event. Wearing rubber gloves, I took a single sheet of paper out of the center of a stack in my printer tray. Placing it on top of the stack, I printed the letter I’d composed. I read it through once more to be sure it was clear and error free.

Mayor Gleason:

Several times in the months since you took office, you’ve been quoted in the local paper using incorrect grammar. Since I have no way of knowing if you were misquoted, I am sending a copy of this letter to the newspaper editor in hopes one or both of you will address the problem.

The word myself is a reflexive pronoun that should only be used in certain instances. Therefore, please do not say that “the commission members and myself” took action. In addition, you are quoted as saying people may contact “my secretary or myself.”

You might recall from school that the key to correct pronoun use is to think how the sentence would be framed if no other person is mentioned. Since you would say “I feel” and not “myself feels,”
I
is the correct pronoun in the first instance. Since you would say “contact me” and not “contact myself,”
me
is the correct pronoun in the second.

If you become more aware of your tendency to err with pronouns, you can avoid these unfortunate mistakes and become a better example to your constituents.

A Friend

Satisfied, I made a second copy, again using untouched paper from the middle of the stack, then addressed the envelopes the same way. Modern science can probably determine which printer created a document, but I doubted it would ever come to that. Both letters were likely to be thrown in the garbage with hardly a thought. Still, I had to try.

Putting the envelopes in a plastic zipper bag, I stowed it deep in my purse. As we traveled north tomorrow, I’d drop them in a mailbox somewhere. Feeling a little better, I went to bed, humming a song my grandmother used to sing, “Brighten the Corner Where You Are.”