The Goodbye Body (8 page)

He wandered away, and I resumed filling out order forms within the limits of my budget and whatever credit I could wheedle out of the publishers. I sold a few books and shooed out some junior high girls who were reading aloud steamy passages from romance novels. The telephone remained silent, which meant no crises were taking place at Dolly’s house that were deemed worthy of my intervention. This did not mean that I wouldn’t arrive there to find fire trucks, ambulances, police cars, a SWAT team, and perhaps a vehicle from the UN with a multinational force to restore order.

I was putting the catalogs in my office when I heard the telephone ring. I made sure I was seated before I picked up the receiver.

“Ms. Malloy,” began Mr. Kalker, my less than revered landlord, “I reckon I got some bad news for you.”

“You rented the downstairs apartment to a family of rats—or should that be a pack of rats?”

“No, it’s just that all the insulation has been infested, so it’s got to be replaced. I got carpenters going over there tomorrow to start tearing down the Sheetrock. They know to be real careful with your stuff, but it might get dusty. After that, they—”

“How long will this take, Mr. Kalker?”

“I’m in real estate, not remodeling.”

I took a bottle of aspirin from a desk drawer and tried to open it with one hand. “So now we’re talking about the full two weeks?”

“Along those lines, yeah. Do you have any idea what this is costing me? I might as well level the site and put in an apartment building. I ain’t sure about the zoning, but I figure I can squeeze in maybe six, eight units.”

I put down the receiver, opened the bottle and shook out three tablets, then picked up the receiver. “The duplex is on the Historic Register. You can’t make any changes to the exterior, much less raze it. Penalties range from a hefty fine to imprisonment, or both. If you don’t believe me, go look it up at the courthouse.”

“You sure about that?”

“Absolutely,” I said, having no idea what I was talking about. “Call me when you’re ready for me to look at paint chips. I’ve always thought sage green might be nice in the living room. Goodbye, Mr. Kalker.”

I went back to the front room and was preparing to lock up when Lucy Hood and an unfamiliar man came across the portico.

“Oh, dear,” she said as she came inside, “are you closed?”

“I’m in no rush, but I can’t believe you’ve read all the books you bought this morning.”

“Only one of them. I wanted to show Gary your store. He’s staying in one of the condos, and invited me to lunch at the clubhouse. He’s looking for bird books.”

“Gary Billings,” he said.

He was definitely Hollywood material, with tousled blond hair, intense blue eyes, and broad shoulders. Despite the fact that he was wearing a sports jacket and crisp trousers, I could see him in the role of a debonair tennis pro resisting (or acquiescing to) the advances of shapely matrons laden with sterling-silver baubles.

“You’re a bird fancier?” I asked.

“Nothing of the sort. I’m looking for bird recipe books,” he said gravely. “Roast robin, fried dove, sparrow a la king.”

Lucy shook his arm. “You are such a liar. This is Claire Malloy, the owner of the store. She was about to close, so let’s not delay her with your feeble attempts at humor.” She looked at her watch. “I didn’t realize how late it is! Daniel and I promised to meet another couple for drinks in half an hour, so I need to run. Claire, will you please find something for Gary and then kick him out? Gary, do try not to be insufferable.” Twitching like Alice’s White Rabbit, she darted out the door.

“Goodness,” he murmured. “I sense that Lucy has ulterior motives, although I want to assure you that I do not. I’m looking for the Audubon guide for birds west of the Mississippi.”

I agreed with his assessment of Lucy’s motives, but said nothing and led him to a nearby rack. “I don’t have a wide selection, but I do have the Audubon and a few other field guides.”

He selected a couple of books. “Shall I assume you’re single?”

“Why would you assume anything about me?”

“Lucy is one of those women who cannot bear the idea of single people drifting about like free spirits. She would have made a fine dowager in a Jane Austen novel. When I told her I was divorced, I saw a distinct glint in her eye. We continued to chat, but I could tell she was distracted. Now I know why.”

“Perhaps she overestimates herself,” I said as I rang up his purchases. “I said nothing earlier about my marital status.”

“You’re not wearing a wedding ring. Divorced, or still waiting for a prince?”

The conversation was taking a disturbingly personal bent. “I’m a bookseller, which is the only variable of any consequence. Cash or credit card?”

Gary gave me an impertinent smile. “Hey, don’t blame me. I would have been perfectly content to sit on the deck and identify birds as best I could. Lucy insisted that I accompany her here. The store’s charming, by the way.”

“Thank you.”

“So, are you single?”

I bit back what might have been interpreted as a caustic reply. “Your total comes to thirty-two dollars and seventeen cents. Would you like a bag?”

“I’d prefer a drink. Might you be able to join me at the establishment across the street?”

“I think not. If you’ll excuse me, I need to lock up and be on my way. Happy birdwatching, Mr. Billings.”

His smile faded. “Hey, I’m sorry if I’ve offended you. The last time I asked a woman for a date was when I was in college, and familiarity was the rule. I’ve only been divorced for a couple of months—make that sixty-seven days—and I’m clearly stumbling into a brave new world.”

If he hadn’t been drop-dead gorgeous, tanned, poised, and somewhat witty, I might have believed him. As it was, I doubted he’d been a bashful husband who could barely conduct a conversation over martinis at a chic restaurant. “You did not offend me,” I said. “It’s just that I have a complicated situation that requires both my attention and my presence. Drop by again if you’d like to browse.”

“Lucy will be disappointed.”

“I’m sure Lucy has only the best intentions, but not all of us are characters in novels who can be manipulated at an author’s whim. I really do need to go now.”

He followed me to the door. “I’ve always thought I’d make a great Gatsby.”

“Then you’ll have to look elsewhere for Daisy. Goodbye, Mr. Billings.”

“Daisy? I could have sworn her name was Dolly.”

I caught my breath, then managed to say, “No, her name was Daisy Buchanan. Next time you’re by, I’ll sell you a copy so you can refresh your memory.”

He obligingly stepped out onto the portico so that I could lock the door, which I did with an unsteady hand. His mistake could have been entirely innocent, I told myself as I switched off the lights and left through the office door. The names were similar, and he’d probably last read the novel in college. I’d obliquely brought up the subject by claiming I was not a fictional character. Gary Billings and his type no doubt fancied themselves to be ruthless tycoons. And I was hypersensitive, albeit justifiably so. Sometimes a coincidence is just a coincidence.

The campus was closed down for the day, with only a few students ambling along the tree-lined sidewalks. It looked so safe and serene that I had to hold in a whimper as I speculated on what might be awaiting me at Dolly’s house, but sitting on a bench was not on my agenda. I parked behind the Mercedes and went inside. There was no sound of carnage from the den, which was an agreeable respite. I stopped in the hall to listen to messages on the answering machine. As usual, they were all from women and concerning luncheons, committee meetings, and fund-raisers for causes that were undoubtedly worthy of fashion shows at the country club and champagne receptions at the arts center.

I went into the kitchen, which remained pristine, and poured myself a glass of scotch. When I came back out, I heard Caron’s and Inez’s voices from the patio and continued in that direction. They were sprawled in lounge chairs, with glasses of soda within reach and magazines spread across their laps.

“Everything okay?” I asked as I sat down by the table.

“As far as I know,” Caron said. “We stayed in the den until the pool guys left. After that, we came out here.”

Inez sat up and looked at me. “My mother called to see how everything was going. I didn’t think she would want to hear about the dead body and the attack in the front yard, so I didn’t say anything.”

“That was for the best,” I acknowledged with a weak smile, feeling as though I’d been tacitly accused of masterminding some devious scheme. “Where’s Madison?”

Caron shrugged. “How should we know? She wasn’t around when we came downstairs, and we haven’t seen her all afternoon. I looked in on Sara Louise, who’s still asleep.”

“Could Madison have been in the bedroom across the hall?” I asked. “She implied earlier that she was planning to stay there to be near Sara Louise.”

“No, the door was open and I didn’t see her. The bathroom door was open, too.”

I took a sip of scotch. “That’s odd. What about the rest of the house?”

“About the only place she might be is in the garage or the attic,” said Inez. “If there is an attic.”

Caron snorted. “And what would she be doing in the attic? Having a tea party with dolls and teddy bears? After four hours, that might get a little old.”

“Dolly’s car is out front,” I said, “so perhaps she went for a walk.”

“Right,” said Caron. “After all, the park’s only two or three miles. She’s probably sitting under a tree, writing sonnets. ‘How do I love me? Let me count the ways …’ The list could take hours.”

I tried again. “Maybe the mechanic called to say the car was ready, and offered to pick her up. She might still be on the telephone with her father, explaining the situation and persuading him to pay the bill.”

“So call the garage.” Caron turned the page of the magazine. “Who wears this crap, anyway? The principal would have a stroke if I showed up in purple leather pants, stiletto heels, and a transparent bustier. If I wore it on Thurber Street, I’d be dragged into an alley.”

Inez leaned over to look. “I don’t think anybody actually wears that sort of thing in public. Well, maybe in Paris or Rome.”

“Or Alpha Centauri,” added Caron. “Can you believe somebody would pay nearly two hundred dollars for a pair of sunglasses? I feel faint. Inez, would you be so kind as to fetch me a damp washcloth?”

“Oh, yes, Miss Caron. When I get back, would you like me to massage your feet?”

“I would be ever so grateful if you’d just sprinkle them with champagne. My toenails are absolutely parched. A Mont Blanc, I should think, or a Moulin Rouge …”

I ignored them. I could call the garage, but neither Madison nor Sara Louise had ever mentioned its name. Farberville might lack an opera house and a museum of modern art, but it boasted innumerable garages and auto repair shops. And, to be candid, her absence was not intolerable. Caron and Inez had reverted to a more mellow level of catti-ness. The pool could have been featured in a landscaping magazine for those with exorbitant incomes. The only noises from the neighborhood consisted of car doors and modulated voices; no one seemed to feel the need to mow a lawn or blow away an errant leaf.

However, I was puzzled by Madison’s behavior. She’d professed great concern about Sara Louise at noon—but shortly thereafter, had cast off her Florence Nightingale trappings and disappeared, not into the night but into the midday sun. I told the girls I would return shortly with some crackers and cheese, then went inside. Madison had not left a note on the pad next to the phone. I did a quick tour of the living room, dining room, and den. The only evidence of any occupation was in the den, where there were soda cans and an empty pretzel bag on a coffee table. Fingerprinting and DNA testing were not required to identify the culprits.

I went upstairs and into Sara Louise’s bedroom. She appeared not to have moved since I’d been there earlier. I was not surprised, since the prescription bottle from a pharmacy contained pills strong enough to knock out the most valiant cavalry troops on the Crimean battlefields. Sara Louise’s color was adequate and she was breathing evenly.

The bedroom directly across the hall was untidy, but no more so than the master suite. Madison had been able to cram quite a bit into her backpack, I thought as I picked up clothes and tossed them on the bed. She clearly preferred silk to cotton, and the sunglasses atop the dresser were replicas of the ones in Caron’s magazine. I stopped as I saw her purse on a chair by the window. I advanced cautiously, as though it might be a booby trap left by fashion terrorists. Echoes of stern warnings blared over loudspeakers in airports flashed through my mind.

I finally opened it. Rather than sticks of dynamite, it contained a thick wallet, a makeup kit, scraps of paper, pens, a checkbook, a key ring, a brush, a small address book, wadded tissues, and other necessities.

I could think of no reason why she wouldn’t have taken it with her, unless she’d anticipated being gone for only a few minutes. It would have been firmly affixed to her backpack had she attempted to climb Mount Everest, or strapped to her life jacket had she chosen to go white-water rafting on the Colorado River. A dearth of lipstick would pose a greater threat than mere frostbite.

Perplexed, I did a quick search of the guest bathroom, master suite, and my bedroom. If there was an attic, I saw no telltale trapdoor in the ceiling. Madison was not the type to risk climbing a rickety ladder in order to brush away cobwebs and amuse herself by snooping through whatever Dolly might have stored there.

There was likely to be a more mundane explanation, I told myself as I went downstairs. The doctor at the emergency room could have been as handsome as the most recent customer at the Book Depot, and called to invite Madison for a leisurely lunch. A grad student might have met her while she was at the mailbox and suggested watching racy videos at his house. She’d felt the need for a spontaneous trip to the mall to alleviate her stress and called a taxi. She’d gone for a walk, turned her ankle, and was now being treated by a bearded professor with a fondness for whiny blondes in tiny shorts. But she wouldn’t have left her purse behind in any of those scenarios.