In Death's Shadow (15 page)

When I was satisfied, I printed a paper copy of the presentation and slipped it under Donna's door. I also e-mailed the file to her as an attachment just in case she logged in over the weekend. Donna struck me as the type who liked to get a head start on her Mondays, and I was happy to oblige. In any case, there was no way I would take the report to Garvin without discussing it with Donna first. Although information on specific underwriters had not been captured in Victory Mutual's database, I had the feeling that when the actual policies were pulled, some of Donna's underwriters were going to have a lot of explaining to do. Donna deserved to be the first to know.

On my way back to my cubicle from Donna's office, I grabbed a Coke out of the vending machine in the staff lounge. I popped the top and took a long, refreshing swig. Then I logged onto the Internet and went to aol.com to check for any messages from Gail. Zero. Zilch. Nada.

I stared at the screen for a good two minutes, sipping my Coke and planning my next step.
You're supposed to be good with computers, Hannah Ives. Don't just sit there, do something!

I put the Coke down and lifted my fingers to the keyboard. When in doubt, Google.

I Googled "Gail Parrish." There was an African-American playwright by that name, and a jazz musician, and a Gail Parrish who, according to a genealogy website, had married her first cousin in Spartanburg, South Carolina, in 1837. That would make her 166 years old. Not the Gail I was looking for.

I browsed through Google's features: calculators, street maps, spell checkers, phone books. When I clicked on phone books, I was delighted to see a new feature, Type in a phone number, with area code, and Google would look up the address for you.
Hot damn!

I typed the telephone number Gail had given me into the Google search box. Reverting to an old childhood ritual, I crossed my fingers for luck, closed my eyes, and hit the Enter key.

When I opened my eyes again it was like magic: next to a telephone icon, the address of the house Gail had called me from was staring back at me from the screen. "Thank you," I breathed aloud to whatever angel had sprinkled me with fairy dust that afternoon.

Before it could disappear in some cataclysmic computer meltdown, I jotted the address down on a Post-it and lifted the note off the pad. Then I hightailed it out of Victory Mutual so fast that the barrier arm at the security turnstile scraped alarmingly across the canvas top of my convertible. It was some measure of my eagerness to see Gail that I didn't even care.

When I got to the address in Eastport, I found that Gail Parrish was living in a lovingly restored, three-story colonial in the third block of Second Street, a short walk from the Severn River. A yellow VW Beetle was parked out front. I'd seen a similar car in Jablonsky's parking lot, so I figured the VW belonged to Gail.

I parked my LeBaron behind the VW and stepped out onto the sidewalk.

Gail's house had a porch the size of a postage stamp and a bright red door with a brass knocker shaped—no surprise, considering its owners—like an anchor. I trotted up the steps, lifted the anchor, and rapped loudly three times.

Nobody came to the door.

I looked around for a doorbell and finally found it, tucked into a space barely two inches wide between the door frame and the side of an oversize bronze mailbox. I stuck a finger into the crevice and pushed the bell.

No cheerful chimes, no clever tunes. From somewhere inside came a rude buzzing sound. No wonder they had installed the knocker. But still, nobody answered the door. Gail's car was out front, so where the hell was she?

There were all sorts of perfectly reasonable explanations.

Perhaps she was taking a bath. Or a nap.

Maybe she'd gone for a walk, or taken in a movie. The Eastport Cinema was less than a mile away.

Or somebody could have picked her up. Maybe her ex-was no longer an ex-? Had he come back into her life and swept her away to the Poconos for a weekend of romance and reconciliation?

I pulled the cell phone from my purse and punched Gail's number for what seemed the zillionth time. While I waited for the call to go through, I used my other hand to shade my eyes and peer through the front window. Although it was covered by sheer curtains, I could see enough through the glass to determine that there was nothing going on in the living room.

Gail's line was busy, surprise, surprise. Frustrated, I tossed the phone back into my purse.

I was heading around to check out the back of the house when something rubbed against my legs, scaring me witless. When I could breathe again, I looked down and saw that the culprit was a black and gray tabby. Gail mentioned she was taking care of the owners' cat. What was its name? Gail had told me, I was sure. Nemo? Nimitz?

I kneeled down and stroked the animal's soft, slate-colored fur. "What's your name, young fellow?" I fumbled for the tags that hung from the cat's collar. "Nitro," I read.

"Hey, Nitro old boy." Or was it a girl? With fur so thick, it was hard to tell. I rubbed Nitro behind the ears, then used the fingers of both hands to massage the bumps along his spine—a bit of pseudo shiatsu, modified for cats, that I'd picked up from Ruth.

Nitro purred like a well-tuned car. He stretched extravagantly, then rolled onto his back, reclining like an odalisque on the concrete sidewalk. "Ah, you are a girl," I observed, massaging down the full length of the shameless hussy's tail. "So, Nitro, anybody home but you?"

Nitro closed her eyes. Her nose drew ecstatic little figure eights in the air. I imagined her little kitty brain saying, "Don't talk, woman. Keep on rubbing."

I was working on one of Nitro's front paws, caked with dirt, when a woman stepped out of the house next door. Her eyes flitted in my direction. As I watched, she meandered down the sidewalk, then bent to fetch her Saturday morning paper, pressing one hand against the small of her back as if she were in pain.

"Excuse me," I called out, "but have you seen Gail?"

Gail's neighbor straightened. "She was out in the yard this morning, trimming the hedge." The woman waved her newspaper vaguely at the boxwood hedge that separated Gail's driveway from her own. Lying on the ground next to the hedge about halfway down the drive was a pair of electric hedge trimmers. A bright orange power cord snaked across the concrete and was plugged into an outlet in the foundation of the house.

"Golly," I said. "Why would Gail go off and leave an expensive piece of equipment like that lying on the ground?"

The neighbor shrugged. "Maybe she got interrupted and just forgot they were out here." She grinned. "Happens to me all the time. Know what I call it?"

I shook my head. "No, what do you call it?"

"Losing the rabbit."

I smiled at the odd but strangely apt allusion to hunting. "I find myself losing the rabbit a lot these days."

The woman limped back up her walk. "Hysterectomy," she said in response to my unasked question.

"Ouch, sorry," I said.

She shrugged. "Oh, well. What'cha gonna do?"

"Did you notice if Gail had any visitors?"

"No, sorry, I didn't."

I advanced several steps onto her lawn. "Look, I'm kinda worried. Gail emailed that she wanted me to call her about something important, but when I telephoned, the line was busy. It's been busy for five hours." I had a sudden thought. "Your circuits aren't down, are they?"

"Not that I know of." She reached into the pocket of her sweater and pulled out a portable phone. She punched a button and put the phone to her ear. "Nope. Got a fine dial tone."

"That's what I was afraid of. Frankly, I'm more than a little worried. Gail's car's on the street so she should be at home."

"You knocked?

I nodded.

"Maybe she's in the bathtub."

“For five hours?"

She raised a finger. "The Frasers gave me a key ages ago. They were away a lot on weekends, you know, sailing, and they asked me to feed the cat." She bobbed her head in Nitro's direction. "I see you've already met Nitro."

"Oh, yes." For all intents and purposes, the cat had passed out, cold, in a patch of sun on the warm cement. "You said something about a key?" I prodded.

"Oh! There I go again, losing the rabbit. If you'll wait a minute, I'll go see if I can find it."

"That'd be great. Thanks!"

She handed me the newspaper. "Here, take a look at this while you wait."

I'd barely had time to scan the headlines before she returned, waving a key. "Got it!" she crowed. "My name's Cindy, by the way."

"I'm Hannah."

"Nice to meet you, Hannah."

"Likewise." We had started up the walk, side by side, but I stopped and turned to face her. "Cindy, I really appreciate this. I'm sure it'll turn out to be nothing, but—"

"Oh, I understand completely," Cindy said. "I worked with this woman once, never late, never took a sick day, never once in three years! Then one day, she didn't show up for work. Didn't call in. Didn't answer the phone." She touched my arm. "I called the po-lice," she drawled.

"What happened?"

"Well, it took some major league convincing, but they finally agreed to send an officer to meet me at her apartment. We pounded and pounded on the door. Eventually got the super to open up." Cindy and I had reached the porch.

"And?"

"She was home, all right. Sitting on the floor in her bathrobe, like a zombie, surrounded by dirty laundry, spoiled food, unwashed dishes, and bags and bags of garbage."

"Gross." I waited for Cindy to climb the steps. "What was the matter with her?"

Cindy turned the key in the lock and pushed the door open. "Severe depression. She had to be hospitalized. Never did come back to work."

"Sad," I said. "Although I'm pretty certain we won't find Gail like that!"

Cindy laughed. "Oh, no way! She's just about the most outgoing person I know."

We were standing in the living room. "Gail?" I called out. "It's Hannah. Gail?"

Directly on our right a flight of stairs led to the second floor. "I'll check upstairs," I volunteered, remembering Cindy's recent surgery. "Can you look around down here?"

Cindy nodded.

While Cindy limped off in what I assumed would be the direction of the dining room, I climbed the stairs to the second floor. Nothing seemed out of place in the master bedroom and bath.

Across a narrow hallway were two smaller bedrooms. If the unmade bed was any indication, Gail appeared to be using the larger of the two rooms. I opened her closet. Since I wasn't familiar with Gail's wardrobe, it was hard to tell if anything was missing, but every hanger had something hanging on it.

In the bathroom, a towel had been draped to dry over the shower curtain rod, as if Gail planned to reuse it. A makeup bag yawned open on top of the toilet tank, and a toothbrush stood at attention in a cup on the bathroom sink. The bristles were still wet.

If Gail were on her way to Las Vegas, I hoped she took a lot of cash, but not for gambling. She'd need to buy some new clothes and a toothbrush once she got there.

I checked the remaining bedroom, but like the master bedroom, it appeared untouched, so I trotted back downstairs and joined Cindy in the kitchen. I found her standing at the sink, her back to me. The odor of burnt coffee hung in the air.

"Phew! That smells awful!"

"Pot boiled dry. Probably forgot to turn it off before she left." Cindy had filled the coffeepot with soapy water and was swirling it around. "Did you find anything upstairs?"

"Nope. Guess I was worried over nothing."

While Cindy took a Brillo pad to the pot, I glanced around the kitchen. With the exception of a mug and spoon sitting out on the polished granite countertop next to the fridge, Gail's kitchen was practically spotless.

"Is this it?" I asked.

Cindy ripped two sheets of paper towel off the roll, spread them out on the counter and inverted the coffeepot over them to drain. "Yup. Except for a little laundry room in the back. Judy Fraser used to put together flower arrangements on a table back there, but Gail fixed it up real nice for her computer."

"Was Gail on the computer a lot?"

"God, yes. She buys and sells antique jewelry on eBay." Cindy's brows scrunched together. "Didn't you know?"

Nitro saved me the embarrassment of having to admit I didn't know about Gail's jewelry business when the cat suddenly appeared, meowing pitifully. She trotted over to Cindy and rubbed against her ankles.

"You hungry, Nitro, baby? Poor kitty." Cindy opened a cupboard next to the sink and pulled out a plastic canister of dried cat food. She dumped a half scoop of kibble into Nitro's bowl, then grinned up at me. "She's a regular P-I-G!"

Something about the cat was bothering me. "Did you let Nitro in?" I asked.

"She's got a cat flap," Cindy explained.

"Duh," I said.

Cindy replaced the cat food canister. "Yeah, Gail's always complaining about how slow the dial access is. She's getting cable real soon." Cindy swept the mug and spoon into the sink. "We can check out the laundry room if you want." Clearly, Cindy thought it would be a complete waste of time.