Missing Marlene (5 page)

Since Florence would not arrive until tomorrow, Jane left the office at two-fifteen and picked up Nick at school. He gave her a scrutinizing look as he got into the car.

“Feeling better, Mom?”

She pulled away from the sidewalk and around the drive. “About what?”

“Marlene. Did she call?”

“No.... But I’m sure she will soon. It looks as if she’s with a friend in New York.”

“Oh!” he said, as if that settled that. “Then what’s bothering you?”

She frowned. “Who said anything’s bothering me?”

“Your eyes are all scrunched up, and you’re leaning forward and holding the steering wheel supertight.”

Immediately she forced herself to relax, leaned back against the seat, and eased her grip on the wheel. “It’s some work stuff.”

“What work stuff?”

“Well, Roger’s publisher isn’t treating him very nicely. I’ve been trying to get them to do some things they don’t. want to do. Roger’s very upset.”

“And you’re upset because you love Roger?”

A laugh exploded from her. “Love Roger! Nicholas Stuart, what on earth are you talking about?”

“He kisses you sometimes. I’ve seen it.”

“Oh, really? When?”

“At your party, when he was leaving. I was at the top of the stairs.”

She shook her head. “You shouldn’t spy on people.”

He ignored this. “You do love him a little, don’t you?”

“I’m . . . fond of him.” Was she really having this conversation with her nine-year-old? “And you’re right. Sometimes when you care about someone and that person gets upset, you get upset, too.”

They were climbing Lilac Way. Jane turned into their driveway. As she pulled up to the garage she noticed that the front yard was thick with maple leaves of crimson and gold.

“Hey, let’s do some raking!” she said.

“Raking!” He looked at her as if she were crazy. “That’s boring.”

“Nonsense. It’s great exercise, and it needs to be done.
Jonny Quest
can wait.”

“Mom,” he said with forced patience, “Jonny Quest isn’t on till five-thirty.
Rugrats
is on now.”

“Well, the Rugrats can wait. We’ll bring in our stuff and change into work clothes.”

Despite a lot of whining, Jane got herself and Nick changed and back outside, where they got rakes from the garage and began dragging the leaves into two large piles, one on each side of the front walk. Nick had insisted that they leave the front door open so that Winky could watch them through the window of the storm door. She stood with her front paws up against the glass, opening her mouth wide in silent meows.

“Watch this, Wink!” Nick cried, and hurled himself into one of the leaf piles. He nearly vanished beneath the crunchy blanket of color, only his shiny brown hair showing.

“Hey, that was fun!” he said, standing and brushing off his jacket. “You do it, Mom.”

“What! Are you crazy? And look at the mess you’ve made of our pile.”

“Aw, Mom, loosen up. This is supposed to be fun.”

She felt as if she were the child and he the parent. He was right. That was why she’d suggested raking in the first place—so they could have some fun, and she could get her mind off Roger and Marlene.

“Oh, what the heck,” she said, threw down her rake, and fell into the pile of leaves. It felt wonderful, and she laughed as she couldn’t remember laughing in ages.

“My, my, aren’t you two having fun.”

Jane poked her head up through the leaves. Audrey Fairchild from across the street stood on the walk between the holly hedges, smiling as if at two mischievous children. She wore a belted mauve sweater over a cream turtleneck and tan wool slacks. Her honey blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and her face was fully made-up, from her berry lips to her ashy eyelids.

Nick, as if sensing that the fun was over, the mood spoiled, slouched into the house. Looking after him, Jane got up and brushed herself off.

“I feel so foolish,” she said to Audrey.

“Foolish! Don’t be silly. I think it’s marvelous. I came outside to get the mail and heard you two.” Audrey frowned in puzzlement. “I thought you had a lawn service.”

“Yeah—us!” Jane said with a laugh. “Can’t afford that quite yet, Audrey.”

“Ah,” Audrey said, but the expression in her blue-green eyes made it clear that the idea of being unable to afford something was completely foreign to her.

Jane, uncomfortable, added, “Not till I get that big bestseller.”

“Mm,” Audrey said. “By the way, I heard Marlene left.”

“How did you hear that?” Jane asked.

“Roger told Elliott at their club.”

Jane nodded.

“Any idea why she left?” Audrey asked.

“Apparently she’d just broken up with her boyfriend—”

“Boyfriend!” Audrey, to Jane’s bewilderment, looked astonished. “Marlene had a
boyfriend?”

“Yes, Audrey,” Jane said, frowning. “Why do you find that surprising? She is quite a beautiful girl....”

“Oh, I agree, I agree,” Audrey blustered. “It’s just that—well, did you
know
about that? You certainly never mentioned it.”

“No, I didn’t know about it, but it’s true nevertheless. Anyway, she broke up with this young man. And she didn’t like working for me, so”—Jane shrugged—“why stick around?”

“Why indeed ...” Audrey said thoughtfully, eyes unfocused. For a long moment she stared down at the ground, crunching a leaf with the toe of her shoe. Then she looked up brightly. “So—have you hired someone new?”

“Yes, a lovely young woman named Florence Price. She’s arriving tomorrow.”

“Good,” Audrey said, apparently no longer interested in this subject, because she was now studying the front of Jane’s house, no doubt noticing that it needed a fresh coat of paint. She turned back to Jane. “Well!” she said briskly. “Don’t forget my party Saturday night.”

Audrey’s husband Elliott was a cardiovascular surgeon, considered one of the best in his field. For that reason he was under serious consideration for the medical directorship of the New Jersey Rehabilitation Institute, one of the country’s leading facilities. Which was why, as Audrey had explained to Jane, she was giving this cocktail party—to ingratiate herself and Elliott with the members of NJRI’s board of trustees, who would ultimately appoint the medical director.

“Six-thirty,” Audrey said. “Don’t forget.”

“I won’t,” Jane assured her.

At that moment a voice from across the street called, “Mother! I’m waiting!”

Jane glanced over at Audrey’s house. Audrey’s daughter Cara stood near the three-car garage, her hands on her hips.

Audrey laughed and rolled her eyes. “I promised to take her to the Short Hills Mall. It’s her favorite.” Backing toward the road, she put out a cautionary finger. “Now don’t forget—Saturday, six-thirty.”

“Got it!” Jane said brightly.

“Bye, doll!” Audrey said, turned, and hurried toward her house, calling, “Coming, darling, coming.”

Jane sighed and surveyed the masses of leaves. They didn’t look like much fun anymore. She returned the rakes to the garage and entered the house through the kitchen. She peeked into the family room. Nick sat cross-legged on the sofa, engrossed in a cartoon. Winky lay asleep in his lap, a tight tortoise furball.

Jane poured herself a glass of Diet Coke and sat down at the kitchen table. She was glad Nick had Winky. Kenneth had given the kitten to Nick only a month before he died.

She remembered Nick’s questions about Roger in the car. Did Nick think Roger would be his next daddy? Jane considered this extraordinary notion. Did she think so? Perhaps. It was possible. Though she and Roger had only made love that one time, they were becoming more and more intimate these days, and Jane felt ready now to take the relationship to the next level. She sensed that Roger felt the same way.

She roused herself from her reverie and got up to start fixing dinner.

“Mom?” Nick looked up from his spaghetti and meatballs, red sauce thick on his upper lip. It was two hours later. “Does Florence wear makeup?”

“I don’t know, sweetie. You’ll find out when she gets here tomorrow. I don’t think she was wearing any when I met her. Why?”

“Marlene wore a
lot
of makeup.”

“Yes, that’s true. She did.”

“Marlene was mean.”

“Was she?”

He nodded quickly.

“In what way?” Jane asked.

“She would never play with me. She was always watching TV or going to her room or talking on the phone.”

“She talked on the phone a lot?”

“Not a lot, but sometimes.”

“Any idea who she was talking to?”

“No.”

“What she was talking about?”

He shrugged. “Sometimes she told people to stop bothering her.”

“Really? Who was she saying that to?”

“Mo-o-o-om, I just told you, I don’t
know
.” He speared a meatball, looked up. “Mom, are ugly people nicer than beautiful people?”

She laughed. “What a question! No, what you look like has nothing to do with how nice you are.”

He took a bite of the meatball and chewed it thoughtfully while patting Winky, who sat on the chair beside him, softly purring. He turned to her. “You’re nice, and you don’t wear any makeup, do you, Wink?” he crooned.

Jane smiled and shook her head.

The phone rang. Jane got up and answered it.

“Is Marlene there?” It was a woman’s voice, whispery and unfamiliar.

Jane tightened her grip on the receiver. “Is this . . . Zena?”

The woman hung up.

Absently Jane returned to the table.

“Who was that?” Nick asked.

“Someone calling for Marlene.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know.”

She picked up her fork, then had an idea and put the fork down. She jumped up, hurried to the phone, and dialed *69—Return Call. There was a pause; then a computerized voice told her the number of her last incoming call. It had a 212 area code. New York City. The telephone number itself Jane didn’t recognize. She jotted it down on the pad of paper beside the phone. Then she dialed the number.

After two rings a woman answered. Jane could tell it was the same woman who had just called.

Jane said, “Is this Zena Harmon?”

There was a brief silence. Then, “There’s no one here by that name,” the woman said, and hung up.

Jane didn’t try the number again immediately. She gave it about an hour, during which time she cleared the dishes, loaded the dishwasher, made Nick’s lunch for school tomorrow, and watered her plants.

This time when she dialed the number an answering machine picked up. The message was in a man’s voice, deep and booming.

“If you and I could just stay on this car,” the voice said, “riding around and around like this forever, never coming up for air, I would die a happy man!”

Jane looked at the phone. “What on earth—?”

The man’s voice continued, “Please don’t miss the show—we need all the help we can get. Edith Mantell Theater, St. Marks. Oh, yeah, and if you want to leave a message, wait for the beep. Bye!”

Jane replaced the receiver while scribbling on the pad. She grabbed her briefcase from the floor beside the counter, opened it, and took out today’s
New York Times.
Finding the theater listings, she took the paper to the counter and sat studying them.

When she had almost given up, she found what she was looking for in the Off-Broadway listings. Edith Mantell Theater.
Subways,
the play was called. “A true New York love story,” a critic had said, “painfully real.”

Jane tore out the listing and stuffed it into her briefcase.

The woman who had just called—Jane was sure she was Zena—was somehow connected to this man on the answering machine . . . who was appearing in
Subways.
Perhaps he could lead Jane to the elusive Zena, who in turn could lead Jane to Marlene.

It was a long shot, but worth pursuing.

She picked up the phone again and checked her watch. Six-thirty. Chances were good Daniel was still at the office. She punched out the number.

“Jane Stuart Agency,” he answered in his soft smooth tones.

“Daniel,” she said, “how’d you like to go to the theater tomorrow night?”

The next morning Jane sat in the car at the edge of the commuters’ parking lot at the intersection of Route 46 and Beverwyck Road in Parsippany. She faced the highway, at whose edge stood a New Jersey Transit bus shelter. Florence was due to arrive at 10:38 on the bus from Randolph. Jane glanced at the dashboard clock: 10:34.

Last night Nick had pleaded with Jane to let him skip school today, or at least to let him take the morning off, so that he could come with Jane to meet Florence’s bus. He’d pointed out that although Jane had met his new nanny,
he
hadn’t, and wasn’t it more important for
him
to meet her, since he was the one she’d be taking care of? Jane had laughed and called him a lawyer and told him he’d meet her soon enough. Besides, Jane felt strongly that school should not be missed except in the case of real illness.

At 10:48 she spotted the blue-and-red-striped bus in the distance. She got out of the car and crossed the narrow strip of grass to the bus shelter.

Florence was the only passenger who got off. She saw Jane immediately and smiled a beautiful white smile as the bus’s brakes let out a sigh and it pulled away.

“Hello, missus!” she greeted Jane cheerfully. She carried two large, tightly stuffed nylon duffel bags. Her coat, the same one she’d worn to her interview with Jane, was of navy blue wool with immense round buttons of light wood. Studying Florence more carefully now than she had during their interview, Jane realized that she was quite lovely, her dark complexion flawless, her black eyes large and slightly tilted, her hair cropped close to her small, well-shaped head. And all, Jane observed, without a touch of makeup. Nick would like that.

“Hello, Florence,” Jane said, approaching her, and to Jane’s delight Florence dropped her bags and gave Jane a hug.

“Welcome,” Jane said. “It’s good to see you.” She led the way to the car, and they put Florence’s bags in the trunk.

“So tell me a little about yourself, Florence,” Jane said amiably as they headed north on Beverwyck.

“Well,” Florence replied in her lilting tones, “you know that I have been working for the family in Randolph. The mister, he has been transferred to Chicago.” Her face grew sad and she gazed out the window. “I will miss little Kerry.”

“And before that?” Jane asked.

“I was in Trinidad,” Florence said, cheerful again. “My family lives in a village just outside Port-of-Spain. My mother is there, and my brother. My father, he died many years ago when I was a baby. Also nearby are many aunts and uncles and cousins.” She turned to Jane. “And you, missus? There is a mister?”

“No,” Jane said, and Florence shook her head in sympathy. “He died two years ago. It’s just Nick and me—and our cat, Winky.”

“Ah, Winky!” Florence cried gleefully. “We will be in for some good times. Animals and me—we are very good together.”

Jane smiled. She turned onto Cranmore Avenue, which would take them into Shady Hills. “Florence,” she said, “I feel you should know that we had some trouble with the nanny we had before you.”

“Trouble? Did she leave, or did you fire her?”

“She left. Without a word to me or anyone else, in fact.”

“Whoo, just to disappear,” Florence said, shaking her head.

“But that wasn’t the only problem,” Jane went on. “Even while she was with us she lived a rather—well, a rather wild life. She got involved with some people she shouldn’t have gotten involved with. I blame myself partly for not keeping closer tabs on her, but . . . well . . .”

“You want me to behave myself?” Florence asked, her face all innocence.

Jane felt herself blush. “I’m sure you will, Florence. Please, I don’t mean to offend you.”

“Not at all, not at all,” Florence said, making Jane feel more at ease. “I understand what you are saying and am happy to tell you that you have nothing to worry about with me. I am a good girl. I hope to make friends in your town, but I will make only good friends. If I go out, it will be on the weekends, when I am off.” She looked at Jane, her face suddenly uncertain. “Sometimes during the week I like to go to Mass, but I would only do so if it was a good time for you. That would be okay?”

“Of course, Florence,” Jane said, and gave the young woman a warm smile. They were passing over the one-lane bridge that crossed the Morris River. “Here we are in Shady Hills now. It really is a lovely place. I’ll show you some of the sights.”

And she began by pointing out Hadley Pond to the wide-eyed Florence, who Jane strongly suspected was a treasure.

That evening, in the darkened Edith Mantell Theater, Daniel’s handsome profile turned toward Jane. He looked as if he were in excruciating pain.

“Was this absolutely necessary?” he whispered.

She gave him a warning look. The play
was
awful—three stories with no apparent connection to one another except that they all took place in the New York City subway system.

The sides of the scruffy little theater had been covered with Sheetrock that had in turn been covered with the most obscene graffiti Jane had ever seen—great sweeping rainbow scrawls of filth.

But she and Daniel weren’t here for the play, she reminded herself. She scanned the audience. The theater was nearly full, mostly of people around Daniel’s age, and they all sat in rapt attention as the play’s lead, a mildly demented character named Sancho, whose dream was to charge at a subway car and win (whatever that meant), explained to a police officer what the subway system had always meant to him.

Jane, too, watched Sancho carefully, but not because she cared what the subway system had always meant to him. Ten minutes earlier, in conversation with an actress playing a ticket seller with whom he had fallen in love, he had said, “If you and I could just stay on this car, riding around and around like this forever, never coming up for air, I would die a happy man!”

The actor looked about forty. He was tall, well over six feet, and ascetically thin, with refined, aquiline features and graying blond hair that grew shaggy over his ears. Jane glanced down at her playbill. His name, it said, was Trevor Ames. She tapped the name with her finger and realized Daniel was watching her.

“What is it?” he asked.

“That’s
him,”
she whispered.

“Who?”

“The man on Zena’s phone machine.”

“If
that was Zena.”

A young man sitting behind Jane shushed them loudly. They returned their attention to the play, which appeared to be grinding toward the end of the second and last act.

A seeming eternity later the curtain fell, the cast took their final bows, and the lights came up.

“Now what?” Daniel said, putting on his coat.

“Now we go talk to him.”

“Who?”

“Trevor Ames. That’s why we’re here, remember?”

“Well, I know we weren’t here to see that play. Phew!”

“Come on, hurry up,” she said, “before he leaves.”

She led the way down the aisle, against traffic, and through a door to the left of the stage. The backstage area was a dank, old-smelling place that Jane thought bore more resemblance to the subway system than the graffiti-covered Sheetrock did. Actors hurried about in various stages of undress, but Jane didn’t see Trevor Ames.

She squeezed her way through the crowd and into a narrow corridor with several doors on the left. On the second of these doors was a crudely lettered sign:
TREVOR
AMES
.
Jane raised her hand to knock, but at that moment the door opened and there he stood, tall and imposing in a billowing ankle-length gray-wool coat.

“Mr. Ames—” Jane began.

“Yes?” He smiled pleasantly, obviously mistaking her for a fan.

“Mr. Ames, I wonder if you could help me.”

His smile was replaced by a look of confusion. His gaze darted to Daniel, who stood silently behind Jane.

“I’m looking for my son’s nanny, Marlene Benson. She left without saying where she was going. Her mother and I are worried about her and are trying to find a friend of hers, Zena Harmon, whom I believe you know.”

His eyes bulged from under bushy brows. “I—” he stammered, and shook his head.

“Trev!” a woman’s voice called from behind Jane.

She turned. A young woman stood in the middle of the space they had just passed through, waving to Ames. She was petite, blond, and rather plain. Jane recognized her as the ticket seller to whom Ames had poured out his heart.

“Trev, honey,” she said, “you’d better hurry or we’ll be late for Gordon’s party.”

Jane turned back to Ames. He exhaled gratefully. “I’m sorry. I have to run.” He moved Jane gently to one side and hurried off with the young woman.

“Come on,” Jane said to Daniel, and she followed them. The stage door was just closing behind them. Jane pushed it open, Daniel behind her, and they emerged into the alley beside the theater. Glancing to her left, Jane saw the tail of Ames’s coat vanish around the front corner of the building.

She ran. after him. As she emerged onto St. Marks Place she saw him and the young woman getting into a taxi.

“Zena!” Jane cried.

The cab slid away from the curb.

“Zena!” she called again.

But the taxi picked up speed and pulled into traffic. As Jane watched, the young woman turned and shot Jane a hunted look through the cab’s back window.

“I know that was Zena,” Jane told Daniel, who had just caught up with her.

“How
do you know that was Zena?”

“Because she was with Ames. She called him ‘Trev, honey.’ ”

Daniel rolled his eyes in exasperation. “All you know is that you’ve found the man whose voice was on the answering machine—”

“—at the telephone number of the woman who called me yesterday.”

“Who may or may not be Zena.”

“Of course she is.”

“How do you know?”

“Who else would she be?”

Jane stood on the sidewalk, uncertain what to do next, watching people pour out of the theater.

She took the playbill from her coat pocket, flipped through it, and found the biography of the young woman who had played the ticket seller. “Dorothy Peyton,” she read.

“See!” Daniel said.

“Means nothing. It’s Zena. Why do you think she won’t tell her parents her phone number or her real address? Because she’s living with a man twice her age!
Trevor Ames.”

Daniel just shook his head.

Then Jane had an idea. Even selfish Marlene, if she knew how worried her mother and Jane were, would get in touch with one of them and let them know she was all right.

“We’re going back in,” Jane said.

“Back in? Why?”

“We’d better hurry before they lock up.” She ran back down the alley, Daniel following, and they reentered through the stage door. The backstage area was quiet now, but all the lights were still on.

“Wait here,” Jane told Daniel. “If anyone comes, start coughing.”

He looked askance. “Coughing? Where are you going?”

She had already started down the narrow corridor where Ames had appeared. She went beyond his door to the next one, which was unmarked, and opened it. It was dark inside, and she found a switch and flipped it, illuminating two bare bulbs in the ceiling.

It was a storage room. Against the right wall stood a stack of immense, crudely painted panels. Jane surmised that the graffiti-covered Sheetrock would end up here at the end of the play’s run, which she imagined would be soon.

Apparently the room also served as a dressing room. Along the left wall stood a long aluminum conference table. Three gray metal folding chairs sat before it, and on the table in front of each chair was a standing mirror and a discrete jumble of makeup, brushes, combs, pens, and candy.

Feeling like Goldilocks, Jane examined the first pile of clutter. Finding no clue as to its owner, she moved to the middle of the table. Beside the mirror sat a small stuffed panda, smiling mildly. Under it lay a slip of notepaper with words scrawled on it in ballpoint. Jane removed the paper and read:

Bingo. Jane wished the note said where the party was. Then she could have followed “Dorothy” and Trevor. At least she’d found “Dorothy’s” “dressing room.” She took paper and pen from her purse and wrote: