Missing Marlene (6 page)

It was nearly midnight when Jane walked in her front door. The house was quiet, Nick long asleep, Florence apparently having gone to bed, too.

In her study off the living room, Jane sat at her desk and phoned Ivy, who never went to bed before one.

“I think I found Zena,” Jane said. “Petite blonde?”

“Yes, Zena’s petite and blond. You don’t
know
if it was Zena?”

“Well, no. She ran off before I could speak to her.”

“Jane, what on earth are you talking about?”

Jane told her about the mysterious call, about dialing *69 and finally getting an answering machine with a message mentioning a play, and about going to see the play and trying unsuccessfully to speak to Trevor Ames and Dorothy Peyton.

“It’s all clear now,” Jane said. “I mean, why Zena wouldn’t give her parents her phone number or address. It’s because she’s living with this older man, she’s acting in this awful play instead of studying fashion design, and she doesn’t want her parents to know.”

“Well, I did speak to her parents today,” Ivy said thoughtfully, “and they said they called FIT. Zena’s never been there. She was registered but has never appeared. Bob and Jill are frantic. They’ve called the New York police.”

“You see!” Jane said. “Zena never registered because she’s acting in
Subways
.”

“Why did she run away from you?”

“She wasn’t really running away from me. I think she and Ames thought I was just a nutty fan. They were rushing to a party.”

“Can’t you reach Zena through the theater?” - “I left a note in her dressing room, telling her we’re worried about Marlene and asking Zena to have Marlene call either of us to let us know she’s all right.”

“
If
this Doris Peyton is Zena.”

“Dorothy.”

“Whatever. It just doesn’t make sense.... As far as I know,
Zena
had no interest in acting. And if, as you say, she knows where Marlene is, why did she call looking for her?”

“That occurred to me, too. I don’t think Zena knew where Marlene was when she called, but I think she does now. Anyway, even if this woman isn’t Zena—which I doubt—she still knows Marlene, and undoubtedly knows where she is.”

“Jane, I want you to go to the police.”

“The
police?”

“Yes, that’s who you talk to when someone’s missing.”

“Ivy, she’s not missing; we just don’t know where she is yet.”

There was silence on the line.

“Give Zena a chance to read the note,” Jane urged. “We’ll hear from Marlene.”

“I want you to go to the police,” Ivy repeated. “If you don’t, I will. I appreciate what you’re trying to do, Jane, but it’s time to stop fooling around.”

“Fooling around!” Jane held her tongue. She sighed. “All right. I’ll speak to the police in the morning. I’ll let you know what happens.” Better that Jane should go to the police than that Ivy should call them from Detroit in hysterics.

That night, Jane dreamed of graffiti come to life, malevolent rainbow-colored snakes that chased her up and down the twisting wooded roads of Shady Hills. She half woke with a start, reached out for Kenneth, but felt only the cold empty pillow.

The next morning, Saturday, Jane drove to the Shady Hills Police Station, a one-story glass-and-brick building about a mile from the village center.

She explained to the officer at the front desk that she wanted to report her son’s nanny missing and was shown into the office of a Detective Stanley Greenberg.

He rose from behind his desk, smiling politely but eyeing her in a strangely curious way. He was of average height and wore a tan tweed sport jacket that hung loosely from his broad shoulders. He had dark brown eyes and straight sandy hair that was combed neatly across his forehead.

He shook Jane’s hand and motioned for her to sit in the chair facing his desk.

“What can we do for you?” he asked, sitting.

“It’s my son’s nanny. She’s run off.”

He opened a notebook on his desk and grabbed a pen. “Her name?”

“Marlene Benson.”

“And I take it she lives with you?”

“Yes, for the past two months.”

“I see,” he said, writing. Even from where she sat Jane could see that his writing was small and precise, a schoolboy’s cursive. He looked up. “And she came from—?”

“Detroit.”

“Her age?” he asked.

“Nineteen.”

“And when did you discover she was gone?”

“Monday.”

“No word to anyone? A note?”

She shook her head. “Just took all her things and left.”

He nodded. “How did she leave? Does she have a car?”

“No, she used my car. And it was in the driveway.”

“So maybe someone gave her a ride. Any idea who that might have been?”

Jane shook her head.

“Do you know any of her friends?” he asked.

“I spoke with one of her friends, but the last time she saw Marlene was the day before she left.”

“Did Marlene have a boyfriend?”

“Well, she had been seeing someone. A young man named Gil Dapero.”

Greenberg’s gaze snapped to her, his brows lifting. “She’s involved with
him?
”

“Was involved. They broke up. I’ve spoken with him.”

“How long was Marlene seeing Gil?” Greenberg asked.

“Since she got here—about two months.”

He tapped his pen on his notebook. “I’d better get the basics. Your address?”

“Nine Lilac Way.”

“You’re Jane Stuart, you said. You’re that . . . literary agent?”

“That’s right. How did you know?”

Suddenly blood rushed to his face, an honest-to-goodness blush. Jane waited, smiling curiously.

“I was going to get in touch with you—someday, I mean.”

“Oh . . . ?”

He nodded, his eyes lowered. “My sister went to a talk you gave about writing to her book group about a year ago. She really liked you, and, well . . . I’ve been working on this novel for a few years now. Kind of a police-thriller thing. ‘Course it’s not done yet. I haven’t figured out the ending, and even when I do, the whole thing’s gonna need a total rewrite. But when it is done . . .” He lifted his gaze eagerly to meet hers, his brown eyes bright. “Do you think you would—I could—”

“Of course,” she said graciously, now understanding his strange stare when she’d come in. He really was very charming in a childlike way. “It would be my pleasure.”

“Well, hey!” he exclaimed, tapping his pencil hard and fast now. “That’s really nice of you. Thanks.”

She nodded. Then all at once he seemed to remember why she was here. “I’d better get your phone number.”

She gave him her home and office numbers.

He rose, all business now. “All right, Mrs. Stuart. Keep in mind that your nanny is a legal adult and has a right to go where she chooses. But we’ll look into it, ask a few questions.”

“Of Gil Dapero, you mean?”

He made no response.

“She spent a lot of time at the Roadside Tavern,” she said. “You know the place?”

“Oh yes, that’s where they all hang out. Peter Mann owns it.”

She nodded. “That’s where I met Marlene’s friend, a girl named Helen. She works in the convenience store on the green. She said Marlene told her she was leaving because she’d broken up with Gil.”

He chewed the inside of his lip as if considering his next words. “I’ll be honest with you, Mrs. Stuart,” he said at last. “Gil Dapero is the worst person she could have been involved with. I only hope for her sake that their relationship is really over. We’ll see what we can find out.” He rose. He seemed to be considering something; then he looked at her, and said, “Let me walk you to your car.”

Emerging from the station, Jane noticed that a sharp wind had come up and that it had started to rain. Scattered droplets darkened the surface of the parking lot.

Greenberg walked with Jane to her car. She sensed that he wanted to say something to her. When she put her hand on the door handle, he finally spoke.

“Your nanny, Marlene . . . Did she get along with Gil?”

She frowned slightly. “Until they broke up, you mean. I really don’t know. Why do you ask?”

“What I meant about Gil being the worst person she could have gotten involved with is that—I shouldn’t be telling you this.”

She waited, watching him cast his gaze about.

“He’s a violent man,” Greenberg finally said. “A violent man with a wild, wicked temper. We had some trouble with him not too long ago. At the Roadside Tavern, in fact. Dapero beat a guy up real bad, but we couldn’t pin anything on him.”

“Why not?” Jane asked.

“Because everyone’s afraid to tell us what happened, ed, especially the young man who got beaten up. Everyone in that crowd knows Dapero’s reputation. They know—”

“That he once killed someone in Newark?” Jane said in a low monotone.

He glared at her. “How’d you hear that?”

“From Helen, Marlene’s friend. Is it true?”

He shrugged, leveled his gaze at her. “Probably. We’ll never know for sure. The guy we think he killed disappeared. But Dapero was the last person seen with him, and the motive was strong. Dapero owed the guy a lot of money.”

“But surely those two things—the man disappearing and Gil owing him money—aren’t enough to think Gil killed him.”

“No,” Greenberg agreed. “There’s also the fact that Dapero has bragged about killing the guy.”

“To whom?” Jane asked, alarmed.

“People ... who talk to the police.” Greenberg was clearly growing uncomfortable. “Listen,” he said, lowering his voice, “I shouldn’t have told you any of this, but I wanted you to know exactly what kind of character we’re dealing with here.”

“You mean . . . Oh my God. . . .” Jane’s jaw dropped, and a violent shiver shook her. “You don’t mean he might have—
killed
Marlene!”

For a terrifying moment he just looked at her, rain falling on his face. “I didn’t say that. But we owe it to the girl to track her down as quickly as possible. You should follow every lead you’ve got. Keep us posted on anything that might help us. And as I said, we’ll ask some questions, see what we can find out.”

Jane was lost in a terrible mist of fear, as if reality had just been pulled out from under her. In a dream state she heard herself thank Detective Greenberg. She got into her car, started it, and waved to him as she glided out of the station parking lot, now uniformly dark with rain.

Marlene and Gil had quarreled violently, according to Helen. Whose idea had it been to break up, Marlene’s or Gil’s? If it had been Marlene’s idea, could it have been because she’d been seeing another man? That would have maddened the hot-tempered Gil. Had his fury built until he was driven to punish her for abandoning him? Had it been
he
who came for Marlene on Monday?

The branches of the trees looming over Packer Road whipped and swayed in the rising wind, as if trying to convey a terrible message to Jane.

At six-thirty that evening Jane stopped just inside her holly hedge, raked her fingers back through her hair, and gave her head a shake. Then she crossed the road to the Fairchilds’ house. She’d been at the office since her meeting with Detective Greenberg—not the first time she’d worked on a Saturday—and it wasn’t until she had arrived home and seen the cars lining the road that she had remembered Audrey and Elliott’s cocktail party.

Jane was exhausted after a particularly trying day. Long ago she had made the mistake of mentioning to one or two of her clients that she sometimes came into the office on Saturdays. Now it seemed every writer she represented knew—they all talked to one another—she was sure of it—and the phone rang as often as on a weekday. Daniel, bless him, had started coming in on Saturdays, too.

Jane had decided this six-day workweek would have to stop. She needed to spend more time with Nick, and weekends were the only time that was possible. Though she tried to arrange play dates for Nick on Saturdays when she was working, she knew she herself should be with him. She wanted to take him places—the movies, museums, the park, and the town pool in the summer.

After all, Jane was all Nick had. Though he only occasionally asked questions about Kenneth, and showed no signs of trauma at having lost his father, Jane often worried that she alone was not enough. A boy needed a father. And if there was no father, he needed as much of his mother as possible. Yes, these working Saturdays would have to stop.

Today had been especially trying. Rosemary Davis had finally called to say she would not remove the dog from her mystery because, deal or no deal, doing so would spoil the integrity of the book.

Bertha Stumpf’s friend Elaine Lawler, a writer whom Jane also represented, called complaining that her publisher never gave
her
fabulous covers like the one Bertha got for
Sunset Splendor
. When Jane reminded Elaine that covers like that would hardly be appropriate for her Regency romances, Elaine had said that was the trouble with publishing today—there were no freethinkers.

The last thing Jane felt like doing was mingling, but she’d promised Audrey. And Audrey and Elliott had come to Jane’s party for Roger.

Audrey and Elliott lived in the biggest house on Lilac Way, a fifteen-room Tudor on a majestically landscaped lot. Jane climbed the wide brick front steps and rang the bell. The door swung open and there was Audrey, tall and busty in a snug lavender dress of some satiny material and matching high heels. She smiled a huge lavender smile and held out her arms to welcome Jane.

“Well, hi, doll! Come in, come in!” She grabbed Jane’s coat and handed it to a maid, murmuring, “Guest room.” To Jane she said, “I was beginning to think you weren’t coming.”

“No, no, wouldn’t miss it,” Jane said, grabbing a flute of champagne from a passing tray and taking a long gulp.

“Now,” Audrey whispered conspiratorially, her sleek honey blond head close to Jane’s, “let me point out the luminaries. Over there—the man with the little mustache—that’s Allen Brown, who’s on the NJRI board. You
must
talk with him a lot because he
loves
books. In fact I think he’s even
written
one, and I told him our famous literary agent would be here....”

Audrey’s voice drifted away as Jane, hypnotized by the sparkle of one of Audrey’s swinging diamond drop earrings, was overcome by a wave of fatigue. She couldn’t have avoided the party, but she didn’t have to stay long. She really was too tired, and besides, she felt guilty leaving Nick alone with Florence so late again, especially so soon after Florence had started.

“... Okay?” Audrey finished.

“Okay.”

“Have fun, doll,” Audrey said, and hurried off to greet another guest.

“ ‘Evening, beautiful,” came Elliott’s baritone behind Jane.

She turned.

Elliott was one of the handsomest men Jane had ever known, perhaps even handsomer than Kenneth had been. Elliott, who had once trained in javelin for the Olympics, was tall and matinee idol handsome, complete with crisp blue-black hair, dreamy amber eyes, and a wondrously deep cleft in his jutting chin.

He kissed her cheek. He smelled faintly of expensive citrus cologne. “Lots of people want to meet you tonight.”

She smiled.

“You all right?” he asked. “You look tired.”

That meant she looked terrible. She grinned and forced her eyes open wide, like Jacqueline Onassis. One thing about doctors, they could always see right through you. “No, I’m fine, El. Long day, that’s all.” She gestured toward the teeming living room. “Some do.”

He shrugged, looking a little embarrassed. “You know Audrey.”

A waitress appeared with a tray. “Cheese puff?”

“No, thank you,” Jane said, and turned back to Elliott. “Now where is that little man with the mustache I’m supposed to meet?”

“Oh, you mean Allen. Yeah, he’s been asking for you since he got here. He’s got a novel he’s working on, a serial-killer thriller set in a rehab clinic. He wants you to have a look.”

“Mmm, does he now?” She pursed her lips politely.

“There he is—by the piano.”

Jane tossed her head and growled, “Let me at him.”

“Thanks,” Elliott said, winking. “You’re a real sport. See you in a bit.”

Jane headed for Allen Brown, the balding little man with the Chaplin mustache who was leaning drunkenly on Audrey’s beautiful baby grand. Some champagne sloshed from his glass onto the instrument’s mirrorlike black surface. Jane hated his novel already. She’d get this over with, plead a headache, and leave.

Passing the archway that led from the living room into the dining room, she caught a glimpse of the balcony that ran the length of the back of the house. Abruptly she stopped and looked again.

There was Roger. On the balcony, drink in hand, chatting and laughing with a willowy redhead in an emerald velvet cocktail dress. What was he doing here? Damn, and she looked like hell.

She straightened her shoulders, put on a bright smile, and made her way through the dining room. As she approached the balcony, Roger saw her and did his own double take. His smile vanished. He raised his free hand in feeble greeting, then returned his attention to the redhead, whose face Jane could now see. She looked unutterably bored, nodding every so often and stealing glances into the dining room.

Jane stepped through the French doors onto the balcony. Roger and the redhead were the only ones here.

“Hello, Jane,” Roger said. Clearly uncomfortable to see her after his second walkout, he turned back to the redhead, not introducing Jane, who just stood there, unsure what to do.

Roger, apparently, had decided to proceed as if she weren’t there. “So anyway,” he said to his companion, “here’s this hideous armchair, abandoned by the previous tenants, filling half my study—and I can’t get rid of it! Soon it becomes an obsession—I simply have to get rid of that chair at all costs!”

He was talking rapidly, the way he did when he was nervous.

“Well,” he went on, “one day at my health club I mention my little problem to Elliott, and he tells me about a cliff very near here, where for years people have thrown away their . . . unthrowables! Even local builders dump all their scraps there by cover of night!

“Well, you can imagine my joy. Somehow I get the monstrous thing into the trunk of my car, rope it down, and drive it over to this cliff. I untie the chair and am about to heave it over, when out of the blue appears this fierce troll of a man who tells me I can’t! It seems he’s bought this land to build houses—‘luxury homes,’ he calls them—and how dare I ‘defile’ his property by dumping my garbage on it? I point out that people have been doing so for years, but he says it doesn’t matter, they have to stop—”

“Will you please excuse me?” the redhead broke in, clearly unable to bear more. “I see someone I know.” She made a fast escape, shooting Jane a beleaguered look as she passed into the dining room.

Still Jane stood, saying nothing.

“How are you?” Roger asked stiffly.

“Fine, Roger, and you?”

“Just fine, thank you. I wasn’t aware you knew Elliott and Audrey.”

“I live across the street, Roger, remember? They were at the party I threw for you.”

“Ah, yes, that’s right. Well, I didn’t know them then. I only just met Elliott at my health club.”

“So I heard. Roger, what’s wrong? Why are you acting so strange?”

His gaze darted about, as if he were seeking an escape route. But she kept her eyes trained on him, holding him there.

At last he said, “I gather you haven’t received my letter.”

“Letter? What letter?”

“I sent you a letter. I’m ... dismissing you.”

A violent chill passed through her. “You’re what?”

He brought himself up, swallowed. “Your services are no longer required.”

Her heart began to thud. She breathed out through her nostrils. “And may I ask why?” she asked, equally formal.

“I’ll be giving my new book—without revisions—to an agent who believes in it.”

“I see. And have you found this agent yet?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact I have.”

“Roger,” she said, the stiffness falling away,
“why?
Why are you doing this?”

“Because you failed with Millennium. You know that. What did you expect me to do? When I needed you most, you caved in.”

For a moment she simply stared at him. She could tell he was trying hard to look unruffled, but his voice had held a whiny tone, and there was a look of hurt and shame in his eyes.

“What about . . . us?” she asked.

He looked down.

“I see,” she said, fighting to maintain her dignity. “Roger, you know I wish you only the best, in your career”—her voice broke—“and your life.”

His gaze remained downcast.

She turned and walked off the balcony. She hurried upstairs, found her coat on a rack in the guest room, and left the party without speaking to anyone.