Travellers in Magic (10 page)

I go to the student store to buy a pair of gloves, and then return to the registrar's office. I'm in luck—Ms. University Policy has left, probably for lunch, and a young woman who looks like a student has come in to replace her. Her eyes widen as I show her my license, and before I even finish my story she is calling up Carolyn's name on the computer.

“Here—I'll give you a print-out of her schedule,” the young woman says. “And here's her address, at the top.”

The address is the one Ms. Green gave me, but the list of classes could be useful. I thank the woman and leave.

The first class on Carolyn's schedule is Classical Literature, taught by a Professor Burnford. Once again I am amazed at how strange people are, how complex. Who would have thought that the woman in the photograph would be interested in such a thing?

I find the building where Carolyn studies Classical Literature and go inside. Professor Burnford's office is on the third floor; a sign on the door says that his office hours are from 12:00 to 2:00. It's five to twelve. I lean against the wall to wait.

A few minutes later the professor comes toward me, followed by a student who tries in vain to keep up with his long strides. Burnford says something over his shoulder to the student following him. “Rabbits!” I hear him say as he reaches the door. “Rabbits are fertility symbols!”

Burnford nods to me as I step forward, and without stopping he says, “I can see you after I talk to Joe here. Late Etruscan burial customs, isn't it?”

It isn't, but before I get a chance to tell him so he's unlocked his door and ushered poor Joe inside. I wait a bit more, and then wander down the hallway and read the notices and cartoons posted on office doors. It's all fairly interesting, in a sort of anthropological way. I never finished college myself.

Five minutes later Professor Burnford's door opens and Joe emerges, looking wrung out. He does not meet my eyes as he leaves.

“Sit down,” Burnford says as I enter. His hair, eyes and skin are very nearly the same sandy color, and he wears a sand and black houndstooth coat. I wonder if he matched his coat deliberately to his face or if it's just a coincidence.

“I hope you don't mind if I eat my lunch while we talk,” he says. He opens a brown paper bag and takes out a plastic-wrapped peanut butter sandwich. “I have no time otherwise.”

The mention of lunch, and the smell of peanut butter, make my stomach turn again. The doctor's appointment is tomorrow, I think.

“I'm sorry,” he says, taking a bite of the sandwich. “I don't remember your name.”

“I'm not a student here, Dr. Burnford,” I say. I take out my license and show it to him. “I'm looking for one of your students. Carolyn Green, or Carolyn Hayes.”

He nods, his mouth full of peanut butter.

“Do you know her?” I ask.

“Of course I know her. Brilliant girl. You don't get too many undergraduates that good in ancient Greek.”

Brilliant? I show him the photograph. “Yes, that's her,” he says, taking it from me. “Don't know who the man is, though.”

“That's her husband,” I say. “Jack Hayes.”

“Husband?” He puts down his sandwich, for which I am grateful, and wipes his mouth with a napkin. “So that's what happened to her. I'm sorry to hear it.”

“What do you mean?”

“She stopped coming to class a few months ago. I don't usually stick my nose in my students' business, but I was worried about her and I went to the registrar's office to get her phone number. She doesn't have a phone, it turns out.”

I nod. I had already noticed that.

“So I thought, that was that,” he says. “Husband, you say. Sometimes you get a man who'll pull his wife out of school, even in this day and age.”

I say nothing. He'd be surprised if he knew what goes on in this day and age.

He gives me the photograph back. “Shame,” he says, shaking his head.

“Do you know anything about her?” I ask. “Any friends you might have seen her with? Acquaintances?”

“No. I never saw her outside of the classroom or my office.”

I thank him and leave. The professors of her other two classes aren't in, so I scribble something on the backs of two business cards and push them under the doors. As I drive back to the office I turn on the radio; someone is explaining how to put on snow-chains.

There are two messages waiting for me at the office. A company I've worked for before asks me to run a credit check, and a friend wants to go see a movie tonight.

I should call both of them back. Instead I take out a legal pad and write down columns of numbers. Stroller, car seat, crib, play-pen. So much for clothing, so much for medical expenses. College, and classes in Classical Literature with Professor Burnford. I'm staring at the pad of paper when the phone rings.

I let the machine catch it. “I'm sorry I was angry with you the other day,” a voice says, much to my surprise. “We should talk. Please call me.”

It's my mother. She's wrong, though; we have nothing to talk about.

“Your test results came back,” the doctor says. “They're positive.”

I take a deep breath. “That was quick,” I say.

“Oh, we're very efficient these days,” she says. She smiles; I guess she's trying to put me at ease. “We don't have to kill rabbits anymore.”

For some reason this makes me think of Dr. Burnford, shouting at his student about rabbits and fertility symbols.

“Can I ask—” The doctor pauses. “Is this welcome news?”

I've checked the box marked “Single” on the intake form. “I don't know,” I say slowly. “It was a one-night stand, really. A friend came into town unexpectedly. I don't—”

The vastness of what I've gotten into hits me; I have to stop and take another breath. I'm not going to break down in front of this woman, though; I'm not going to treat her the way my clients sometimes treat me, as if she's a wisewoman capable of solving all my problems. If I start I'll end up telling her about the screaming fight with my mother, about all my doubts, about God knows what else. “I'd just like some time to think about it,” I say.

The doctor nods. She puts me up in those awful cold stirrups and examines me, and then, when I'm dressed, gives me some vitamins and a list of foods I should and shouldn't eat, and a pamphlet on abortion. “Do you need to talk to someone?” she asks. “I can recommend a good counselor.”

I can't remember the number of times I've said the same thing to my clients. I've always prided myself on my ability to manage my own life, to stay out of the kinds of messes my clients seem to get into. I shake my head.

Dora Green is waiting for me in front of my office. I nod to her and unlock the door. “I wanted to know if you made any progress,” she says.

I feel very weary. It's far too early for her to expect results. I motion her inside the office and sit at my desk. “I'm sorry,” she says, taking the chair opposite me. Today she's wearing a green print dress that's even busier than her skirt, more leaves and flowers and what looks like little animals peering through the foliage. “I should have waited.”

“Your daughter seems to have moved, and she's stopped going to classes,” I say. “Other than that, I can't tell you anything yet.”

She nods. Her calm expression does not change. I wonder if she's had the same thought I had, that her daughter is dead, killed by her husband. Satanic rituals, I think.

“I'm meeting someone for lunch,” she says. “You must be hungry too. Can I get you something to eat?”

You're supposed to eat enough for two when you're pregnant, but at the same time you're usually sick to your stomach. Just another example, I think, of how impossible the whole thing is. “I've already eaten,” I say.

For a moment I think she knows I'm lying; worse, that she knows everything about me, including where I went this morning. I have never felt this way about any of my clients; usually it's the clients who feel the need to justify their behavior.

“Come with me anyway,” she says, smiling a little.

The animals on her print dress are moving. I shake my head, trying to focus, but the hallucination doesn't go away. A badger or something shoulders aside a flowering vine and pads forward, its nose twitching.

I look away. I'd better eat something. “All right,” I say, and we head out into the street.

She stops at a restaurant a few blocks from my office, and we go inside. I have never seen this place before; probably it's new. There are posters of flowers on the walls, and vases filled with bright flowers at the table.

Her friend is already there. “This is Mickey,” Ms. Green says as we sit down. “Mickey, this is Liz Keller.”

Mickey nods at me, amused at something. He is slender, with curly blond hair and light gray eyes. There is a slight family resemblance, and for a moment I think he is Carolyn's brother. But surely Ms. Green would have told me if there were others in the family. I wonder who he is, how they know each other.

The waitress comes soon afterward. I study the menu, trying to remember the list of food the doctor gave me. I could use a cup of coffee, but I'm almost certain the doctor would disapprove. “I'll have some tea,” I say.

The waitress takes the rest of the orders and leaves. “How do you know Ms. Green?” I ask Mickey.

“We're related,” he says. “Cousins. What about you? How do you know her?”

“She's hired me in a professional capacity,” I say. It's all I can tell him without breaking my client's confidentiality.

“Ah,” Mickey says. “You're the new detective.”

“New detective?” I say, looking at Ms. Green. The animals on her dress are motionless now, thank God. “You didn't tell me about this. What happened to the old one?”

“She wasn't very good,” Ms. Green says.

“And time is running out, isn't it?” Mickey says.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

We're interrupted by the waitress, bringing food for Mickey and Ms. Green and a teapot and cup for me. “So,” Mickey says. He reaches over and pours me some tea. “What have you found so far?”

“I can't discuss it without my client's permission,” I say.

“Oh, Mickey's family,” Ms. Green says. “You can tell him anything you tell me.”

I sip my tea, enjoying the warmth. My stomach feels fine now. I remember the first time I met Ms. Green, when she came to my office to hire me, and how the nausea had disappeared then too.

I tell Mickey about my trip to Carolyn's old apartment, my visit to the university. He's still smiling. I'm almost certain he's hiding something, that Ms. Green is wrong to trust him. He seems to feel very little concern for his missing cousin.

He pours me another cup of tea. “What do you plan to do now?” he asks.

It's a good question. I've pretty much run out of leads, but it doesn't do to say so in front of the person paying your salary. I take a sip of tea. “Did you know her husband?” I ask him.

“A little,” he says.

“Did you like him?”

Mickey laughs. “Like him? The boyfriend from Hell?”

“Why do you think she married him?”

He shrugs.

“They seem very different,” I say, pushing him.

He pours more tea. I look at the small teapot; it can't possibly hold that much. I lift the lid. It is filled to the brim.

I look up quickly at Mickey. He's grinning, as if daring me to confront him. “How did you do that?” I ask.

“Do what?” he says.

He must have switched teapots somehow, maybe while I was looking at Ms. Green. “Got to fly,” he says. He stands and kisses Ms. Green on the cheek. “It was good seeing you.”

I watch him go. My earlier suspicions of him become a certainty: he knows something he's not telling. “I've got to go too,” I say. I stand and hurry through the restaurant, trying to keep him in sight.

He hasn't gotten that far ahead of me. He turns left out the door and heads east. A few miles farther on is Carolyn's old apartment. I drop back a little, keeping him in sight. Surely he doesn't intend to walk the entire distance.

He continues on for about a mile. The neighborhood slowly changes: the shopfronts here are dingier, and several of them are boarded up. Some of the buildings are painted three or four colors in a vain attempt to cover the graffiti; they look as if they have mange. A man moves to block me, his hand held out. “Spare change?” he asks.

I sidestep him and continue on. Mickey is still in front of me. He is hurrying a little, as if he's getting closer to his destination.

He comes to a corner. He stops for a moment, as if trying to make up his mind. Then he turns and looks directly at me, grins, and goes right.

I take the corner after him. I've never had anyone spot me, never, not in any of the dozens of tails I've done. How had he known?

There is no one at all on the street. Grimy warehouses face each other, some protected by corrugated doors or iron gratings, all of them locked. One warehouse has rows of tiny windows on the second floor; about half of them are broken, as if they'd been the target in some game. Trees with branches like sticks line the street. No one seems to work here.

I walk up and down the street for over an hour, looking for Mickey in likely and unlikely places, but he is gone.

I go back to my office to get Ms. Green's phone number. I need Mickey's address, need to ask him a few questions.

The phone rings as I'm paging through my files. I pick it up. “Liz Keller, Private Investigations,” I say.

“Liz?” the voice at the other end asks.

It's my mother. I don't need this right now. “What?” I say.

“Did you get my message?”

“Yeah.”

“I want to talk to you. I want—I changed my mind. I had no right to interfere with anything you do. It's your life.”