Don't Dare a Dame (24 page)

   
If I woke them, I didn’t much care.

   
This time I was certain I heard sounds inside. I also heard one suspiciously like a door easing open a peep width from the direction where the nosey neighbor woman lived. Lest she think me unfriendly as well as impertinent, I waved without turning as I knocked again.

   
“Yeah, okay. Keep your pants on,” mumbled a voice.

   
The door opened and I had the pleasure of seeing George’s unshaven face. He squinted at me.

   
“Hi, George. Remember me?”

   
The fact he was still half asleep, and possibly somewhat hung over, didn’t make him any faster on his feet. He stepped back automatically as I walked past him.

   
“Hey,” he said as his brain woke up enough to allow the stirring of indignation. “I never said you could come in. I know who you are now. You’re that - that woman Neal doesn’t like. The one who came nosing around the morning my dad died.”

   
“That’s right, George. I’m a private investigator. With a license. That means I can be here.”

   
Most people have no idea what gumshoes are allowed to do. If George had been dressed and fully awake he might have challenged me, but he was in his undershirt and trousers, barefoot, with hair uncombed. Even morning stubble couldn’t make his nub of a chin look tough. Nevertheless, he clenched his fists.

   
“I’m not here to make trouble,” I said. “I just need to see Neal. I’ve tried calling and never could raise anybody.”

   
I sat down on the sofa, noticing that the small living room was surprisingly orderly. A newspaper lay unfolded as if waiting to be read. A jacket draped the back of the room’s only easy chair.

   
“Neal’s not here.” His step-brother glared at me. “Haven’t seen him for a couple of days.”

   
“Since when, exactly?”

   
“I don’t know.” He pushed a hand through his hair. “Look, can I get some coffee? I wasn’t even dressed when you came pounding on the door—”

   
“Sure. Get your coffee. I know how that is.”

   
I could see through the doorway separating a small kitchen tucked in one corner. George had his back to me, rattling dishes and opening the Frigidare. On weekends I liked comfortable clothes. My pleated wool skirt with a blouse and cardigan didn’t exactly lend themselves to wearing a holster, so my gun was in my purse. I unclasped the purse and tilted it slightly. Just in case.

   
George leaned around the door with a mug in his hand.

   
“You want some?” he asked grudgingly.

   
“If there’s plenty, an inch or two would be swell. Black.” Regardless of what someone’s drinking, they feel more relaxed if you join in.

   
George brought two mugs out and handed me one. He lowered himself to the easy chair, took a swallow of coffee and made a sound of relief. He had another drink, then ran a hand through his hair again, this time with better results if smoothing it down was his intent.

   
“What was it you asked about Neal?” he said.

   
“When’s the last time you saw him?”

   
“Oh. Yeah.” He squinted, hunched over his coffee. He lowered its level some. “Monday, I guess. Monday night late.” For the first time, he seemed to grasp the import of what I was asking. “What’s this about?”

   
“That’s what I want to know. He hasn’t shown up at work since Tuesday morning.”

   
“What? No.”

   
George’s mouth was hanging open. He’d forgotten his coffee.

   
“He went out for his lunch break. A man came up and talked to him. The fellows Neal works with say he was acting jumpy when he finally caught up with them. Nobody’s seen him since.”

   
George was shaking his head. He swallowed a couple of times.

   
“Are you saying something’s
happened
to him?”

   
“I was hoping you’d know. Did he tell you he was going someplace? Leave a note?”

   
“No! He just didn’t come home when he usually does the next day. Tuesday, I mean. I got tired of waiting. I fried up some bacon and made a sandwich. Then I went out and had a couple of beers. He still wasn’t here when I got back, but I figured he’d come and gone.”

   
“Has he done anything like this before? Gone off without telling you?”

   
“No. Made me kind of sore. We usually do stuff together.”

   
“Was he scared of somebody? Worried? Acting different?”

   
His head swung in denial at each question.

   
“I mean, he was down in the dumps, same as me. Because of my dad, but.... Oh, no.... Jesus, no!”

   
“What?”

   
He’d remembered the coffee. He took a big gulp, but it sounded as if the gulp was masking a sob. When he met my eyes, his face was pale.

   
“Monday night we went out. We drank more than we should’ve. A lot more. Because of my dad, and the funeral and—”

   
“Sure.”

   
“When we got back, there was a bottle sitting there on that table. We’d had a few belts before we left, and there was only an inch or so in it. Neal said we should finish it, drink a toast to my dad. So we did. Then all of a sudden he started bawling. It didn’t make sense — and then I thought it was only because he was drunk—”

   
“What did he say?”

   
George hung his head. His shoulders heaved a couple of times. When he raised his face, his eyes were moist.

   
“He said, ‘Alf didn’t die. Somebody killed him.’ But that’s nuts, isn’t it? That’s not what the cops say.”

   
I leaned back to ease the prickle along my spine.

   
“That’s not what the cops say,” I agreed.

   
I wasn’t sure if it would make him feel better. I wasn’t sure if what Neal had told him was true. If it was, though, and Neal was a witness, it could explain his abrupt disappearance. The question now was whether that disappearance had been voluntary.

   
“Are any of his things missing?” I asked.

   
George was holding his head in his hands.

   
“What?”

   
“Did he take any clothes, his razor, things like that?” I said patiently.

   
“Oh. I don’t know.”

   
“Could we look?”

   
He led the way to a bedroom with twin beds, one on each side of the room. One, presumably vacated by George not long before my arrival, was a tangle of sheets and blankets. The other was more or less made. George opened a closet.

   
“That’s Neal’s side,” he said pointing.

   
He surveyed a shelf above the hangers.

   
“That space,” he said. “It’s where he kept his valise.”

***

   
I found some encouragement in the fact Neal seemed to have disappeared voluntarily. Once George had begun looking, he’d discovered his stepbrother’s shaving gear missing, along with two shirts, some underwear, socks and his hairbrush. The contents of drawers were scrambled, as though items had been snatched in a rush.

   
Two places where Neal might have gone to ground came to mind. He could have persuaded somebody from work or from one of the bars he frequented to take him in. If that was the case, I trusted Donnie’s inquiries to bring it to light. Several rungs lower on the ladder of possibilities was that he could be with Franklin. Franklin seemed like a decent sort, and if Neal had turned up on his doorstep scared, especially after my visit alerting him to the problems the Vanhorns were having, he might have welcomed him.

   
It was easy enough to check, since Franklin and I had already agreed to talk more this weekend. When I got to the place he lived, though, after assuring me he’d be around all weekend, he wasn’t.

   
Frustrated, I went and had lunch. It gave me time to wonder if I’d been too quick to trust Franklin. Alternating with that, I wondered uneasily if something might have happened to him as well.

   
Before leaving Mrs. Z’s that morning, I’d called Isobel to see if I could stop in early that afternoon. I mostly wanted to let them know what I’d learned and see how they were doing. Now, in addition, I’d have to let them know about Neal, though I knew it would worry them.

   
I’d barely rung the bell when the door opened.

   
“Come in, Maggie. Lovely to see you,” invited Corrine.

   
“How did you know it was me?” I asked curiously.

   
Had she already learned the particular sound of my DeSoto? Her mouth gave an impish quirk.

   
“Franklin happened to be at the window. He said you were here.”

   
“Ah.”

   
While I was trying to hide my surprise, and realizing foolishly that I didn’t need to, she laid a hand on the head of a brownish mutt that was pressing against her.

   
“And this is Des. Well, I don’t know what his real name was, of course, but I thought of Odysseus, wandering. That nice Detective Boike stopped by day before yesterday with Des and another dog, asking if I’d keep them for a week or so. A woman he knows finds homes for strays, but she got called out of town and he was helping her farm them out until she gets back.”

   
I suspected where this was headed before she rushed on.

   
“I told him I could only look after one, since we’ve had such upheaval. This one had something special about him. I’m going to keep him. He’s quite intelligent. I think he may be capable of training for harness. If not, we actually do have plenty of room for two dogs.”

   
The dog had positioned himself between us while she spoke. I couldn’t tell whether it was possessiveness or desire to protect her. I followed them into the parlor. Franklin rose from one of the needlepoint sofas as I entered.

   
“I just went by your place,” I said.

   
“I know, I told you I’d stick around and then I didn’t. After I talked to you, I started to worry about Corrie and Isobel, here alone. When I called last night and Isobel told me the whole thing — how Corrie was kidnaped and stranded — I couldn’t stand it. I came over this morning to see what, if anything, I could do. I got a wonderful lunch in the bargain.” He smiled somberly.

   
“Actually, I’m glad you’re all here together.” I sat down in one of the chairs. I drew a breath and plunged in. “Neal’s disappeared.”

   
All three of them regarded me in stunned silence.

   
“What do you mean?” asked Isobel in an unsteady voice.

   
I told them. The man who’d made him nervous. His absence from work. What I’d learned from George at their apartment that morning. Finally, I told them about Neal’s drunken rambling, and the neighbor’s report of two strange cars parked on the street late the night Alf died.

   
By the time I concluded, Corrine and Isobel had joined hands for support. Across from them, their stepbrother sat with elbows on knees. He looked at me and cleared his throat.

   
“It sounds as if Neal might know something — might have seen something — about my father’s death. Something that indicates it was a - a—”

   
“Yes.”

   
“And that’s why the man came to see him? That’s what’s behind everything that’s happened to Corrie and Isobel?”

   
“The trouble for Corrine and Isobel happened before Alf died,” I reminded. “I think the whole mess, Alf’s death included, is related to something that happened the day their father disappeared. Something that happened back at that drugstore where he was headed.”

Thirty

   
The Vanhorn sisters wanted me to find Neal. Somewhat to my surprise, they also wanted me to continue my inquiries into their father’s fate — and to make that my priority.