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My darling Jane,
I was so happy to recieve your letter, I had almost given up hopeing that you would write me again. But I was very upset to hear how unhappy you are. You must not let people push you around that way, of course they are going to be mean to anyone as nice as you are. I was talking to my father about it and he says that I should come down to be with you. He doesn’t need me until the summer season starts again so I will be down as soon as I can get my bags packed. I will find someplace to stay, don’t worry, I know how you feel about people just dropping in.
All my love,
Mike
So Mike had come to Toronto in January—depending, of course, on how long it took him to pack his bags. That would cut things rather fine, if Melissa was right in her dates, but if he had scurried right down after writing that letter, he could have fathered the child. And what nasty things had she been complaining about to her gallant would-be protector? He would like to speak to Mike, whoever he was. That bundle joined the pile. The rest of the letters were loose and made no particular sense, but he took out the ones that had been written in the past six months and added them to his pile.
He looked up as Dubinsky came in. “Find anything interesting?”
“Some papers,” Dubinsky said. “And a bank book—savings account with the Royal Bank.” He handed it over. Sanders looked at the figures and whistled.
“That’s not a bad little nest egg for a girl to have tucked away, is it? How do you suppose she’s managed to salt away over a thousand a month since last summer?” He reached for the slip of notepaper. “And what do you make of this, Dubinsky?”
There were two notations: “M.—3—Tues.” and “G.—5—Tu.” They were written at different slopes, as if they had been jotted down at different times. Dubinsky shook his head. “She was going to meet someone at three o’clock on Tuesday—maybe her mother? Then someone else at five?”
“Sure—her grandfather this time. Or how about ‘M’ for Mike?” He handed Dubinsky the letter. “The trouble with that, though, is that she worked. How would she meet someone at three?” He took the slip back. “It might not mean a thing, or then again, maybe it’ll fit in with something else.” He stood up and began collecting the various papers she had set aside. “Here, this is her lawyers’ number. Give them a call and tell them we’ll be over to see them. I want to know what she discussed with them that doesn’t turn up in her file here. I’m going to take another look through the place.”
He wandered through the empty apartment into the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator—not that he expected to find any serious evidence there, more from a mixture of curiosity and a professional desire to find out something, anything, about this woman. It was clear from the contents that she drank beer and orange juice and ate rye bread and mayo
“Hey, Dubinsky,” he called. “Did you check this little table?”
“Yeah,” he said, coming into the bedroom. “That’s where I got the bank book and statements and things like that. The second drawer is full of paid bills and receipts, and the bottom drawer seems to be filled with tax stuff. Very neat. It was all locked, but the key was on her ring. I took out the stuff that might be interesting and left the rest for you. Anyway, about the lawyer—he left last weekend for a couple of weeks in Mexico. He won’t be back until after Easter. His secretary hasn’t the faintest idea how to reach him”—Dubinsky mimicked a high-pitched voice charged with great drama—“because he doesn’t like to be disturbed when he’s on holiday.”
“Great,” muttered Sanders. “Just one more thing to make life easier. Anyway, did you find an appointment book or anything like that? Something that might explain what she was doing on Tuesday?” Dubinsky shook his head. “Did you check her purse?”
“Come on, what do you take me for? Of course I checked her purse, and every drawer of that white thing there, and the drawer in the night table. Also the cabinets in the bathroom, her dresser drawers, and her closet. She has lots of towels and underwear, but I didn’t see an appointment book. Are you sure it isn’t in the living room on her desk or something?”
Sanders glared at him. “Yes, I’m sure. And she doesn’t seem to have an address book or anything resembling one. Did you check her pockets?” As soon as he said that, he headed for the closet by the front door, opened it, and started to go through the pockets of all the coats and jackets hanging there. Nothing. He emerged again, shrugging his shoulders. “She might have left it at work. Let’s check back there before heading on to see the husband.”
Gi
“Well, now, Mrs. Morrison, so far so good. I don’t see anything really alarming at this point.” He read the sketchy details on the new chart in front of him. “I think that Dr. Smith mentioned that you were working? Could I ask what you do?”
The sympathy she read into this comment finished her. Tears spilled down her cheeks; she scrambled furiously for a Kleenex and hauled herself back together. “Yes. I’m an assistant manager at Austin’s—in the toy department. It’s a good job, and I really can’t afford to give it up. My husband was laid off last November, just before I realized I was pregnant. His unemployment insurance doesn’t go very far, and we’d be stuck if I quit.” She assumed her most mulish and independent glare.
“And that means you’re on your feet most of the time?” She nodded mutely, her eyes filling up again with tears. “It’s very premature to talk of quitting, Mrs. Morrison. It certainly hasn’t come to that, yet. But you get sick leave, don’t you? Even assistant managers can get sick. You must get off your feet and into bed. Rest is still the best way to stop the cramping and spotting. Ten days in bed, then come back and see me. Can your husband look after you?” Gi
Gi
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