Hurrying past the portico, I was surprised to see Mr. Smith and the pastor huddled there. About to hail them, I was caught in the headlights of a Lincoln Town Car as it swung into the driveway at a fast clip. Littmann was behind the wheel and I jumped sideways to get out of his way.
Smith was obviously startled to see me.
“What are you doing here at this hour?” he asked irritably.
“Better get on home and out of this weather,” the reverend added more kindly.
Littmann just gave me a nod as he hustled by and the trio stomped the rain off their shoes before crowding through the funeral home’s side door.
Next day, no Marjorie.
After lunch I forced myself to dial the phone and was connected with Mrs. Sklar. Yes, she said, it had been three days now since Marjie had been home. No, there had been no arguments. Yes, the police had been called. No girls matching her daughter’s description had turned up in hospitals or, God forbid, the morgue.
“What do you think has happened?” I asked gently.
“Her sister thinks she might have eloped,” said Mrs. Sklar, but fear eclipsed hope in her voice. “We didn’t think she knew any boys that well. Did she?”
I told her the truth — that maybe sometimes when she was supposed to be out with the girls, Marjie dated a couple guys around the intersection. But as far as I knew it was all very casual — a hot fudge sundae at Sanders, a burger at the Fairlane bowling alley, a couple of drinks at Leonard’s.
“She’s a nice girl,” I assured the older woman. “That’s why I’m kind of worried about her.”
Mrs. Sklar, at first reticent, now poured out information in an anxious rush. Marjie had been quiet and absentminded for weeks. The police had learned she’d drained most of her savings out of the bank. Her sister had startled her in the room they shared, trying out the look of a sheer lace veil over her white-blond hair. As best they could tell, one small bag and a few garments were missing from her room.
“But she didn’t take her grandma’s pearl cross,” Mrs. Sklar burst out. “Ever since she was a little girl, she planned to wear that cross on her wedding day. It’s still in her jewelry box. And her best nylon stockings, that she was saving for good, are here. None of it makes sense … Where is my baby?”
I promised to keep asking around.
Hungry despite the heat, I helped myself to an egg salad sandwich, an iced tea, and a newspaper. On an inside page the headline Reward caught my eye. It seems that Miss Irene Ballard, twenty-four, hadn’t been home to Dearborn’s 503 °Curtis Street in more than a week.
The bespectacled dry cleaner’s assistant had boarded the Greenfield Avenue bus, headed for the Grand River shopping district, the article said. She hadn’t been seen since. None of her clothing was missing, but her bank account had been drained.
The ponytailed blonde had a serious expression behind tortoiseshell frames in the blurry newspaper photo. The princess collar of her white blouse was buttoned to the throat. She looked vaguely familiar. In fact, I’d swear she’d been in the pharmacy lately. I recalled my envy of those shiny blond locks, which obviously hadn’t come from a bottle.
Looking up, I could see Mr. Smith puttering in his mezzanine-level dispensary and realized that his cronies hadn’t been in yet for their usual break. In fact, my next customer was Jerry, stopping by for bottle of aspirin and a Coke before starting his shift behind the bar.
“Hey, I got some news for you,” he said. “You said that girl’s name was Marjie, the one who’s missing?”
I nodded.
“Well, I was wrong last night,” he said. “The woman the cops were looking for is Angie, not Marjie. Angela something — worked a few blocks down at Novak’s Bar. So I guess we got two missing girls in the neighborhood, eh?”
“Three if you count this one,” I said, pointing to the folded newspaper.
We looked at one another, perplexed.
“It’s kind of like last winter, remember?” Jerry said. “Those two sisters from over on Lyndon — what was that, February, March? They never turned up, did they?”
It rang a bell. Pretty brunettes, so they got some write-ups in the crime blotter. The family lived a block or two behind Ward’s. Something about one girl gone and then her older sister disappearing a few days later. But I wanted the scoop on Marjie.
“What about Steven?” I asked.
“He claims he wined and dined her a couple of times — even sprang for Chinese at Victor Lim’s downtown — but that was about it. Says he doesn’t know where she skipped to, and acts like he doesn’t care.”
Jerry washed down two tablets with the last of his cola and swiveled off the chrome-trimmed stool.
“You coming up tonight?”
“I think so,” I said. When he left I stood there for a moment, absently tearing up the cotton puff from his aspirin bottle, then made up my mind. Had a word with the cook and headed for the back of the drugstore.
Up a half flight of steps was the pharmacy, Smith’s domain. I knocked and pushed open the door. Surrounded by the bottles and boxes of his trade, he was grinding away using a mortar and pestle. “Yes?”
“Mr. Smith, I’m not feeling well. It’s a pretty slow afternoon at the counter — Bill says he wouldn’t mind serving. Would it be okay if I took off early today?”
He obviously wasn’t happy but there wasn’t much he could say. Then he cleared his throat and asked, “Oh, by the way, what were you doing over at Bishop’s last night?”
Taken aback, I explained that the driveway was my usual shortcut. “I couldn’t help but notice the pastor and Mr. Littmann there too,” I added. “And I see they aren’t here today. Did someone in the neighborhood pass away?”
“No, no,” the pharmacist said, “just one of our regular committee meetings last night — Chamber of Commerce business, you know. Mr. Bishop is kind enough to host us from time to time.”
“That’s nice,” I said dutifully. Then I showed him the folded newspaper page.
“Wasn’t this girl in here a week or so ago?” I asked. “Don’t you recognize her?”
My boss glanced at the paper and shrugged. “Not offhand,” he said. “I don’t memorize every face that walks through the door.”
“Oh, I know,” I said. “It’s just that she’s the third girl in the neighborhood to go missing. I thought if we could help police with a clue — if she’d been ill or picking up a prescription …?”
At that Smith stopped grinding and looked up, eyebrows raised. “I suggest you leave the detective work to the professionals. And weren’t you saying you didn’t feel well?”
I took the hint and left. As I passed Bishop’s, a funeral procession wheeled out of the mortuary lot. The undertaker himself stood at attention, hand over heart, until the black-curtained hearse was out of sight. Then he relaxed and, whistling, marched up the steps of his elegant home.
That night, I swished sore feet in a dishpan of ice water at Jerry’s and told him about my afternoon.
Right after leaving the drugstore, I’d strolled over to Lyn-don Street, where two-story wooden frame houses were cooled by the shade of tall elms. Some elderly porch-sitters directed me to the Toltecci residence, home of Grace and Theresa, the missing high school girls.
Their mother let me into the dim front room. The girls had been gone since early March. First Grace, sixteen, had failed to return home from what she called a movie date with her school friends. Soon it was learned no such plans existed.
Theresa — pronounced Treesa — was relentless in searching for her sister, grilling friends and acquaintances, showing Grace’s photo around the shopping district, trying to retrace her sister’s trail. All she learned was that Grace had been urgently seeking work in the shopping center, filling out applications at the dime store, the ice cream shops, the tea rooms — any place that might hire a high schooler for washing-up chores and the like.