Susan took a deep breath, as if she was about to dive into a swimming pool. “I work for Mayfield’s, the Manhattan department store. We’re opening our first location in western New York at your new shopping mall in Pembroke and I flew up to work out the details of some special promotions. Betty Quint was my contact here.”
More notes. “How long had you known Miss Quint?”
“I’d met her once at our New York office about six months ago. She stayed overnight at my apartment. We’d been in constant touch by phone, fax, and E-mail since then. This is my first trip up here because there was no point in coming until the store was almost ready to open.”
“When does it open?”
“Next Tuesday. A week from today.”
“Go on. Describe everything that happened.”
I took the Monday afternoon flight up from LaGuardia (Susan continued), arriving at midafternoon. Betty met me at the airport and drove me to the new store. She was a friendly, uninhibited young woman of about my age, around thirty. Seeing her again confirmed my impression of her from our initial meeting at the New York store. She was a good worker, perfect for this store, but perhaps lacking the cool sophistication needed for the Manhattan retail scene. She liked jokes and didn’t mind attracting attention to herself. I wasn’t surprised when she mentioned she was active in a local theater group.
We toured the completed Mayfield’s store, where clerks were busy unpacking merchandise for the shelves and racks. Betty consulted her notebook frequently as she led the way through the store, pointing out special features of interest. A small café was already open for the employees and we took advantage of it for coffee and a snack.
“I’m so excited to be part of the Mayfield’s team!” Betty gushed. “Have you been with them long?”
“About nine years. Ever since college.”
“I thought Manhattan was very exciting when I was there in the spring.”
“It is, but most of my excitement has come from traveling for the store. I’ve been to Tokyo, Iceland, Switzerland, London, and all over America.”
“Do you meet lots of men on the job?”
“Not too many,” I said. “I told you about Russell.”
“Are you back living with him?”
“No.” I felt like saying it was none of her business. Instead, I shifted the conversation back to the new store. “Do you have anyone helping you on promotions?”
“Sadie Shepherd, she’s my secretary.” Her face brightened. “There she is now! I’ll introduce you.” She called out to a slender dark-haired woman in her twenties who was already headed in our direction. “Sadie, this is Susan Holt, the promotions coordinator at Mayfield’s flagship store in Manhattan.”
The young woman had a pleasant smile and seemed eager to please. “So glad to meet you! Betty told me about the great time she had in New York.”
“It was fun for me too. Perhaps you can come down and see our store sometime.”
“I’d love that,” Sadie said, then turned her attention briefly to Betty. “I wanted to catch you before you left. Here are a couple of phone messages.”
“Thanks, Sadie.” She glanced at them and slipped them into a pocket of her notebook. When we were alone again she turned back to me. “It would be great if you could stay and help me through next Tuesday’s opening.”
“I’m afraid that’s impossible, Betty. I have to fly back tomorrow afternoon. But we can go over lots of things while I’m here. If you’re free we can have dinner tonight. My expense account is fairly generous.”
“That would be great! We have a wonderful new French restaurant down by the harbor.”
“I’ll have to check in at my hotel first. I don’t want to inconvenience you. I should rent a car.”
“Why bother, for just one night? I’ll drive you to the hotel and then we can go to my place while I change.”
It wasn’t quite as simple as it sounded. Just as we pulled up at my hotel Betty received a call on her cell phone. She seemed annoyed at the caller, someone named Roger, and tried to get rid of him. “Look, I’m working right now, Roger. Sadie gave me your messages, but I was too busy to get back to you. Can’t we talk about this later?” She listened for a moment and then said, “I’m with someone from the New York office and we’ll be going back to my apartment.” When he said something else she uttered an obscenity and pushed the Off button on the phone.
I gave a grunt of approval. “Is Roger an old boyfriend?”
“Worse than that,” she said, but explained no further.
It took me a few minutes to check in and she accompanied me to my room.
“I just want to slip into a dress and we can be on our way,” I told her.
“It’s not a fancy place.”
“I’ve gotten a bit rumpled from traveling. I’ll only be a minute.”
She sat down on the bed. “Do you smoke?”
“Tried it. Gave it up.”
She’d opened her purse to take out a cigarette but then thought better of it. Meanwhile, I’d unzipped my overnight bag and removed this simple print dress I’d brought with me for early fall wear. I didn’t bother retreating to the bathroom for a modest change of clothes. We’d seen pretty much all of each other the night Betty stayed over at my Manhattan apartment. That was also the night she’d startled me by suggesting we stop for after-dinner drinks at the Plaza bar and then paying for them with a hundred-dollar bill.
“Can I use your phone?” she asked as I was freshening my makeup.
“Go ahead.” I motioned toward the nightstand.
She got an outside line and punched in a local number. When the party answered she started right in. “Roger phoned me awhile ago.” A pause and then, “Well, I don’t like it.”
I tried to keep busy with my make-up to avoid being too obvious about my eavesdropping. “I’m at the hotel now,” she said, “but I’ll be back to my apartment shortly. What’ll I do if he comes up and wants the money?”
She listened intently after that, finally said, “All right,” and hung up with a sigh.
“Is anything wrong?” I asked casually, finishing with my makeup.
“No, no. Just man trouble. You know how it is.”
We started out for her apartment but she was openly nervous, keeping an eye on the rearview mirror as if fearful of being followed. I wondered about that but asked no further questions, even when she seemed to double back on her route and take the long way through a number of narrow residential streets. “Less traffic this way,” she muttered, sensing my questioning gaze.
Presently we entered a neighborhood of large older homes, many of which had been split into apartments and needed ugly second – and third-floor fire escapes to comply with housing codes for multiple dwellings. Betty Quint parked in front of one of these. “Come on up. I want to take a quick shower and then we’ll be on our way.”
It was already after six and starting to get dark. Thick gray clouds had rolled in, threatening rain. She led the way to a side door which she quickly unlocked. I noticed there were two mailboxes, one with her name and the other with Mr & Mrs R. James Liction. “The landlord,” she said by way of explanation. “A retired couple. They live downstairs. Come on up.” She led the way to her second-floor apartment.
“It’s so large!” I marveled.
“I have the entire second floor,” she answered with pride. “These old houses are great bargains.” She dropped her things on the coffee table and walked to the front window, gazing down at the street. “Damn!”
“What’s the matter?”
“He’s down there in a car. I think we were followed.”
“Roger?”
“I’m going to shower,” she said, walking into the bedroom as she shed her outer garments. I hesitated to follow but then she called to me. “Here’s something you might like even if you did quit smoking.”
I walked into the bedroom and found her holding out a cigarette with crimped ends. “What is it, pot?” I asked.