Тимоти Уилльямз - Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 126, No. 3 & 4. Whole No. 769 & 770, September/October 2005

The young woman’s eyes blazed. “Is it? She went for a walk with her dog. She loves that dog. He was found tied to a parking meter five blocks from home. He’d been there for at least two hours. No Marsha anywhere. She might leave Buster outside a store for ten or fifteen minutes, but two hours? Not in a million years!”

Farber considered this and indicated a bench on the opposite wall. He said, “I’ll give you five minutes.” He took the girl by the elbow and guided her across the lobby, followed by a quizzical look from the sergeant.

When they were settled, he said, “Tell me about your roommate.”

“Marsha Pembroke. By the way, I’m Faye Gayle.” She rummaged in her purse and produced a photo of an attractive blonde, about twenty-five. “Marsha’s an actress. We both are, except that she’s making it. She has a running part in a soap and she’s out at the studio in Queens two or three days a week. Long days. That’s why when she’s home she takes Buster everywhere she goes.”

“What kind of dog is he?”

“A mutt. Little of this, lot of schnauzer. Small and sad-faced; that’s why she named him Buster. For Buster Keaton. You know, the—”

“I know, the sad-faced clown.” He cut in before she could add, “From your day.”

“Anyway,” the girl went on — she couldn’t have been much over twenty — “they went out around three and when they weren’t back by five I called her boyfriend. Because she’d said she’d be back in half an hour. Mitch — that’s the boyfriend, Mitch Keller — lives and works in a little old building he owns a couple of blocks south of us. He’s a cabinetmaker. Anyway, Mitch said Marsha had dropped by just after three. She seemed to have something on her mind, something really bothering her, and she’d only stayed a few minutes, for which I suspect he was grateful, because Mitch hates to be interrupted when he’s working. Anyway, Marsha can’t stand the sawdust in her nostrils.” The sound of her own voice seemed to soothe the young woman.

“Did she have the dog with her?” Farber said.

“I asked that. Yes.”

“Do you have any idea what might be troubling Marsha?”

“I can guess. I’d noticed it, too. Her show’s coming to the end of a contract period and there’s a question of whether she’ll be renewed for next season. This is her first and she’s heard a rumor that her character is going to be killed off by a falling elevator or a brain embolism. Something. But another rumor has it that her character’s going to get pregnant by one of the cast regulars. That would guarantee her steady employment for God knows how long. It could go either way.”

“Who makes that decision?”

“The head writer, I’d guess. Clinton Peck. A real pain in the butt, according to Marsha.”

“Could she have tied up the dog and gone to see Peck?”

“That passed through my mind. She was headed south and Peck’s office is maybe a dozen blocks south of where she left the dog. I phoned the office and got a machine.” She shook her head impatiently. “But why would she leave Buster?”

“She wouldn’t have if she took a taxi, but suppose she jumped on a bus? No dogs allowed on city buses.”

“It’s true, there’s a bus stop next to where Buster was left. But it still doesn’t add up. To leave Buster...” She trailed off in doubt. Then, “I just brought him home. The poor thing is a total wreck.”

“How did you learn where the dog was?”

“Didn’t I mention that? I had a call from Marsha’s dentist — he’s mine, too, Paul Chastney. He has a street-entrance office on Seventy-third Street, five blocks south of us. He went out for something or other around three-thirty and spotted Buster tied up practically at his door. He assumed Marsha was on errands in the neighborhood. When he closed the office at five-thirty, the dog was still there. That’s when he called our home number.”

“You know this dentist well?”

“Paul?” Her cheeks colored. “We both do. Actresses have a lot of corrective dental work. Plenty of time to become friendly with the man who performs the magic. Paul’s young, the three of us hang out once in a while.”

“And Marsha didn’t have an appointment this afternoon?”

“Paul says no. She didn’t even poke her head in to say hi. Wouldn’t you expect that when she was right there?”

Farber fell silent. Nothing he could do now would be of any help. If Marsha Pembroke had met with foul play, the deed was already done. But she was an actress, probably impulsive and possibly irresponsible. She could be anywhere. Missing people usually turn up unharmed. That’s why the police, he reminded himself, let a good chunk of time pass before they get involved. The odds were that she was okay. He tried to look reassuring.

Sylvie Farber owned and operated a suburban bookstore, but when she took her lunch break in the book-lined stockroom she invariably spent it watching television. Her husband teased her mercilessly over this habit. “A fine example you set your customers,” he was fond of saying.

Sylvie’s defense was always the same. “Would you rather I got egg salad on the merchandise? And can we change the subject?”

The subject came up again tonight. As they finished dinner — weeknight dinners were at the kitchen table — Bernie pulled out the photograph of Marsha Pembroke that her roommate had pressed on him. “Do you ever watch the soap opera Life Is for Living?”

Sylvie put down her coffee cup. “Bernie, are we launched on another session of ‘Bash the Philistine’?”

“No, I’m calling on you for expert testimony.” He showed her the picture. “Have you ever seen this woman?”

Sylvie barely glanced at the print. “The bitch,” she said at once. Then, “I mean the character she plays. Willa something. She’s new this season but she’s already wrecked a marriage and broken up an engaged couple. Willa goes for the jugular.” She looked squarely at her husband. “Don’t tell me she’s making trouble in the real world?”

“She may be more troubled than trouble. She seems to have taken a five-block stroll this afternoon and then vanished into thin air.”

Sylvie wriggled forward in her chair. “Tell me,” she breathed. In the chorus of crime groupies Sylvie was a soloist.

Rather than wait till she had nagged it out of him, Bernie told her everything he knew about the missing actress.

“What are the odds on foul play?” Sylvie asked.

“Against a national model of probability? Highly unlikely.”

“I don’t care about national models.”

“If we narrow it down to people who leave their dog tied up in the street for—” he consulted his watch — “it’s now four hours, I’d say there’s a fair chance Ms. Pembroke is in serious trouble.”

Sylvie examined her husband’s grim expression. He said, “She’s gotten through a few scrapes as Willa. Let’s see if she can do it as Marsha.”

But real life proved too tough for Marsha Pembroke. Her body turned up the next morning on a shoulder of the Saw Mill River Parkway about ten minutes north of the city. Whoever had broken her neck the previous afternoon had waited till night to dump the body. “At least his choice of location narrows the field of suspects,” Farber said when he got off the phone.

“It does? How?” Sylvie said.

“The perp had to have access to a car.”

Sylvie had been about to leave for work when Farber took the call. “Poor Willa,” she said now, no longer in a hurry. “Although some of her followers will say, ‘Good riddance, she had it coming.’ ”

“Maybe Willa did, but hey, remember? It was Marsha Pembroke who was murdered.”

“Some people get so deep into those soaps they don’t recognize the difference.” She was struck by a thought. “You think she might have been done in by a righteous viewer?”