Mary Clark - Loves Music, Loves To Dance

Erin loved to come over when the gardens were in bloom. “From the street you’d never guess they exist,” she’d sigh. “I swear, Darce, you sure lucked out when you found this place.”

Erin. Where was she? The minute she woke up and realized that Erin had not phoned, Darcy had called the nursing home in Massachusetts. Mr. Kelley’s condition was unchanged. The semi-comatose state could go on indefinitely, although he was certainly getting weaker. No, there had been no emergency call to his daughter. The day nurse really couldn’t say if Erin had made her usual phone call last evening.

“What should I do?” Darcy wondered aloud. Report her missing? Call the police and inquire about accidents?

A sudden thought made her shiver. Suppose Erin had had an accident in the apartment. She had a habit of tilting back in her chair when she was concentrating. Suppose she’d been lying there unconscious all this time! It took her three minutes to throw on a sweater and slacks, grab a coat and gloves. She waited agonizing minutes on Second Avenue before getting a cab. “ One-oh-one Christopher Street, and please hurry.” “Everybody says ‘hurry.’ I say take it easy, you’ll live longer.” The cabbie winked into the rearview mirror.

Darcy turned her head. She was in no mood to banter with the driver. Why hadn’t she thought of the possibility of an accident? Last month, just before she went to California, Erin had dropped by for dinner. They’d watched the news. One of the commercials showed a frail old woman falling and getting help by touching the emergency signal on a chain around her neck. “That’ll be us in fifty years,” Erin had said. She’d imitated the commercial, moaning, “Hel-l-l-p, hel-l-l-p! I’ve fallen, and I can’t get up!”

Gus Boxer, the superintendent of 101 Christopher Street, had an eye for pretty women. That was why when he hurried to the lobby to answer the persistent ring of the doorbell, his annoyed scowl was quickly replaced by an ingratiating twist of his mouth.

He liked what he saw. The visitor’s light brown hair was tossed by the wind. It fell forward on her face, reminding him of the Veronica Lake movies he stayed up to watch. Her hip-length leather jacket was old but had that classy look that Gus had come to recognize since taking this job in Greenwich Village. His appraising eyes lingered on her long, slim legs. Then he realized why she looked familiar. He’d seen her a couple of times with 3B, Erin Kelley. He opened the vestibule door and stepped aside. “At your service,” he said in what he considered to be a winning manner.

Darcy walked past him, trying not to show her distaste. From time to time, Erin complained about the sixty-year-old Casanova in dirty flannel. “Boxer gives me the creeps,” she’d said. “I hate the idea he has a master key to my place. Once I walked in and found him there and he gave me some cock-and-bull story about a leak in the wall.”

“Was anything ever missing?” Darcy had asked.

“No. I keep any jewelry I’m working on in the safe. There’s nothing else worth pocketing. It’s more that he has a nasty, flirtatious way about him that makes my skin crawl. Oh well. I’ve got a safety bolt when I’m inside and the place is cheap. He’s probably harmless.”

Darcy came straight to the point. “I’m concerned about Erin Kelley,” she told the superintendent. “She was supposed to meet me last night and didn’t show up. She doesn’t answer her phone. I want to check her apartment. Something may have happened to her.”

Boxer squinted. “She was okay yesterday.”

“Yesterday?”

Thick lids drooped over faded eyes. Parted lips were moistened with his tongue.

His forehead collapsed into erratic lines. “No, I’m wrong. I seen her Tuesday. Late afternoon. She come in with some groceries.” His tone became virtuous. “I offered to carry ‘em up for her.”

“That was Tuesday afternoon. Did you see her go out or return Tuesday evening?” “Nope. Can’t say I did. But listen, I’m not a doorman. Tenants have their own keys. Delivery guys gotta use the intercom to get let in.” Darcy nodded. Knowing it was useless, she had rung Erin ’s apartment before she buzzed for the superintendent. “Please. I’m afraid there may be something wrong. I’ve got to get into her place. Do you have your passkey?” The twisted smile returned. “You gotta understand, I don’t normally let people into an apartment just because they wanna go in. But I seen you with Kelley. I know you’re friends. You’re like her. Classy. Good lookin’.” Ignoring the compliment, Darcy started up the stairs. The stairs and landings were clean but dreary. The patched walls were battleship gray, the tiles on the steps uneven. Walking into Erin ’s apartment had the effect of going from a cave into daylight. When Erin moved here three years ago, Darcy had helped her paint and paper. They’d hired a U-Haul and made forays into Connecticut and New Jersey for garage-sale furnishings. They’d painted the walls a stark white. Colorful Indian rugs were scattered over the scratched but polished parquet floor. Framed museum posters were arranged over a studio couch that was covered in bright red velour and piled with vividly assorted throw pillows.

The windows faced the street. Even though the sky was overcast, the light was excellent. Under the windows a long worktable held Erin ’s supplies neatly placed side by side: torch, hand drill, files and pliers, ring clamps and spring tweezers, soldering block, gauges, drills. Darcy had always been fascinated to watch Erin at work, her slender fingers skillfully handling delicate gems. Next to the table was Erin ’s one extravagance, a tall chest with several dozen narrow drawers. A nineteenth-century pharmaceutical cabinet, the bottom drawers were a facade concealing a safe. One easy chair, a television, and a good stereo system completed the pleasant room.

Darcy’s immediate impression was a surge of relief. There was nothing out of order here. Gus Boxer at her heels, she walked swiftly into the tiny kitchen, a small windowless cubicle that they’d painted a bright yellow and decorated with framed tea towels.

The narrow hallway led to the bedroom. The pewter and brass bed and a two-on-three dresser were the only furniture in the closet-sized room. The bed was made. There was nothing out of place.

Clean, dry towels were on the rack in the bathroom. Darcy opened the medicine chest. With a practiced eye, she noted that Erin ’s toothbrush, cosmetics and creams were all there.

Boxer was becoming impatient. “Looks okay to me. You satisfied?” “No.” Darcy went back into the living room and walked over to the worktable. The message machine showed twelve calls had come in. She pressed playback.

“Hey, I don’t know-“

She cut off Boxer’s protest. “ Erin is missing. Have you got that straight? She’s missing. I’m going to listen to these messages and see if they might somehow give me an idea of where she might be. Then I’m going to call the police and inquire about accidents. For all I know, she’s unconscious in a hospital somewhere. You can stay here with me or if you’re busy, you can go. Which is it?”

Boxer shrugged. “I guess it’s okay to leave you here.” Darcy turned her back on him, reached into her purse, and took out her notebook and pen. She did not hear Boxer leave as the messages began. The first one had come on Tuesday evening at six forty-five. Someone named Tom Swartz. Thanks for answering his ad. Just discovered a great little inexpensive restaurant. Could they meet for dinner? He’d phone again.

Erin was supposed to meet Charles North on Tuesday evening at seven o’clock at a pub near Washington Square. By quarter of seven she had undoubtedly already left, Darcy thought.