The Long, Long Afternoon

by Inga Vesper

  Ruby sits and waits while the sugar rush clears her head.

  ‘Is there anything else you want?’ the detective asks.

  Yeah, call my pa to tell him I’m all right. Buy me a bus ticket. Get me my purse and my things, you pig. Let me wash.

  The detective stifles another sigh. ‘Look, I’m treating you as a witness. You don’t have to say anything, but it would really help me if you did. I can call you a lawyer, if that would make you feel better.’

  Tears crawl into her eyes. She bites them down with all her might. Ain’t no use crying in here. Not in front of him.

  He looks alarmed. ‘You have been informed that you have the right to a lawyer, yes?’

  No, she hasn’t. And anyway, what gives? She’s got the right to a diamond tiara, but, sure as hell, there ain’t none forthcoming.

  The detective mutters something that sounds like a curse. Then he leans back. ‘Listen, I’m worried about Mrs Haney. Doesn’t make sense what’s happened, does it?’

  ‘What’s happened to her, then?’

  She could kick herself. She didn’t want to say anything. The tape recorder is still off, though. Not that it would matter much. If they decide to blame something on her, they will find a way.

  ‘We haven’t found a body, if that’s what you mean.’ He gauges her reaction. ‘We know that Mrs Haney went out shopping in the morning, then returned to her home to make lunch and put Lily down for a nap. After that it’s all a mystery, until you showed up.’

  Ruby’s insides clench, and it’s not just from hunger. Joyce. What on Earth has happened to her?

  ‘So, let me see. When you finished at Mrs Ingram’s, you were running slightly later than usual, right?’

  Seems he knows everything already. Which makes things easier. She ain’t gonna say nothing.

  The detective waits a while. ‘I’m hungry,’ he says suddenly. ‘Let’s see.’

  He opens his lunch box. It contains a sandwich, an apple and a banana. He pushes the box to the middle of the table.

  ‘My wife made this. It’s good. Bacon and salad. You can have half.’

  Ruby stares at the food. Her stomach, the old traitor, emits another loud gurgle.

  She slowly reaches out and takes a sandwich half. The detective takes the other one and bites into it. She waits until he’s swallowed, then she starts eating hers.

  It’s good. The bread is soaked with bacon grease, but the salad is still crisp, despite the heat. She grins inwardly at the sight of the fruit, though. The detective doesn’t look like a man who likes his fruit.

  They eat in silence. When she’s finished, he offers her the fruits for dessert and she chooses the apple. She has to think of the poisoned apple from Snow White, but that’s a fairy tale. Ain’t much you can put inside an apple without opening it up, and this one’s without a blemish.

  Once lunch is over, the detective glances toward the door. ‘OK,’ he says. ‘How about now?’

  She checks the tape recorder. It’s still off. ‘I had to work a little later than usual at Mrs Ingram’s house.’

  ‘What time did you leave?’

  ‘Around quarter past five. I went up the driveway to Mrs Haney’s house. I saw Barbara among the trees.’

  The detective looks satisfied. In fact, a little light of excitement has begun to burn in his eyes. ‘Why was the girl outside?’

  ‘She was waiting for Mrs Kettering to pick her up. The neighbors help each other out with childcare.’

  ‘But Laura Kettering didn’t show. Why?’

  Ruby shrugs. Hell knows why. She probably found out that Joyce had gotten the last Saturday hair appointment and that was her way of taking sweet revenge.

  ‘So, you picked up Barbara?’

  ‘We went into the house. I heard Lily crying, so I checked on her and saw that she was all wet.’

  ‘And you didn’t look for Mrs Haney?’

  Her insides contract. She’s gotta be careful now. He’ll twist her words and spit them right back at her.

  ‘I was very concerned for the well-being of the children and wanted to call Mrs Kettering to come help. I sensed something . . . untoward as soon as I entered the house.’ There, how did that sound? Untoward. Good, meaningless word.

  The detective looks happier. ‘And then you saw the blood?’

  ‘In the kitchen.’ She clenches her fists. It’s not a nice memory. ‘I didn’t wait around to get an eyeful of that. I beat feet and ran right into Mrs Ingram.’

  ‘You didn’t search the house?’

  ‘I had two little kids with me, sir. We stayed outside till the police came. I was scared there might be someone in the house. And I didn’t want Barbara to . . . to walk all over it. She’d already put her hands in it.’

  ‘OK.’ The detective peels the banana. ‘And that’s all?’

  ‘Well,’ she says, as innocently as she can. ‘You know the rest.’

  He takes a bite. In the quiet room, Ruby can hear the sound of his teeth coming down on the soft, yellow flesh.

  ‘Sergeant Hodge told me that Mrs Ingram slapped you. That true?’

  ‘He gave her sh— He told her off for being in the house. She got angry and . . .’ Ruby casts her eyes down and lowers her voice. ‘It was a nightmare in that house.’

  ‘I understand,’ he says slowly. ‘For what it’s worth, I think you stayed quite level-headed.’

  She peers up into his face. His blue eyes are sharp and impatient.

  ‘Anything else you’ve seen or heard?’ he asks between bites. ‘Anything out of whack?’

  ‘Nothing, sir.’

  ‘Mrs Haney – what is she like?’

  ‘Always happy and friendly.’

  ‘A good boss?’

  ‘Yeah.’ And a good friend. But I’d never say that. Not to anyone. Especially not you.

  ‘And in the weeks leading up to yesterday, did you notice anything unusual about her behavior? What was she like?’

  ‘Normal. She talked on the phone, she played with the kids, she got them dressed up all nice and tidy, she put dinner on. Nothing else.’

  ‘What about Mr Haney?’

  ‘I don’t see him. He doesn’t like the help in the house when he gets back from work. So I always leave before he arrives.’

  ‘Hm.’ The detective finishes his banana and folds the peel back into the lunch box. ‘I’ve got to admit, this totally beats me.’

  Ruby doesn’t answer. What’s she supposed to say?

  ‘I mean,’ the detective continues, ‘we’ve not found a body and there wasn’t that much blood. She might still be alive. Could be an abduction or a robber, but the house wasn’t otherwise disturbed. Could be a crazy guy, but even crazy guys are normally not that stupid. Who’d kidnap a housewife in broad daylight?’

  Come to South Central, Ruby thinks, and you might get an idea.

  ‘Anyhoo, the kids would have heard if there’d been a struggle. And the neighbors would have noticed a strange car.’

  In Ruby’s mind a memory rises, fast and fleeting. A Crestliner, silver-black like shadow, burning rubber down the road. She pushes the image away. There’s no point getting the detective all hot and bothered about something that might not even matter.

  ‘All right.’ The detective sighs. ‘I need something on the record. Can you repeat all that on tape?’

  *

  Twenty minutes later, the Lord has worked a miracle. Ruby is at the bus stop, her purse around her shoulder and two bus tokens in her hand. It happened so quickly she barely had time to figure it out. Detective Blanke took her to the front desk and shouted a lot. He grabbed some papers and signed them. Then he gave Ruby a paper to sign, stating she’d received all her belongings. She never had time to check, but now, waiting for the 168 to Compton, she’s digging through her purse and everything’s still there, even the dollar bills from Mrs Ingram.

  The sun is burning the flagstones. They throw the heat right back against her legs. Santa Monica smells of asphalt and gasoline, an
d the palm trees are swaying in the breeze. The sky is blue and wide and open and she is under it and free. It’s only just starting to sink in. She’s made it. She’s gonna go home.

  It occurs to her that she didn’t even say thank you. Right away, she can hear Momma’s voice, from farther away than the human mind can fathom. You don’t got nobody to thank for nothing, girl. You done good all by yourself.

  The bus turns the corner with a silver flash. She is crying when she stamps her token. The driver is white, but he sends her a worried smile. ‘You all right, honey?’

  ‘I’m fine.’ She smiles back. ‘Don’t worry, sir. Everything’s cooking.’

  She takes a seat at the back and turns around to watch the police station recede from her life. Chances are she’s out of a job; Mrs Ingram won’t want her back after that slap. But it could’ve been worse. Hell, it could’ve been so much worse.

  She clutches her purse. Inside it, slipped into the tiny pouch that holds her keys and wallet, is a dog-eared calling card. The detective pressed it into her hand just before she left the station. ‘Call me if you can think of anything else,’ he said.

  She won’t. But she’ll keep the card. You never know.

  Chapter Six

  Mick

  T

  he Seafront View Motel is probably the biggest scam this side of Brentwood. There’s no seafront in sight, and neither is there a view, unless you consider the delectable sight of the Interstate 10 a visual highlight.

  Frank Haney waits in apartment number 7, which boasts two double beds and a tiny coffee machine on a tray balanced precariously on the dresser. To Mick’s surprise, Nancy Ingram is there, sitting in the room’s only armchair, and she has brought the children. Haney is cradling the younger girl on his lap. She has burrowed her head into his chest and is sucking her thumb. The older one is sitting on the bed, her legs drawn up and her eyes fixed on the television, which is running with the sound off.

  Mick looks for a place to sit and, awkwardly, settles himself on the spare bed. He takes out his notepad and draws a little snake on a blank page. Haney turns around, his face smudged with worry.

  ‘Any news about my wife, Detective?’

  ‘We’re doing all we can. If we find her, you’ll be the first to know.’

  ‘There must be an explanation for all this. Dear Lord, if she’s injured . . . if she’s . . .’ He gulps and buries his chin in his daughter’s hair.

  Mick glances at the older girl, Barbara, her tiny face whitened by the TV’s glow. ‘For now, we’re working on the basis that your wife is . . . doing OK. She may have sustained an injury, but I would not be unduly worried.’

  ‘Not worried?’ Frank Haney squeezes the child on his lap. ‘Then where is she? I heard there was blood on the floor. What the goddamn hell has happened to her?’

  Mrs Ingram gets up from her chair and, with an apologetic smile, takes Barbara’s hand and leads her outside. Barbara follows willingly, looking at no one.

  ‘Sorry,’ says Haney. ‘I’m just . . . this is terrible. Who would do such a thing?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  Haney stares at him. His eyebrows dip from fear into anger. ‘You tell me, Detective.’

  ‘Let’s start with your wife’s past.’ Mick puts on his old buddy face. ‘She was born in Philadelphia?’

  ‘On September 2, 1930.’

  ‘And her parents?’

  ‘Oh, so you found out already.’

  ‘Found out what, Mr Haney?’

  ‘About the fire.’

  Mick hasn’t a clue, but he sure as hell won’t let on. ‘I’d like to hear the story from you.’

  ‘Joyce’s parents died in a fire when she was twelve. She was the only one saved from the burning apartment. Apparently, her mother . . .’ Haney looks sideways and swallows. ‘She wasn’t very well in the head. Joyce never liked to talk about it. She loved her parents, but the circumstances were . . . Well, I think she had a better life with the Delawneys. They took her in after the fire, gave her a new . . . a better home.’

  ‘Joyce was close to her stepparents?’

  ‘Devoted. We visited Bill and Florence every other weekend when we lived in Philly.’

  ‘Then the move down here must have been hard for her.’

  ‘Yes, but she wanted to get away from the bad weather and the dirty air. For the children, you know? We were planning to drive back east for a visit next year, when Lily’s old enough to stand the long ride. We . . .’ He breaks off. Tears shimmer in his eyes. ‘I haven’t called the Delawneys yet,’ he whispers. ‘Should I?’

  ‘Perhaps not today,’ Mick says. ‘We’re checking all the hospitals and there’s a huge search effort going on.’

  ‘Yes,’ says Haney. ‘All the ladies from Joyce’s committee.’

  ‘There you go. Most missing person cases get solved in twenty-four hours.’

  ‘It’s been twenty-four hours.’

  Mick ignores that. ‘What else can you tell me about your wife’s past?’

  ‘She was good in school, very clever. Went to college and graduated with honors.’

  ‘What was her degree?’

  ‘Art history. Then she went to work for Griffin Corps as secretary for the head of PR, who happened to be my boss. We ran into each other almost daily. I asked her out for lunch and the rest, as they say, is history.’

  He gives Mick a wan smile. His daughter stirs in his arms. She hiccups, then begins to cry softly.

  ‘Any difficulties in your marriage?’ Mick asks. ‘I’m sorry, but it’s a question I have to ask, just in case your wife left . . . voluntarily.’

  ‘Bogus.’ Haney begins to sway from side to side as the little girl’s crying intensifies. ‘We are very happy. Joyce is a devoted mother, and a great wife. I mean, we grind each other’s gears just like any other married couple, but never—’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Oh, come on.’ Haney glances at Mick’s wedding ring. ‘You’re married. Household allowance, decorating, childcare. That sort of thing. Nothing serious. We want the same from life, Joyce and I. We love each other. We . . . Dammit. Enough.’

  He rises and yanks the door open. Mrs Ingram appears as if she’s been waiting by the window. She plucks Lily from his arms and coos.

  ‘Thank you, Nancy.’ Haney looks out into the dusk settling over the motel’s parking lot. ‘Where’s Barbara?’

  ‘Playing.’ Mrs Ingram points to a rickety swing set near the reception building, on which the little girl sits unmoving.

  Haney closes the door and wipes his face. ‘I’m sorry, Detective Blanke. It’s . . . I am so worried about Joyce.’

  ‘Of course,’ Mick says, and he believes him. Haney looks distressed, and angry, too. He is talking about his wife in present tense and hasn’t once slipped up.

  Haney grows impatient with the silence. ‘I don’t understand what all these questions are about. You should be out there, catching that gangster.’

  ‘You believe it’s an abduction?’

  ‘Jesus Christ. What if she surprised a burglar and he killed her to make sure she wouldn’t run to the police?’

  ‘We’ll have to ask you to check if anything’s been stolen, and whether any of her clothes are missing. Any jewelry, personal items, photographs—’

  ‘How the hell should I know?’

  ‘You don’t know your wife’s closet?’

  ‘You should see it. Stuffed to the brim.’ Haney sighs. ‘OK. I’ll take a look.’

  ‘Another thing. Your older daughter was sent outside that afternoon. I was wondering—’

  ‘What about that?’

  ‘Your wife might have had a visitor.’

  ‘Goddammit, what are you implying?’

  Mick keeps the buddy smile going for all its worth. ‘Mr Haney, please. It’s something we have to ask. Routine question, you understand?’

  ‘Well, if she’s got time to hang out with a fella, she’s a bloody miracle worker. She has two kids and the h
ousework and the shopping to do. And, before you ask, I’m not one to play around. I come home at 7 p.m., come hell or high water. I spend every weekend with my family. Unless she was stowing a man in the dryer, my wife had no time for flings.’

  ‘Did your wife go out much?’

  ‘Just to the mall or to take the children for check-ups. Oh, and the Women’s Improvement Committee. You may have heard of it.’ He rolls his eyes to signal the brotherhood of men.

  ‘I have,’ Mick says. ‘My wife goes every week. To the Santa Monica one.’

  ‘Ah, well, then you know what I’m talking about. Joyce only went when she could get childcare.’

  ‘I understand Mrs Ingram was looking after the children on the morning your wife disappeared?’

  ‘She’s a treasure. She’s been helping us a lot.’

  Mick nods and pretends to take notes. From outside comes the sound of Lily wailing, followed by the desperately cheerful encouragements from Mrs Ingram. ‘Things are OK, baby. Honey, listen, it’s OK. Come on, little bean, come on, honey, it’s OK.’

  ‘Mr Haney,’ Mick says. ‘Were you planning to have more children?’

  And there it is. A sharp glance, quick and nasty, like a shot from the hip. Gone in a split second, but its echo rings in the room.

  ‘Not quite yet,’ Haney says. ‘But maybe once Lily is a little older. The house is big enough and . . . well, of course I would have liked a boy.’

  Mick nods, and this time he makes a note in earnest.

  He’s not going to get more out of the man, not tonight. Try again in a few days, when the shock has had time to settle. Or, he prays, when Joyce Haney has shown up in a hospital or been rescued from the apartment of some nutcase, a former boyfriend, perhaps, or a drugstore attendant who has taken a twisted fancy to her. Joyce Haney, shocked and shaken, but alive. She’ll have nightmares for a few months, maybe grow scared of the dark. But she’ll be back to hug her kids and iron the pleats in her husband’s pants and buy everything that’s on the shopping list taped to the refrigerator.

  Haney interrupts that particular train of thought. ‘When can I return to my house?’

  ‘Once we’re done with it. End of the day tomorrow, I hope.’