by Melissa Hill
I chuckled. ‘Better not let you get too used to the perks or you’ll be hell to live with.’
‘Haha, you know me too well.’
When we’d said our goodbyes and hung up I glanced at the iPhone screen and wondered if she and the Apple girl might actually be on to something. Maybe I should just ‘ask Siri’ for the fun of it.
I pressed the button that Jenna had indicated, and furtively looked around to see if anyone was watching me. I guess I shouldn’t feel weird talking to a phone, instead of on the phone. After all, probably everyone was doing it.
A cool disembodied female voice greeted me. ‘Hello, Aidan, what can I do for you?’
‘I need to find something.’ When I outlined the specifics of my request, there was a brief pause.
Then finally she answered.
‘Based upon your current location, there are five separate locations close by. Would you like directions?’
I raised my eyebrows, surprised. Five? Could it really be that easy?
Then I thought about what I’d asked, and the rather crucial piece of information I’d left out. I spoke again into the phone, adding this important detail.
After another wait, this time there was no response and I smiled.
Siri was at a loss for words.
Chapter 11
She had an immense curiosity about life, and was constantly staring and wondering. Henry James
Although Darcy knew she could easily spend all night looking around Aidan Harris’s house, she reminded herself that she needed to get a move on if she didn’t want it to be midnight by the time she got back home.
She’d promised him that she’d return to the hospital tomorrow to report back on whether she’d found anything helpful, and of course she still had to collect Bailey from Mrs Henley and make him dinner.
She went back to the kitchen to grab the bag of dog food, and was carrying it back through the hallway when she spied a bureau on the left-hand side of the door which she hadn’t seen on her way in.
On top of it was a phone with an answering machine.
An answering machine that was flashing a tell-tale blinking light.
Darcy bit her lip, wondering if she should perhaps listen to the messages. Yes, it could be considered an invasion of Aidan’s privacy, but wasn’t he the very one who’d sent her here, tasking her with finding something that would help him get his memory back?
At the end of the day, the guy was in an accident yesterday and had spent all of last night in the hospital. Surely somebody – be it family, his girlfriend or even a work colleague – must have noticed his absence and was wondering where he was? And if the message happened to be from one of those people, then her job would be a lot easier.
Without further contemplation, Darcy turned to the answering machine and pushed Play. A beep emitted from the machine and then a sultry female voice filled the room.
‘Aidan, are you there?’ She paused for a moment and Darcy could hear noises in the background that suggested the woman was calling from a cell phone in a busy location. ‘I’ve been trying your cell but it’s going straight to voicemail . . . I’m not sure what’s going on. I know you’re busy, but I can’t believe you’d forget about this and let me down today of all days.’ A hurt sigh. ‘Look, just call me when you get this, OK?’
Click. The line went dead. And that was it. There were no other messages after that. And no name or contact information offered on the one Darcy had just heard. Who was it? she wondered. Judging by the woman’s tone and indeed the contents of her message, it certainly sounded like someone Aidan was close to, not at all like anything you’d expect from a work colleague. Could it be the girl from the ski photograph?
Whoever it was, she had definitely been expecting to see Aidan yesterday, or at least expecting to hear from him. I can’t believe you’d forget, and let me down today of all days . . .
Wondering where the woman might have been calling from, Darcy picked the handset up to see if the Caller ID gave any clues, but much to her disappointment she found that the last call registered had come from a withheld number.
But of course she couldn’t be absolutely sure that the message on the machine was the last call, could she?
Outside of that, there was only one other incoming call registered yesterday, a 212 area code. So whoever that was, they were based here in Manhattan.
Should she call the number back and see if whoever it was could shed any light on the riddle wrapped in a mystery wrapped in an enigma that was turning out to be Aidan Harris? No, Darcy decided, she really should talk to Aidan again first, get his take on it and see if what she’d found so far rang any bells for him.
Taking a piece of paper and a pen from the bureau, she took down the 212 number and then played back the original message, transcribing it word for word. Listening to it again, she thought the woman, whoever she was, sounded mightily put out but not especially frantic or anything.
She’d mentioned about trying his cell phone a couple of times, and Darcy made a mental note to ask Aidan about the call log on his cell phone, assuming he still had it. God, she hoped it hadn’t been lost in the mêlée and she wouldn’t be faced with having to replace that, as well as his shoes and fancy coat. If the guy spent a seven-figure sum on a painting for his hallway and all those luxurious kitchen appliances, what would he be spending on his clothes?
Thoughts of Aidan’s wardrobe segued directly to his bedroom and indeed other parts of the house that she hadn’t yet investigated. She checked her watch; she didn’t have a whole lot of time but should at least take a quick look around, just in case something jumped out.
The one thing that was apparent from her search was that Aidan Harris led an interesting life. At least, that’s what his house told her. At the same time it didn’t give up any especially revealing clues about the personal life of its owner.
She had found a small study on the second floor sparsely furnished with just a desk and laptop lying open on top of it. Suspecting that her efforts were likely to be in vain, Darcy approached the laptop and switched it on but sure enough, it was password protected.
She quickly tried a few options – his surname, Bailey – but failed. Figures, she thought irritably. Even though she couldn’t blame him for not making his computer password as obvious as his dog’s name.
There were also rows of expensive-looking rosewood filing cabinets, but each drawer had been locked. Darcy couldn’t get her head around the thought that it seemed odd in a house with a Rothko just inside the hallway, to afford such security to drawers likely full of rubber bands and stationery.
But the study made her wonder again what he did for a living. Given his Irish heritage she guessed he couldn’t be the offspring of one of Manhattan’s wealthier blue bloods, so his wealth might have been earned. But how? Was he some kind of Wall Street hotshot, a hedge fund manager maybe? Those guys were seriously rolling in it and many chose to live in this part of town, much to the chagrin of the aforesaid blue bloods who considered them tacky and nouveau riche. Or he could be one of those millionaire tech types like Bill Gates, someone who had set up a business in his dad’s garage and then went on to earn more money than the national debt of some countries?
As with so many other things about Aidan Harris, the answer remained a mystery, at least until the gaps in his memory could be filled.
When Darcy finally made it to the master bedroom, she took a moment to cast her eyes across the expanse of his California King bed, thinking that in her tiny apartment she would barely have been able to fit the mattress through the door. And if by some miracle she was able to get the massive bed into the apartment, there would have been no room for anything else, including herself.
She walked slowly across the room. There had to be a uniquely personal item in this space that would trigger something for Aidan, or perhaps shed some light on who the woman on the phone, or in the photograph, might be.
From her visit to the house, she had gleaned that Aid
an Harris was not only loaded but a lover of fine things – food, design and exotic travel. And that he was in a relationship with a beautiful red-haired woman.
But precious little else besides.
She looked at the bed, and tried to determine whether Aidan slept on the right side or the left side. Or in the middle even. Darcy then considered both bedside tables. One was completely devoid of paraphernalia except a lamp. The other, on the right side of the bed, played host to a copy of The New Yorker magazine, and the New York Times.
At once Darcy realised that she’d learned another thing. She moved to the side of the bed which showed evidence of someone who clearly read in bed. She sat down, careful not to disturb the elegantly displayed cushions, and picked up the newspaper – yesterday’s edition. The copy of The New Yorker was last month’s, and she took note of the fact there was nothing out of the ordinary about the periodicals, not even an address label.
Then Darcy spied the drawer beneath the side table and she reached forward, fastening her fingers around the polished brass handle. She took a deep breath, hoping first that the drawer wasn’t locked, and secondly, that if it did open she wouldn’t find anything that would make her blush or invade Aidan’s privacy.
But the drawer opened easily.
Darcy felt a surge of adrenaline in her veins as she peered inside, very much feeling like a voyeur now, though hoping she might be on the precipice of discovery.
There was an eight by ten photograph inside. A photo of a woman – blonde, this time – and completely different to the girl in the skiing shot downstairs. And there was something more about this picture.
Darcy picked up the print, curious. She had to wonder why this one was without a frame and had been apparently shoved in a bedside-table drawer. Could she be an ex, perhaps?
She looked more closely at the blonde woman. She was laughing, her mouth open in a wide smile. She had one foot raised slightly off the ground, as if she was about to skip or break into dance, and her hands were held high above her head as if she was working to cast her blonde mane from her shoulder, or artfully tousle it as a gust of wind blew her way.
The backdrop was slightly blurred but there seemed to be a fountain, or some kind of waterfall, just behind her, and the woman, her hands held high in that curious pose, seemed aware of the camera while also appearing artfully unaware of it.
Darcy felt the teeniest stab of jealousy knowing that she herself could never pull that look off. Then again, there were few women who could. She instantly wondered if this woman was a model of some kind, and secondly what she meant to Aidan – how she was connected to him – and, perhaps most importantly, why he had a picture of her in his bedside drawer.
Now she really did feel like a voyeur. There was something private about this photo. It was one of the first truly personal things she’d discovered in this entire house. Something that wasn’t meant to be seen by just anyone.
But why?
She turned the photograph over, wondering if there might be an inscription, or a date mark, anything that might give her some clue as to who this person was and how she might relate to Aidan. Hidden away or not, if the woman was important to him, then she needed to take the photo with her and show it to him at the hospital.
Feeling as if she was in a Nancy Drew novel, Darcy picked up the photograph and placed it safely in her messenger bag, adding it to a growing list of mysteries surrounding Aidan Harris – mysteries that she couldn’t yet solve.
Chapter 12
To thine own self be true. William Shakespeare
It was well after 8 p.m. by the time she made it back to West Houston Street, and when her next-door neighbour opened the door, Darcy was full of apologies. She’d not had Mrs Henley’s telephone number to call and warn her how late she’d be.
‘I’m so sorry, I had no idea I’d be so late.’ Even though Bailey wasn’t actually hers, she felt how she imagined a hassled working mother late picking up her kids from daycare must feel. And looking at him now, she again wondered again how she was going to manage a dog his size in her teeny apartment for yet another night – or perhaps even longer, who knew?
‘No need to apologise, it’s not as though I was going anywhere in any case.’ Mrs Henley beckoned her inside her apartment, which was bright, cheery and . . . very pink.
The blinds were pink, the sofa cushions were pink, the lights on the white plastic tree were pink, and from every branch hung pink-coloured decorations.
Bailey danced around her legs, whining and yowling, and Darcy was relieved that she finally had some decent food to feed him with.
‘Here you go, boy,’ she said, as she slipped him one of the rust-coloured dog biscuits she’d picked up for him at Aidan’s house. He jumped up and snatched it from her hand, retreating to Mrs Henley’s satiny pink tree skirt to nibble it gently between his big paws.
The older woman emerged from the kitchenette, a tea tray in hand. A conspicuously white tray, Darcy saw, and not a sign of pink in sight but no, there it was . . . the cocktail napkins.
‘I am so sorry,’ she apologised for the sixth time since heading straight to the apartment after leaving Aidan’s house. ‘And thank you, but you really shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble.’
The old woman set the tray on her coffee table, and settled onto her pink couch. ‘Don’t mention it – it’s no trouble at all,’ she purred, a truly different woman to the one Darcy thought she knew. She turned her eyes to Bailey, curled beneath the blinking pink Christmas tree. ‘We had a lovely day, didn’t we, boy? I took him over to Hudson Park for a nice long walk by the river, and on the way back we stopped off for a couple of hot dogs,’ she told Darcy. ‘My treat, but very definitely Bailey’s idea. He got very excited when he came across the vendor’s cart, didn’t you, darling?’
Bailey looked up and lazily wagged his tail before resting his head on his white paws, looking from Mrs Henley to Darcy and back again.
‘Like I said, I really can’t thank you enough,’ Darcy enthused, as the older woman handed her a cup of coffee so black she could see her reflection in the rippling surface. Thoughtfully, she had added several butter cookies to the saucer.
Darcy sipped the coffee, hiding a wince as the first taste of instant hit the back of her throat. Mrs Henley must have spooned in twice the recommended dosage for each cup. Darcy wasn’t a huge coffee fan, more of a latte/cappuccino person if she had it at all, but at the same time it was hot and warming. And as Darcy still hadn’t had dinner and was starving, she quickly made the four thick butter cookies disappear.
She sat back in the comfy chair across from her neighbour and sighed. It felt like the first time she’d sat down all day. ‘Are you all right, dear?’ Mrs Henley asked.
Darcy nodded serenely. ‘Just tired, I guess.’
The other woman leaned over and poured more coffee into her cup. ‘Then you need some more of my special brew.’
Darcy chuckled and leaned over to accept the top-up. ‘Nice tree,’ she said, trying to get a better look at the pastel decorations.
‘Thank you, don’t you just love it?’ Mrs Henley set the pot down on the tray and sat back, her pink housecoat soft, her pink slippers fluffy. She shivered to herself with pleasure.
‘Er yes,’ Darcy hedged. ‘What’s hanging on them? Are those decorations . . . shoes?’ she asked, finally recognising the shapes.
Clearly shoes were to Mrs Henley what books were to her. Another revelation about her neighbour, who kept on surprising her.
The old woman wrinkled her nose and waved a hand. ‘Ballet slippers, of course. I was a ballerina a long, long time ago. I even danced at the Lincoln Centre once. What a rush it was . . .’
‘Wow, that’s amazing, Mrs Henley. I had no idea.’ But how would Darcy know something like that about her neighbour when this was the first time she’d even been inside her home? ‘It must have been wonderful.’
‘I keep telling you, call me Grace. Yes, it was – incredible actually, but lik
e I said, it was a long time ago.’ Her eyes grew misty as she seemed to stare beyond the tree and right into the past.
Her mood had turned contemplative, and still feeling as if she didn’t know the woman well enough to press for more details, Darcy stood up, gently patting her leg for Bailey to follow. Time to go.
His head perked up, and having been nearly snoozing a moment earlier, he suddenly shot out from under the tree like a missile and stood by her side.
‘Leaving so soon?’ Grace asked, but her voice was tired and as she struggled to get up, Darcy shooed her back down.
‘Please, no need to see me out. We’ve taken up enough of your time as it is and I’m sure Bailey has you worn out.’
Grace sat back down and smiled. Bailey, tail wagging happily, shuffled over once more and licked her hand before darting back to Darcy. ‘We did have a nice day, didn’t we, boy? Same time tomorrow?’ she asked, eyes glinting and hopeful as she looked up at Darcy.
‘Seriously?’ Darcy was taken aback. She was on the late shift at Chaucer’s the following day, which meant she didn’t need to be in until midday, but she was anxious to head back to the hospital to give Aidan his things as soon as possible; if Grace was willing, she would be able to do so in the morning. Her neighbour’s surprising kindness was turning out to be the answer to her prayers.
‘That would be great, thank you. I really appreciate it.’
She picked up the red leather leash on the way out and made sure to fasten Bailey to it before letting herself out – otherwise he could go skittering down the stairs and at this point Darcy definitely didn’t have the energy for a game of chase. ‘You really are a lifesaver. I don’t know how to thank you . . .’ she continued, saying goodbye, but the rest of her sentence trailed off when Grace’s snores met her in reply.
Waking early the next morning, Darcy realised that even though she still felt sore from the accident, she also felt properly rested and refreshed. And for the first time in a while, she’d woken up without an alarm clock interrupting her dreams.