by E. J. Olsen
"Such a sweet little thing," chirped the customer, a mousey little woman I'd mentally dubbed Peachy due to her perennial choice of lipstick and nail polish hues. "It's hard to believe she would just run off on you. Hope she's okay."
I looked around the room but the other operators, taking their cue from Kay, continued their work in silence.
"If anyone hears from her, please let me know," I said. "You know where to find me."
Back inside Cunningham's, I leaned against the ledge in the phone booth and leafed through the directory. Marjorie and I were afterwork buddies, just shopping and the movies, that sort of thing. But I knew she lived a bit south, off Plymouth Road somewhere, with her parents and younger sister.
Here it was—John Sklar, 9980 Asbury Park, VErmont 5-2537.
I wrote the number on the back of an order slip but didn't dial the phone. A brisk rap on the open booth door startled me and there was the drugstore boss and pharmacist, Mr. Smith, frowning and jerking his head toward the far end of the counter. Some of my best tippers were taking their customary seats.
There were a handful of the neighborhood's bigwigs, including the banker, the undertaker, the pastor, and the dentist—their daily get-together was a years-long tradition. Smith joined them as usual on their afternoon break.
It had been a busy day for them too. Payday check-cash-ers swamped Mr. Littmann's corner bank. Families were taking advantage of the summer break to get teeth pulled and cavities filled, Dr. Foster said. And of course there was never any shortage of work for Mr. Bishop, especially in this kind of heat wave.
In a nod to the weather, they wanted iced tea instead of coffee—though Dr. Foster, with an exaggerated look around to make sure no clients were watching, switched his order to a large Coke.
I obliged him with appreciative laughter, hoping it didn't sound too fake, and pocketed their dollar bonus. Then as usual I drifted away and they drew closer, talking business deals or gossip in lower tones.
The others looked more frazzled by the heat than amused. Mr. Bishop tamped his pack of Chesterfields on the counter and then lit up, exhaling the smoke with an exasperated sigh. Banker Littmann wiped his brow and then painstakingly refolded his handkerchief. Reverend Gruenwald looked miserable, plastered inside his black suit and tight collar.
When my relief finally arrived at 6:00, I went down the wide, worn oak stairs to the staff rooms in the basement. Alone in the ladies', I shrugged out of my damp Dacron uniform, peeled off the white stockings, and drenched a stack of pleated brown paper towels, wiping my sweaty skin from forehead to ankles. I redid my French twist and slipped into the full-skirted cotton dress in my locker, then wiggled bare, sore feet into flat sandals. Toting my soiled clothing in a paper sack, I crossed Greenfield and slowly strolled around the corner. No one familiar was in sight and it took just a minute to slip down an alley and up the wooden stairs to the apartment above Leonard's.
Jerry, one of the bartenders, was waiting with a bottle of Canadian Club and a bucket of ice. Smiling, he pulled his necktie off over his head and began to unbutton his shirt.
Later, while he dozed beneath the ceiling fan, I stepped into my slip and perched on the arm of a chair near the wide-open west window. Miles distant, probably over the infamous De-HoCo—Detroit House of Corrections—prison in rural Plymouth, black clouds swelled with the weathercasters' promised thunderstorm heading our way.
It was near dusk and people were happily milling the streets, enjoying a respite with ice cream, window shopping at shuttered boutiques.
The door at Leonard's swung open at rhythmic intervals, letting out blasts of "Little Darlin'" and other juke box hits.
One girl drew my attention, as she walked slowly away from the intersection. Despite the heat and the twilight, she wore a dark green chiffon scarf tied beneath her chin, and cat's-eye sunglasses. If her step had been more chipper, I'd have thought she were a starstruck teenager attempting the Hollywood look, but her pace was slow and her chin hung low.
My curiosity was answered when she turned the corner and headed up the steps to Bishop's.
I shuddered and sipped my tepid whiskey. What a night to have gloomy dealings with the undertaker, in contrast to the midsummer carnival atmosphere of the business district. As I watched, the front door of the sprawling brick Victorian opened and she slipped into the dark foyer. You'd think they could turn a few lamps on.
By contrast, the white blinds at the windows of the funeral home's rear quarters—a recent addition to the original house—were lit up like a hospital operating theater. In a way, that's what it was. The embalming room.
How often I'd grimaced lately, trying to tune out Bishop as he boasted with relish to his cronies, between bites of oozing cherry pie, about the envious modernity of his facilities. As I watched the shadows moving behind the shades, I recalled his loving description of the gadgets and techniques he used on the dead. Littmann, who'd lent him the money, seemed fascinated by the inner workings of the mortuary, and Dr. Foster asked lots of questions, with the air of one scientist quizzing another. The reverend always looked a little queasy, though.
The thunder had moved closer when Jerry stretched and dressed and joined me at the window with a fresh drink. I told him about Marjie.
"Yeah, I heard," he said. "Lennie told me the cops were asking around, but no dice. She's probably just shacked up with some guy you never heard of."
"I don't know," I said. "Her parents keep her on a pretty tight rein. She went out with Carl a few times, but who hasn't? And I know she has a thing for that guy Steven, the pressman for the News. That's about it."
"Well, she ain't with him," Jerry said, tightening the knot of his tie. "He's downstairs right now—or was. Want to come see for yourself? I got to get back."
I wasn't in the mood to strike up a chat with the shy, dapper workman who sipped many an afternoon milkshake at my counter. His job was wrestling the giant rolls of paper onto the presses, and disposing of the heavy hollow cardboard cores. Aside from Steve's surprisingly savvy clothes sense, I thought him dull, but Marjie had chosen to interpret him as the strong, silent type. She'd taken to delaying her late break to coincide with his, and for a time he seemed awkwardly flattered by her sparkly admiration.
"But Jer, do me a favor. If that Steven is still down there, ask him what he knows about Marjie, okay?"
He sighed elaborately but I knew he'd come through.
When the coast was clear I hurried down the alley and headed home. Abruptly the storm began and I dashed down Bishop's driveway. Cutting through the yard beside the funeral parlor would shave a block off my rainy walk.
Hurrying past the portico, I was surprised to see Mr. Smith and the pastor huddled there. About to hail them, I was caught in the headlights of a Lincoln Town Car as it swung into the driveway at a fast clip. Littmann was behind the wheel and I jumped sideways to get out of his way.
Smith was obviously startled to see me.
"What are you doing here at this hour?" he asked irritably.
"Better get on home and out of this weather," the reverend added more kindly.
Littmann just gave me a nod as he hustled by and the trio stomped the rain off their shoes before crowding through the funeral home's side door.
Next day, no Marjorie.
After lunch I forced myself to dial the phone and was connected with Mrs. Sklar. Yes, she said, it had been three days now since Marjie had been home. No, there had been no arguments. Yes, the police had been called. No girls matching her daughter's description had turned up in hospitals or, God forbid, the morgue.
"What do you think has happened?" I asked gently.
"Her sister thinks she might have eloped," said Mrs. Sk-lar, but fear eclipsed hope in her voice. "We didn't think she knew any boys that well. Did she?"
I told her the truth—that maybe sometimes when she was supposed to be out with the girls, Marjie dated a couple guys around the intersection. But as far as I knew it was all very casual—a hot fudge
sundae at Sanders, a burger at the Fairlane bowling alley, a couple of drinks at Leonard's.
"She's a nice girl," I assured the older woman. "That's why I'm kind of worried about her."
Mrs. Sklar, at first reticent, now poured out information in an anxious rush. Marjie had been quiet and absentminded for weeks. The police had learned she'd drained most of her savings out of the bank. Her sister had startled her in the room they shared, trying out the look of a sheer lace veil over her white-blond hair. As best they could tell, one small bag and a few garments were missing from her room.
"But she didn't take her grandma's pearl cross," Mrs. Sklar burst out. "Ever since she was a little girl, she planned to wear that cross on her wedding day. It's still in her jewelry box. And her best nylon stockings, that she was saving for good, are here. None of it makes sense … Where is my baby?"
I promised to keep asking around.
Hungry despite the heat, I helped myself to an egg salad sandwich, an iced tea, and a newspaper. On an inside page the headline Reward caught my eye. It seems that Miss Irene Ballard, twenty-four, hadn't been home to Dearborn's 5030 Curtis Street in more than a week.
The bespectacled dry cleaner's assistant had boarded the Greenfield Avenue bus, headed for the Grand River shopping district, the article said. She hadn't been seen since. None of her clothing was missing, but her bank account had been drained.
The ponytailed blonde had a serious expression behind tortoiseshell frames in the blurry newspaper photo. The princess collar of her white blouse was buttoned to the throat. She looked vaguely familiar. In fact, I'd swear she'd been in the pharmacy lately. I recalled my envy of those shiny blond locks, which obviously hadn't come from a bottle.
Looking up, I could see Mr. Smith puttering in his mezzanine-level dispensary and realized that his cronies hadn't been in yet for their usual break. In fact, my next customer was Jerry, stopping by for bottle of aspirin and a Coke before starting his shift behind the bar.
"Hey, I got some news for you," he said. "You said that girl's name was Marjie, the one who's missing?"
I nodded.
"Well, I was wrong last night," he said. "The woman the cops were looking for is Angie, not Marjie. Angela something—worked a few blocks down at Novak's Bar. So I guess we got two missing girls in the neighborhood, eh?"
"Three if you count this one," I said, pointing to the folded newspaper.
We looked at one another, perplexed.
"It's kind of like last winter, remember?" Jerry said. "Those two sisters from over on Lyndon—what was that, February, March? They never turned up, did they?"
It rang a bell. Pretty brunettes, so they got some write-ups in the crime blotter. The family lived a block or two behind Ward's. Something about one girl gone and then her older sister disappearing a few days later. But I wanted the scoop on Marjie.
"What about Steven?" I asked.
"He claims he wined and dined her a couple of times— even sprang for Chinese at Victor Lim's downtown—but that was about it. Says he doesn't know where she skipped to, and acts like he doesn't care."
Jerry washed down two tablets with the last of his cola and swiveled off the chrome-trimmed stool.
"You coming up tonight?"
"I think so," I said. When he left I stood there for a moment, absently tearing up the cotton puff from his aspirin bottle, then made up my mind. Had a word with the cook and headed for the back of the drugstore.
Up a half flight of steps was the pharmacy, Smith's domain. I knocked and pushed open the door. Surrounded by the bottles and boxes of his trade, he was grinding away using a mortar and pestle. "Yes?"
"Mr. Smith, I'm not feeling well. It's a pretty slow afternoon at the counter—Bill says he wouldn't mind serving. Would it be okay if I took off early today?"
He obviously wasn't happy but there wasn't much he could say. Then he cleared his throat and asked, "Oh, by the way, what were you doing over at Bishop's last night?"
Taken aback, I explained that the driveway was my usual shortcut. "I couldn't help but notice the pastor and Mr. Litt-mann there too," I added. "And I see they aren't here today. Did someone in the neighborhood pass away?"
"No, no," the pharmacist said, "just one of our regular committee meetings last night—Chamber of Commerce business, you know. Mr. Bishop is kind enough to host us from time to time."
"That's nice," I said dutifully. Then I showed him the folded newspaper page.
"Wasn't this girl in here a week or so ago?" I asked. "Don't you recognize her?"
My boss glanced at the paper and shrugged. "Not offhand," he said. "I don't memorize every face that walks through the door."
"Oh, I know," I said. "It's just that she's the third girl in the neighborhood to go missing. I thought if we could help police with a clue—if she'd been ill or picking up a prescription … ?"
At that Smith stopped grinding and looked up, eyebrows raised. "I suggest you leave the detective work to the professionals. And weren't you saying you didn't feel well?"
I took the hint and left. As I passed Bishop's, a funeral procession wheeled out of the mortuary lot. The undertaker himself stood at attention, hand over heart, until the black-curtained hearse was out of sight. Then he relaxed and, whistling, marched up the steps of his elegant home.
That night, I swished sore feet in a dishpan of ice water at Jerry's and told him about my afternoon.
Right after leaving the drugstore, I'd strolled over to Lyn-don Street, where two-story wooden frame houses were cooled by the shade of tall elms. Some elderly porch-sitters directed me to the Toltecci residence, home of Grace and Theresa, the missing high school girls.
Their mother let me into the dim front room. The girls had been gone since early March. First Grace, sixteen, had failed to return home from what she called a movie date with her school friends. Soon it was learned no such plans existed.
Theresa—pronounced Tree-sa—was relentless in searching for her sister, grilling friends and acquaintances, showing Grace's photo around the shopping district, trying to retrace her sister's trail. All she learned was that Grace had been urgently seeking work in the shopping center, filling out applications at the dime store, the ice cream shops, the tea rooms— any place that might hire a high schooler for washing-up chores and the like.
Naïvely, the younger girl had even stopped at the bank and asked to apply for a loan.
The family was stumped. Grace had always been content with her dollar-a-week allowance and the wages from a few babysitting jobs. What could she need so much money for?
Later that ghastly week, Mrs. Toltecci said, Theresa too had failed to come home. The police did the best they could— Mick kept going door to door for blocks around, even on his days off—but no leads turned up. No bodies either, which left the grieving parents in a wretched limbo, balanced between hope and despair.
Leaving her, I took the long way around to Thom McAn's.
"Missed you this morning," I said as Carl shoehorned a pale-pink pump onto my left foot. "Heat got your appetite?"
The salesman shrugged. "Guess so. How does that one feel?"
I got up and walked around the store, modeling the shoes and watching his expression in the tilted mirrors.
"I'll bet you're heading out on your boat tonight," I said. "Any chance of me tagging along? Marjie said it was fabulous."
His answer was a raised-eyebrows stare.
"Wasn't she out with you last week?" I pressed, smiling. "I could've sworn she said you two had a date. Or am I thinking of Angie, that girl from down at Novak's? You dated them both, didn't you?"
"Not lately," he dodged, deadpan. "And sorry, but I'm not sailing tonight. How are the shoes? Shall I wrap them?"
"It's funny, them both being missing," I said as he wrote up the order. "And that girl from Curtis Street. They say she was headed this way."
His long lashes flickered. "Missing? I didn't know. How awful for their families." With that automatic smile, he handed over my r
eceipt and the crisp brown bag. "See you around."
Dismissed, I ambled along the sidewalk, trying to think. Five girls—that I knew of—vanished in the last five months. Nice girls, who worked, lived at home with their parents, and weren't engaged or going steady. And no corpses had turned up.
Ronnie, one of Marjie's pals from the salon, was coming toward me.
"Any news?" she said. "Mick the cop was in again asking questions. At least no unclaimed bodies match hers—so far—he said." Ronnie was holding out for the elopement theory, though like me she couldn't imagine who the groom was. And deep down we both doubted Marjie would do that to her mother.
"But I did see her going over to Holy Cross a few times," Ronnie added as the light changed and she stepped off the curb. "I don't know why, but it seemed like she was always running across Grand River to the church lately."
A devout Polish Catholic seeking solace in a Lutheran chapel? That was a new one on me.
Jerry said the bar was buzzing today with talk of the missing women. Mick had alerted the precinct's detectives and two gray-suited, crew-cut guys had been canvassing the intersection.
"Are they starting to doubt it's coincidence?" the bartender said. "Outwardly they're saying it's just routine. But Mick told me they've got a clerk going back through records, looking for similar cases over the past few years. Especially where no bodies have turned up. The thing is, none of these girls had anything in common. Think about it."