Nowhere to Hide

by Joan Hall Hovey

  Well, she’d wash out the damned ashtray, but first things first, she thought, crossing the hall to the washroom. Standing the painting against the wall by the sink, she entered one of two tiny cubicles. The place smelled of Lysol, blown even stronger by the heat pouring through the vents. Either you suffocated in this mausoleum, or you froze.

  She thought how nice it would be to work in a modern, air-conditioned office, with carpets you sank into, exotic plants, and, of course, computers. Welcome to the nineties. But good jobs were hard to come by, she thought, setting her purse on the toilet-tank, hitching her skirt up and her panties and pantyhose down. She guessed she was lucky to have this one. The money wasn’t so great, but they were a good bunch to work with—even Alice Fisher was mostly okay, as long as she didn’t get on her bad side.

  Sitting there, the quiet crowded in on her.

  "Knock it off," she said aloud, putting herself back together hastily, flushing, hearing the rush of water clanking and grumbling down through the plumbing system. "You’re spooking yourself." It was probably all that talk about that singer getting murdered, especially from her mom, that was freaking her out. You couldn’t turn on the TV without hearing something about it. That it happened miles away in New York City didn’t seem to matter. It was enough to know she had been from around here.

  Cindy had her hand on the door when she heard the outside washroom door groan slowly open, saw the swath of darkness slide across the floor at her feet. The darkness fell away as the door closed.

  Her hand shot back, touched her blouse. Stop it! So, someone else is working late. Big deal! You heard them yourself come up in the elevator. No, Cindy. What you heard was the elevator stop on this floor. You didn’t see anyone.

  Cindy licked her lips, cocked her head at the foor, listened. Then, "Edie, that you?"

  No answer.

  She could hear the dripping of a tap. And the hiss of hot air escaping the vents seemed louder, even over the drumming in her ears. When the woman’s legs came into view in the space under the door, Cindy went weak with relief. She almost laughed at her foolishness.

  What she actually managed was a nervous grin.

  She couldn’t see much of the woman’s legs, just enough to see they were thick and muscled, the feet clad in God-awful black, laced shoes, the kind her grandma used to wear. No one on this floor wore shoes that ugly, not even Alice. Even Edie’s floppy loafers were more attractive.

  No, it wasn’t Edie out there.

  Then who?

  Maybe Al Matchett hired himself a new secretary. Hardly seemed his type, with those legs.

  Unexpectedly, the shoes began turning in her direction until whoever it was, was facing her, standing toe to toe, just as if the door were not between them.

  "The other one’s free," Cindy called out, her eyes riveted on the shoes. For several long seconds they did not move. Then they went out of view, each footfall soft and deliberate. Now quiet.

  But she was still out there. She wasn’t using the can or washing up, so what was she doing? What was she waiting for? And why the hell doesn’t she say something?

  Cindy’s heart was beating in earnest now, her palms sweaty. She tried to calm down. You’re being nuts! You can’t stay in this john forever. Besides, you’re going to miss your cab if you haven’t already, and all because you’re an idiot. But all her self-chastising didn’t stop her from holding her breath as she warily pushed the door open, a tentative smile of greeting on her face.

  "Hi," she said, too brightly. "I thought I was the only one working late ton—" Cindy’s words trailed off as she looked up at the red-haired woman in the long, black trench coat standing at the mirror. Her head was turned slightly away, but Cindy could see her profile in the glass, could see the raised, angry scratch that ran down one side of her face.

  Something familiar about that.

  She had a sudden urge to grab the painting and run, but something held her there. Then, slowly, the woman turned from the mirror. She smiled. "Hello, Cindy."

  Her voice sounded kind of odd for a woman, sort of like Dustin Hoffman’s in Tootsie, only darker. And Cindy wasn’t laughing. How does she know my name? Such weird eyes, the color of weak tea, glittering as they took her in. "I-I don’t think we’ve met. Are you new here?" Cindy’s own smile wavered. She glanced involuntarily at the painting standing against the wall, took a backward step. "Who-who are you?"

  But she knew. She knew. And he recognized that she did, and the smile widened, blood red lips extending over predatory teeth, so chilling, so utterly devoid of warmth or mercy, it made Cindy’s mouth go dry as dust, and her heart wither with terror.

  "I’m the big, bad wolf, Cindy," he said. "I’m the bogeyman in your worst nightmares."

  And then he came at her.

  ~ * ~

  Over the next two hours, the phone rang intermittently in the office of Anderson Insurance. At twenty past midnight, a distraught Ruth Miller telephoned police to report her daughter missing.

  "She didn’t come home from work," she cried. "That’s not like Cindy. She would have called back if she was going anywhere afterward."

  "How old is your daughter, ma’am?"

  "Twenty-three."

  There was a pause, then Ruth heard the boredom she’d half-expected creep into the policeman’s voice. "I’m sorry, ma’am, but there’s really nothing we can do at this point. Your daughter’s of age, and if she decides not to come straight home from work, that’s her prerogative. I’m sorry. I’m sure you’ll be hearing from her. She’s probably trying to call you right—"

  "But you don’t understand, officer," Ruth cut in, trying to keep the hysteria from her voice, even while her frustration and fear mounted. "Cindy did call me," she said. "She was on her way home. I made lasagna. I told her—"

  "She must have met up with friends," he said with studied patience. "Look, Mrs. Miller, I know you’re worried about your daughter, but from experience I can almost promise you she’ll come strolling home in the next hour or two with a perfectly reasonable explanation. Just calm yourself and try to get some rest, okay?"

  "It’s my birthday tomorrow," she said foolishly.

  "Happy birthday, ma’am. Got another line ringing. Got to go. If she still hasn’t returned home by this time tomorrow night, give us a call back."

  The line went dead.

  Eighteen

  Ellen had been sitting at a small table in The Shelton Room for the last hour, sipping on a club soda and people watching—purposeful people watching. She’d worn the teal blue knit suit Gail had brought her for Christmas, choosing silver chains and matching earrings to complete the ensemble. Standing before the full-length mirror back at the apartment, she’d thought of herself as being in battle-dress.

  Up on stage, a jazz combo played energetically for the small crowd who had shown up to hear them. Ordinarily Ellen liked good jazz, but tonight it was no more than background noise, mingling with the subdued drone of conversation, the tinkling of glasses around her as she again scanned the room, discreetly but intently studying the faces of the men for the one that did not quite fit in, for the one that might be "marked".

  She knew it wasn’t likely she’d spot him so easily, or even that he’d show up here, yet each time the door behind her opened to let in more customers, Ellen turned in her chair to look.

  "Not a bad crowd for a week night," the darkly attractive waitress said pleasantly. "Can I get you anything else?"

  Looking down at her empty glass, Ellen felt obliged to order another high-priced club soda she didn’t want. "Miss," she said, as the waitress started to move away, "could I speak to you for a moment?"

  The girl turned back, her eyes questioning. "Sure."

  "I’m Ellen Harris. Gail Morgan was my sister. I’d like to ask you a couple of questions, if you don’t mind. I won’t take long. I know you’re busy."

  The girl’s hand had gone to her mouth. "Oh, God, I’m so sorry. It’s just so horrible what happened to her. I haven
’t been able to sleep since. All the girls are afraid to go to their cars at night."

  Ellen nodded. "It’s a good idea to be careful. May I ask your name?"

  "Mary. Mary Dewer."

  "Mary, do you remember seeing anyone, well, who was strange, in here that night. Someone alone, probably. Maybe he’s been in here before—more than once—watching Gail perform."

  "No," she said, she didn’t recall anyone like that. The police had already asked her. "I was probably far too busy to notice anything but frantic hands waving for more drinks, anyway. The same went for the other waitresses," she said. "Saturday nights are crazy in here. I’m sorry. Really. I wish I could be more help."

  "So do I, Mary," Ellen replied, thinking if it were a woman alone someone would have noticed, considering the sidelong glances and outright stares she’d been attracting from the moment she sat down. "But thanks anyway," she smiled.

  "No problem."

  "You take care now, Mary," Ellen said. She imagined she saw the girl shiver.

  At intermission, Ellen spotted Bob Felton, the manager standing at the bar. Gail had introduced him to her once. A portly man, Felton was elegantly attired in an Italian silk and wool blend suit, and black bow tie. Even as he was speaking to a male customer seated at the bar, his shrewd eye wandered over his domain, flickered past her. He knows I’m here, Ellen thought. He’s trying to decide how best to handle the situation. Ellen left the table, removing his dilemma.

  As she approached the bar, he put his hand out to her immediately, trying for just the right tone of sadness and surprise. "Mrs. Harris, I didn’t know you were in New York. I wish it could be under different circumstances." He was effusive in his offer of condolences, kind to a fault, even insisting on picking up the tab on all her meals while she was in New York. Yet beneath it all, Ellen sensed a certain stiffness and knew he really didn’t want her here. She supposed she served as an unpleasant reminder of what had happened to their star performer, and no one wanted to be reminded. Bad for business. As if she gave a damn.

  At the far end of the long oak bar, the bartender was studiously polishing a glass, but listening, his image reflected in the smoky mirror behind him. Ellen made a mental note to speak to him before she left.

  "I never saw her with anyone," Bob Felton was saying in reply to her question. "Miss Morgan always went straight home after her performance, as far as I know. She was the consummate professional. Oh, there were a few hopefuls who would send notes or flowers to her dressing room from time to time, wanting her to join them for drinks and whatnot, but that goes with the territory. Miss Morgan always ignored that sort of thing. Though she did make herself available to genuine fans, signing autographs, holding still for pictures, and the like. What she did on her own time, Ellen—may I call you Ellen?—I couldn’t say."

  He then went on to explain, as had the waitress, that the police were already here, had already questioned everyone, including, he added with a perceptible wince, some of the Saturday night regulars. This last, Ellen knew, was meant to discourage any further annoyances she might have in mind and send her on her way.

  Let the police handle it, she heard Paul’s voice echo in her mind. Let them do their job. She pushed the voice away.

  Ellen didn’t think Felton would actually go so far as to throw her out. Wouldn’t look too good in the papers, which was actually where she would go if he presented himself as any serious obstacle in her search for Gail’s killer.

  Letting none of this show on her face, she thanked him for his time and his kindness and wandered down to the end of the bar. After several minutes in fruitless discussion with the bartender, she went back to her table, and thought about the phone call Sandi had told her about. "Do you know me?" the caller had said, reciting the title of Gail’s new song, using it in a symbolic, ominous way.

  The song itself held no clue to her. Though the melody was haunting and poignant, the story itself was simply of a young woman in love with a man who she is sure doesn’t know she’s alive. A familiar, bittersweet story, the words and sentiment simple, yet told in Gail’s unique style with all the richness of her talent, it had touched hearts.

  Could the story have been Doug Neal’s in reverse? Ellen wondered. Was it possible she’d been too quick in dismissing him as a suspect? She pictured him as he’d been sitting with his head in his hands, vowing his love for Gail.

  Had he perhaps loved her too much?

  He wouldn’t be the first man to fall obsessively for a woman, then, when she could not return his feelings, resort to madness, to evil. And Ellen had gotten the distinct impression that Doug Neal’s feelings for Gail went far beyond friendship.

  Hadn’t Sandi suggested as much?

  And then Ellen remembered Doug asking her if she thought Gail knew that he loved her. Surely, if the pianist was her killer, it was a question he wouldn’t have needed to ask. For Gail would have known, wouldn’t she?

  Round and round her thoughts went, like mice on a treadmill, going nowhere.

  The music had stopped without her noticing, the instruments now abandoned to the empty stage. Customers were leaving. A few glanced her way as they passed her table. The place was closing.

  Gathering up her purse, Ellen got her coat from the coat-check girl. She took her time putting it on, buttoning it. When, finally, she was the only customer left in the place, she went over to talk to the doorman. She had nothing to lose. So far she’d batted exactly zero.

  He’d been made of aware of who she was; Ellen wasn’t surprised. A.J. Booker looked like an ex-football player miscast in formal clothes, and Ellen guessed if it became necessary, he would have little trouble doubling as a bouncer, which was probably the idea. He was friendly enough, though, and didn’t seem to mind talking to her. Seemed eager, in fact.

  Yes, he told her, he was on the door on the night in question. "I’ve had a little time to mull things over since the cops were in here questioning everyone, and you know, Ellen, there was someone in here that night who caught my attention."

  "Oh?" That single word held all the hope that was sustaining her.

  "Yeah. Not that I knew the guy. He wasn’t one of our regulars. And it might not mean anything." A.J. buried his hands in his pockets, glanced at the floor and then at Ellen. "I figured the guy must have had some kind of emergency. Gail Morgan could hold an audience in the palm of her hand. I never saw anyone walk out on her show before."

  "He did that."

  "Yeah. Could be he just wanted to get home. You know, we had quite a storm that night."

  Despite the excitement that was coursing through her, Ellen forced her voice calm. "Could you describe him, A.J.?"

  "Well, other than when he left, I really didn’t pay him all that much attention. We were pretty rushed. But I do remember his hair was kind of longish, brown or dark blond, I think. And he wore dark glasses. I might not have noticed him at all if it wasn’t for that and the fact that he was alone. We don’t get too many loners in here."

  "He was sitting right over there," he said, gesturing toward the table a few feet from them, close to the door.

  Close, so he could slip out easily, Ellen thought.

  Continuing to stare at the table A.J. had pointed out, Ellen felt a chill pass through her as she tried to envision the stranger he described. A stranger who sat, and watched, and planned.

  "Couldn’t tell you what he wore, though he must have worn a tie. You can’t get in here without a tie."

  Ellen turned back to him. "Would you go with me in the morning to the police station, A.J.? Tell them what you told me? Maybe they could do a-a composite?"

  The doorman frowned, studied his feet. With his head bent toward her, Ellen could see his scalp beneath the crew cut. His head was cut in the same square mold as his body. "I don’t know, Ellen," he said, looking up at her. "I would think the eyes are pretty important for that sort of thing." He gave her an apologetic grin. "You know how they always say the eyes are the windows to a man’s soul."


  "This bastard hasn’t got any soul," Ellen said.

  Though she’d spoken softly, something in her tone made the doorman blink and shift his feet. "Maybe you’re right, Ellen. All I’m saying is, it would be pretty damn hard for them to come up with a decent likeness when I can’t even describe the eyes."

  "We have to try, A.J. Please."

  He shrugged lightly. "Sure. No problem. I just wasn’t sure it was all that important, that’s all. Like I said, it might not mean anything."

  "But it might."

  He nodded, conceding the point. "Listen, Ellen, I’m real, real sorry about what happened to your sister. This has gotta be awful rough on you. She was a great girl. Miss Morgan was special."

  "Yes. Yes, she was." Ellen’s gaze had returned to the chair where Gail’s killer had sat—for she was certain now that’s who it had been—a monster hidden behind a face undistinguished except for its ordinariness.

  "Yes, Ellen, yes," came the softest whisper at her shoulder, yet so clear she fully expected to see her sister standing there when she swung her head to look, her heart leaping in her breast. But it was Bob Felton she saw; he was walking toward them, weaving his way through the maze of tables. "Just about ready to lock ’er up, are we A.J.?" he said pointedly. Favoring Ellen with a practiced smile, he moved off.

  "Sorry," A.J. said, glaring contemptuously at his employer’s retreating back. "Have you got your car with you, Ellen?"