When Bella arrived, Dale spent the first few minutes assuring here there was nothing wrong, that she was indeed well and able to carry on her duties as before.
"Well . . ." Bella said doubtfully. "When I called last night and you didn't answer, I didn't know what to do. I thought you were dead, Dale, and . . ."
There were tears, the first Dale had seen Mrs. Inness shed since the death of the Bartletts. They dropped rather than flowed, one at a time without accompaniment of a sob, a catch. Dale quickly embraced her, rocking her for a minute that filled with guilt over the arguments they'd had and the near break that occurred last August. She tried patting comfort into the broad back, mumbled meaningless sounds that carried, she hoped, a plea for the absolution she suddenly felt she needed.
"Enough," Bella said abruptly, pulling back and tugging at her dress. "I'm a stupid old woman. I should have known you could take care of yourself."
"If I could," Dale said as they walked back to the storeroom, "I wouldn't have gotten into all that trouble."
Bella stood by the yellowed sink, fussing with her make-up in front of the cracked mirror neither had bothered to replace. "Well, I suppose it's just as well that it happened, dear. Now you'll learn not to be so foolish, to watch yourself and maybe"—the sideways glance was sly—"find someone who can help you."
"Bella!" Dale jammed a thumb into her side. "A deal. No matchmaking before lunch, okay? Just this once?"
Bella agreed reluctantly, then asked about Vic.
"You know," Dale said, "I haven't thought about him at all this morning. My God, I expect him in today." She frowned. "I wouldn't be surprised if he didn't come, though. He took quite a whack on the head."
"Well, don't call him," Bella said as Dale turned to leave. "If he's sleeping, it's the best thing for him. Keep him off his feet."
Dale checked her hair quickly, not answering, pulling at her sleeves as she hurried out to the counter. A group of women burst chattering through the door, filling the shop with inconsequential noise that seemed to her to be like a symphony first heard and never forgotten. Reality. Home again. And nothing had changed, she thought behind her best professional smile. They come to see the victim, paw the boxes and try the puzzles and they'll leave without buying. She tapped a finger anxiously against the counter top. The telephone at her right hand remained silent. Twice she reached for it and twice saw Bella glaring disapprovingly at her. She was probably right, but Dale couldn't stand the incredibly slow way the hands on the wall clock moved; and she was wrong about the buying. Puzzles seemed to have enjoyed a renaissance over the weekend because by eleven there were none left on the floor and Bella was actually perspiring as she carted out what was left in the back. It was most likely another television show, Dale decided; one mention by a star, and those who had to keep up with the Hollywood Joneses flew out in force to be among the first to say that they too had whatever it was worth having.
Jaimie came in at the height of the rush, and Dale only had time to smile and receive a smile in return. It was lunch hour at the school, she realized, because soon after he was joined by Melody Forrester who cooed unashamedly at the mathematical games he showed her. Carl Booth, no slimmer after a summer-long diet, darted in behind the raven-haired Newcastle twins, and Dale began to wonder if there wasn't an impromptu convention in progress, and had to laugh behind her fist when Bella's "May I assist you young people?" was constantly ignored.
It was obvious that Jaimie hadn't received any significant punishment for the chessman episode since he was able to walk out with over twenty dollars worth of math games she was sure he had no use for. Melody and Carl bought the same. The Newcastle twins carried off seven different books on games theory. Dale only blinked and scratched at her head—kids know too much, was her single thought; and when they had left, though adults still milled, the store seemed quieter, more somber. Bella, for one, was pleased and said so as she fought with straggles of hair that refused to stay off her forehead.
"But, Bella, they weren't teasing you this time."
"Of course they weren't. They were ignoring me completely! I tell you, Dale, that's a bad lot there. They have no respect for the older generation, none at all. Things were mighty different when I was a girl."
"I would imagine they were." Dale grinned, and left the woman to handle a customer while she stared out the window, wondering about Vic and hoping he was all right. The clouds of the previous night had dispersed before dawn, and bright sunlight flared off the windows of the shops across the street. She had to squint, finally, then grab at the edge of the window frame, nearly toppling a cardboard display of Halloween witches and goblins.
Directly in front of the store were the children. Talking. Taking their purchases from the brown paper bags and waving them about with a great deal of animation. But the glare served as a spotlight from behind, and they were momentarily in shadow before moving on, in shadow that resembled those she had seen in the park.
Now that's impossible, she thought as she straightened the display. Both the twins spoke with a pronounced lisp, and Melody's voice was irritatingly high. Jaimie she had left at home only minutes before she climbed the park gate, and Carl . . . she shook her head vigorously, prompting Bella to rush to her side.
"No, it's all right," she insisted when the older woman tried to urge her into the back room for a rest. "I was daydreaming and the light from the windows over there made me dizzy. Really, I'm okay."
"You're not, you know," Bella said, but was prevented from further comment by the intrusion of another customer.
She had thought about visiting Ed during her lunch hour to tell him about the change in the dream, but had decided to visit Vic instead to see what had happened. Now she changed her mind. All the calming rationalizations she'd developed since waking suddenly found themselves on shaky ground and she needed Ed's maddeningly professional manner to spread new balm over her aggravated nerves. She also wanted reassurance that her mind was still functioning normally.
Finally, when three people in succession failed to rouse her from her contemplation, Bella shoved her coat into her hands and ordered her politely from the store.
"Food is what you need, young lady. And after you get some, we'll try some of my special medicine in the back. You may say you're doing fine, but that weekend is catching up with you whether you like it or not. Now go, please, before the word spreads that this store is being clerked by a spook."
Dale jumped at the odd choice of words, but she acquiesced without argument. Bella immediately helped her with the coat, set a scarf around her neck, and put her firmly out the door.
The sun was warm, the air still as she walked toward the luncheonette. A nod, a smile, and she stood at the corner curb. She didn't feel at all hungry despite Bella's prescription and, after a quick mental toss of a coin, she spun left and crossed the street and stopped two doors in from the High and Centre corner. Between a piano showroom and a teen boutique was a simple glass-and-aluminum door bearing the stark legend: Dr. E. W. McPherson. A touch to her throat to adjust the scarf and she pushed in, hurried up the dark carpeted stairs bathed in a soft white light. At the first landing was a large artificial rubber plant, silent sentinel before a paneled oak door which opened with a hiss when she trod on a narrow black mat.
The waiting room was small. A couch on the right behind a chrome coffee table, two armchairs on the left separated by a bronze ashtray stand; end tables cluttered with new magazines, and a series of nondescript landscapes on walls of a yellow so pale it was almost white. In the center of the far wall was a C-shaped desk behind which sat a woman reading a paperback novel. She was middle-aged, blond, conservatively dressed, and, from the eager way she looked up at Dale's entrance, thoroughly bored.
"Yes, may I help you?" An automatic response not quite humanized by the bright white smile that accompanied it. She leaned forward on her elbows, one hand resting on a card file, the other poised with a gifted ballpoint pen.
Dale glanced aroun
d quickly, gnawed hesitantly at her lower lip. She considered rushing back out again. The office was quiet, too quiet after her hectic morning, her harrowing weekend. She felt very small under the woman's steady gaze.
"Ma'am, are you all right?"
"The doctor," Dale said. "Dr. McPherson. I'd like to see him if I can. It's very important."
The receptionist shook her head sadly. "I'm sorry, miss . . ."
"Bartlett."
"I'm awfully sorry, Miss Bartlett, but Dr. McPherson isn't in. You're not a regular, are you?" When Dale shook her head, the woman nodded. "I thought not. I'm only a temporary, you see. Doctor's been on a leave of absence, you see, and I’m still getting regulars who've forgotten he's shifted them to Dr. Lansing over on Steuben. You do know where Steuben is, don't you?"
"Sure I do," Dale said sharply, "but what's all this about a leave of absence? I thought I was a friend of his, but I wasn't told anything about this.'
The woman's smile faded. "Well, he has been out of the office for, well, nearly two weeks, you see. Or is it three? To be honest, I don't really know. I myself have been here for two, anyway. It's a great job, of course, sitting here all day answering the phone and all." She lifted her book. "I get a lot of reading done, too, but it sure does get awfully—"
"Dr. McPherson," Dale interrupted. "Has he gone anywhere?"
The receptionist blinked. "I thought you said you were his friend? You should know he hasn't gone anywhere. He's just on a leave of absence, like I said. Are you sure you don't want the other doctor's address? Dr. Lansing, I mean. I'm sure he could—"
Dale turned on her heel and left, taking the steps slowly after a long study of the office door. Leaves of absence, she had always thought, generally entailed things like graduate study programs or recuperations—Ed fit neither of these categories; and it was peculiar that he never mentioned his taking anything that resembled time off from the office. Some of his patients were surely abandoned in the midst of their therapy, and what had happened to his regular secretary? A temporary suggested the woman was let go permanently. She stopped at the foot of the stairs, pulled thoughtfully at her scarf before racing back up into the office. The receptionist was startled into dropping her book.
"Listen," Dale said, leaning on the desk, "I'm sorry about that," and she pointed to the book, "but I wonder if you could tell me Miss What’shername's address. You know . . ."
"Evans?"
Dale nodded quickly. "Right, Miss Evans. Do you know where she lives?"
The woman frowned and looked down at her hands. "Well, I don't know if I’m supposed to—"
"I swear I won't tell. Please, what's her address?"
"Well . . . actually, she doesn't have one, you see."
"What?"
"I mean, she doesn't have one here in town. She left. I suppose the doctor gave her notice or something. I don't know for sure. Anyway, when I came in to take over, she had everything packed away in a carton and said she was leaving. Somewhere out West, I think."
Dale turned a complete circle, stared longingly at the door to the inner office, then thanked the woman and left before questions could be asked. Back on the sidewalk she checked her watch. Bella, she decided, could hold the fort for a while; she had some prying to do that she felt couldn't wait. Walking swiftly away from the business district, she created a silent conversation to explain to Ed why she had to visit him again—an apology for the night before was the best bet; her conscience was bothering her and the need to lighten its load too pressing to ignore and too personal to handle by telephone. Ed would be properly condescending without knowing it, would surely offer no resistance in telling her where his secretary had gone. After that (the scenario progressed), she would wire the girl to learn as many of the details of Ed's last working days as she knew, and after that . . . after that . . .
"Oh, for crying out loud!" she said angrily, stopping and leaning against a telephone pole. "Dale, what are you doing?"
What she was doing, she told herself scathingly, was behaving like an empty-headed fool. In the first place, she had no logical reason for wanting Miss Evans' address—she certainly couldn't fake a friendship without Ed's catching on; secondly, if he was in fact involved in something vaguely or blatantly illegal, her sudden interest would probably caution him into stubborn silence. And most important was the distant but distinct possibility that he wasn't involved at all, that it was Jaimie who was behind whatever she thought was going on, and Jaimie was the one she had to worry about, not his father.
Her anger grew as she headed back to the store. She had gone and confused herself again, finding faint trails that seemed to lead somewhere, that led nowhere except to frustration. What she needed was Vic's cool cynicism to blow away the fog she'd created. The more she wondered about coincidences and connections, the more she doubted there was anything to wonder about —and yet things kept happening that immediately threw her into confusion again. What it was, she finally concluded, was a supposition based on an inexplicable sense of things not right, a vague and directionless feeling that somehow she was caught up in an action of which she was only peripherally aware—like a net spread across a jungle canopy, invisible, threatening, yet totally and dangerously real.
No wonder Stockton couldn't believe her story of flaming arrows and fire almost alive.
And Bella, poor Bella, was too dream-laden with fancies of matrimony.
Liz, perhaps, if she would only come out of her costumed world and join the living.
It was Vic, then, as she had known it would be, and as soon as she reached the shop she hurried back into the small storeroom/office and dialed his number.
"Well," he said, his voice tired, fighting to sound characteristically light, "don't tell me you're going to fire me, boss."
"Don't be an idiot, Vic. I'm worried about you. Are you all right?"
A silence, and labored breathing.
"Tell you the truth?"
"The truth," she answered, waving Bella out as she wandered in to see what was going on.
"Well, it seems that the rock caused a mild concussion which causes dizziness which causes me to fall flat on my ass every time I get out of bed. My physician, if you can call him that, tells me I have to stay in bed or a reasonable facsimile thereof for another day at least to give myself a chance to heal. Or something like that. I think it's stupid, but he charges too much for me to disobey him."
Dale picked up a pencil and began doodling on an invoice.
"Vic." She suddenly felt foolish, and afraid. She had to take a deep breath and speak rapidly before what courage she had fled. "Vic, do you feel up to some company tonight?"
"God, now she makes her move! You have lousy timing, lady, lousy timing."
Bella returned, this time refusing to obey Dale's angry gestures. She stood obstinately in the doorway, her arms folded across her chest.
"Vic, I'll be over tonight after we close. I’ll bring some Chinese and we can talk, all right?"
"Talk? What kind of indecent proposal is that?"
"Later, Vic, I'm busy," and she hung up on his protests. "Bella, what is it?"
Bella's eyes squinted in disapproval. "There's an old woman out there who's giving me a hard time. She's after some chess set she says you had. I think it's the one I—"
Dale brushed her aside and moved along the back of the store until she could look up the end aisle to the counter. She nodded and stepped back out of sight. It was Flora Campbell, still in black, bent over to examine the game boards. But her interest was patently feigned.
"Well?" Bella said behind her.
Dale grabbed at a shelf and spun around, swallowing a vicious response. She sighed instead. "That lady out there has been bothering me for months about the pieces you sold Dr. McPherson last summer. Remember them?"
Bella, intrigued, scratched at her neck before nodding.
"Good, then will you please do me a favor and get rid—"
"Miss Bartlett!"
Dale let loose
a single curse that sent Bella back a step before brushing at her blouse while she composed her expression. Flora Campbell was waving from the counter, and Dale smiled, glared at Bella for not being a mind-reader and acting more quickly, and took her time heading up front. What, she thought, am I going to be thanked for this time—being there when her pet parrot died, for God's sake?
"Miss Bartlett," Flora said kindly, "I'm looking for something my poor David made not so long ago. Just before that terrible accident, in fact." She bent over again, studiously examining the two games still on display. "I don't see it here."
"If you mean the Children of Don," Dale said coldly, "I sold them only a couple of days after he brought them in."
Flora straightened quickly, her fingers like claws on the edge of the counter. "How did you know they were the Children?" she demanded. "What do you know about them?"
"Only what Dave told me," she answered truthfully. "He named them for me when I asked."
"Did he say anything else?"
Dale mimed a show of trying to remember, extending it when she noticed the growing impatience that made the old woman fidget.
"No," she said at last, "not that I recall. He just pointed them out to me because I asked him to. For the customers, you understand, in case they wanted the information."
Flora drew herself up, her gaze imperious but lacking any inner authority. "Would you mind telling me who purchased the set, Miss Bartlett?"
"Would you mind telling me why you want to know, Miss Campbell?"
A visible debate deepened the wrinkles, then smoothed them to match her voice. "Why no, of course not. You see, poor Milly and I were going through some of his—Dave's—effects last night and we discovered the sketches for the pieces. Since he never told us about them and never sketched without making, I felt sure he had brought them here. I would like to know who has them because I'd like to try to buy them back."
"For sentimental reasons," Dale suggested.
"Exactly."
"They sold for quite a large sum, Miss Campbell. But not nearly as much as I might have gotten had I been the one who sold them."
The Sound of Midnight - An Oxrun Station Novel Page 12