Undertow (Whyborne & Griffin #8.5)(7)

Alarm flashed across her face, startling in its intensity. “No,” she said, then caught herself. “I mean, that must have been it,” she went on, pasting on an unconvincing smile. “How silly of me. This modern mode of theater must be too much for my poor brain.”

I wanted to ask her why she’d seemed so worried, but it was obvious she didn’t want to talk about it. “Would you like some tea?” I asked, helpless to do anything more. “Something to settle your nerves, perhaps?”

She shook her head. Her dark hair, unbound, whispered against her bedclothes. The sound reminded me of a wave retreating over sand. “Thank you for the offer, but no. I’m perfectly fine, really. You should go back to bed.”

Dismissed, I had no choice but to obey. But it was a long time before I fell back asleep. I couldn’t help but feel she had been lying. That she hadn’t been fine at all.

I should have gone back into her room. I should have insisted she tell me the truth.

Because in the morning, she was gone.





Chapter 3





When I arose the next morning, I went to Irene’s room to check on her as soon as I was dressed. My knock went unanswered.

Maybe she hadn’t been able to get back to sleep after her fright, and so had arisen early. Perhaps she’d already gone down to breakfast, even offered Mrs. Yagoda a hand in the kitchen. I should go downstairs first.

But it would only take a moment to peek into her room. I wouldn’t set foot inside, just look. Maybe she had fallen back asleep, so deeply she hadn’t heard my knocking. If so, she’d appreciate being waked in time to go to her job at the department store.

“Irene?” I called, cracking open the door. “Are you in there?”

Only silence greeted me. I pushed the door farther open and peered inside.

Irene’s bed lay unmade, the sheets thrown back in an untidy heap. My first, foolish thought was that Mrs. Yagoda would be furious; we were meant to keep our rooms as neat as possible, to give less work to the maid. Then I noticed Irene’s shoes standing ready beside the bed, along with the clothes she’d laid out for today. Her pocketbook sat on the table.

She’d only gone downstairs for a cup of coffee, I told myself. Perhaps her faint and her nightmares last night had indeed been the first signs of illness. She’d gone down dressed in her nightclothes, because she was too sick to do anything but nibble on some toast.

I closed the door behind me and went downstairs. Mrs. Yagoda was in the process of laying breakfast on the sideboard, and my stomach grumbled at the smell of bacon and scrambled eggs. Several of the other boarders were already at the table, sipping coffee and eating biscuits slathered in butter.

Irene wasn’t among them.

“Has anyone seen Irene?” I asked, my voice trembling slightly.

The other boarders shook their heads. Mrs. Yagoda paused while filling her own plate with eggs. “She hasn’t been down yet. Why?”

I swallowed. “She’s not in her room. And her things are still there—her pocketbook and shoes, I mean. Her bed’s not made, and I thought…” I trailed off. “We should call the police.”

*

“Now, Miss Parkhurst, was there a young man in Miss Vale’s life?” asked Detective Tilton.

I sat in the parlor, my hands clasped between my knees. A quick search of the house had turned up no sign of Irene, and Mrs. Yagoda reluctantly agreed to summon the police. They’d glanced in Irene’s room, tramped around the garden, and, with the exception of Tilton, departed.

“No,” I said, shaking my head vehemently. “That is, she had acquaintances, but no one special.”

“Mmhm.” Tilton didn’t seem convinced. He tucked his notepad back into his pocket without bothering to write anything in it. “Chances are she had a sweetheart you didn’t know about and decided to run off with him, before her parents could find out. I’m sure she’ll turn up eventually.”

I gaped at him. “She wouldn’t have left without her pocketbook! It still has all her money in it.”

“She probably just forgot it,” Tilton replied, rising to his feet.

“But—but she’s gone,” I protested, following him out of the parlor to the front door.

“She left,” he corrected me. “There was no sign of forced entry. No indication of an intruder. You already said she woke you up with a nightmare. If someone had abducted her from her own bed, don’t you think you would have heard the commotion?”

“Perhaps they used chloroform,” I suggested weakly.

“They would still have to enter the house in the first place. And lugging an unconscious woman about isn’t as easy as the dime novels make it sound.” We reached the front door, and Tilton offered me a smile he probably thought was reassuring. “We see this sort of thing all the time, Miss Parkhurst. Trust me. There’s no need to put worry lines on that pretty face.”

I stood helplessly in the doorway and watched him walk away, humming a jaunty tune to himself.

*

“You seem troubled, Miss Parkhurst,” Mr. Quinn said.

I gasped and spun, putting my back to Dr. Whyborne’s desk. I’d arrived late to work, but as Dr. Whyborne had left town on some business he hadn’t fully explained to me, no one noticed my absence. As he’d only arranged to be gone for a short time, I hadn’t been given a different assignment, and my work at the moment consisted mainly of sorting his mail.