Lock Every Door(55)

“If my daughter was missing, I wouldn’t rest until I found her.”

My father had said the same thing once. He meant it at the time. I’m sure of it. But that’s the thing about searching. It wears you down. Emotional erosion.

“Don’t you think Ingrid deserves the same treatment?” I say. “You don’t have to tell me a name. Just give me a little hint.”

Charlie sighs and looks past me to the flowers on the coffee table. A hint almost as massive as the bouquet itself.

“She took the dog out a little before one,” Charlie says. “I was outside with her the entire time. You know, making sure nothing bad happened. That’s not the hour a woman should be on the street alone. Once Rufus did his business, we went back inside. She took the elevator to the seventh floor, and I peeked at the security monitors. That’s when I saw the camera in the basement was out.”

This means Marianne was in the elevator at roughly the same time Ingrid supposedly left her apartment.

“Thank you, Charlie.” I snap off a rosebud from the bouquet and place it in the button hole on his lapel. “You’ve been a huge help.”

“Please don’t tell Mrs. Evelyn I said anything,” Charlie begs as he adjusts his makeshift boutonniere.

“I won’t. I got the feeling from Leslie that it’s a sore subject around here.”

“Considering the way Ingrid departed, I’m pretty sure Mrs. Evelyn regrets ever letting her stay here in the first place.”

With a tip of his cap, Charlie opens the door to leave. Before he can make it all the way out of the apartment, I toss him one last question.

“What apartment does Marianne Duncan live in?”

“Why?”

I flash him an innocent smile. “So I can send her a thank-you note, of course.”

I’m certain Charlie doesn’t believe me. He looks away, gazing into the hallway. Still, he tosses an answer over his shoulder.

“7A,” he says.





26


The seventh floor is as busy now as it was last night. Only instead of firefighters, it’s contractors moving through the smoke-stained halls. The door to Mr. Leonard’s apartment has been removed and now leans against a hallway wall stippled with smoke damage. Next to it is a section of kitchen counter, its surface covered with burn marks. On the floor, soot spreads across the tile like black mold.

Blasting out of the apartment itself is a cacophony of construction noise. Emerging from the racket are two workers carrying a wooden cupboard with a charred door. They drop it next to the countertop. Before returning to the apartment, one of the workers looks my way and winks.

I roll my eyes and move in the opposite direction, toward the front of the building. At 7A, I give two short raps on the door.

Marianne answers in a rush of perfume-scented air that floats past me and mixes with the smoke smell still lingering in the hall.

“Darling!” she says, pulling me in for a half hug and an air kiss on both cheeks. “I was hoping I’d see you today. I can’t thank you enough for rescuing my Rufus.”

I’m not surprised to see Marianne carrying Rufus in her arms. What is a surprise is that both of them are wearing hats. Hers is black with a wide, floppy brim tilted so that it casts a shadow over her entire face. His is a tiny top hat held in place with an elastic band.

“I just stopped by to thank you for the flowers,” I say.

“Don’t you just love them? Tell me you love them.”

“They’re beautiful. But you really didn’t need to go to all that trouble.”

“Of course I did. You were a complete angel last night. That’s what I’m going to start calling you. The Angel of St. Bart’s.”

“And how’s Rufus doing?” I say. “All better after last night, I hope.”

“He’s fine. Just a little scared. Isn’t that right, Rufus?”

The dog nuzzles the crook of her arm, trying in vain to free himself of the tiny top hat. He stops when a sudden bang echoes up the hallway from 7C.

“Horrible, isn’t it?” Marianne says of the noise. “It’s been like this all morning. I’m sorry about what happened to poor Mr. Leonard, and I wish him a speedy recovery. I truly do. But it’s quite an inconvenience for the rest of us.”

“It’s been an eventful few days. What with the fire and that apartment sitter leaving so suddenly.”

I hope the mention of Ingrid sounds less calculated to Marianne than it does to me. To my ears, it clangs with obviousness.

“What apartment sitter?”

Marianne’s face remains obscured by her hat, making her expression unreadable. She reminds me of a femme fatale from the film noirs my father used to watch on lazy Saturdays. Elegant and inscrutable.

“Ingrid Gallagher. She was in 11A. Then two nights ago, she suddenly left without telling anyone.”

“I wouldn’t know anything about that.”

Marianne’s voice isn’t unkind. On the surface, her tone hasn’t changed. Yet I detect a slight cold streak running through her words. She’s now on guard.

“I just assumed the two of you had met. After all, you were the first person I met after I arrived.” I offer her a shy smile. “You made me feel very welcome here.”