Kiss and Kill (3 page)

Barney said thoughtfully, “Somebody who was traveling.”

“But who? I've been in touch with all her friends.”

“Not all of them, buster, if she didn't leave you voluntarily. Let's go to your place. I want to check through her stuff.”

Ed was apologetic about the basement apartment. “We were saving money. That's why we don't even have a car.”

Barney examined a gadget fastened to the top of the door.

“An automatic door opener of my own design,” Ed explained. “I hooked it up while Liz was in Mexico. If the dog wanted to go out—he was housebroken—he stepped on this grid.” He laid his palm on a metal plate in the floor to one side of the door; an electric motor whirred and the door opened. “When I'm busy I don't like to be disturbed.”

Barney strolled into the living room. Waist-high bookshelves, mere planks laid on bricks, held statuettes, bric-a-brac, doodads, souvenirs, and stacks of new books in slick dust-jackets.

“Did your wife read a lot?”

“Not much, but she had the idea she should. Besides, Liz couldn't resist those cheap book-club offers.”

Barney glanced at Ed's drawing board, bare except for a pile of sketches. Beside the table were ranked the tools of his trade—ruler, compass, speed-ball pens, eraser. Nearby, another table was a mare's nest of newspaper fragments, crossword puzzles, notes, and papers filled with spiraling doodles.

Barney went through the litter, on the hunt for anything. All he found was evidence of the missing woman's undisciplined energies: a service award from the Community Chest campaign, a card qualifying her as a Democratic poll watcher, an uncompleted poem, a half-dozen unused contest entry blanks.

A chessboard on the bookcase caught his eye, its pieces set up to play, and something made him go over and look at it. The white queen was threatening the black king. Barney picked up the queen; it left a clean circle on the dusty board.

“Mate in three,” said Barney. “Who plays? You?”

“Liz, by mail. She says I haven't got the patience to play with her. She thinks too long between moves.”

Barney walked into the bedroom, Ed following. Her clothes hung over a chair beside the bed, in reverse order: on top lay a black nylon bra, garter belt, nylon hose; beneath those, a black half-slip and a white blouse, and on the bottom, a beige suit. The underwear brought Barney a vision of the woman attiring herself in sexy undergarments—black on ivory skin—going out into this wicked city to—what? He touched the half-slip and breathed in. A fragrance like sweet peas mixed with the scent of womanly flesh. She seemed suddenly alive and in the room. He could almost see her.

“I haven't moved anything of hers,” said Ed Tollman.

“Why not?”

Ed turned away without answering. Barney dropped the slip back on the chair.

“Was she in a hurry the last night?”

“No. She's always been disorganized. Since we're both working, I do the cleaning and she cooks.”

“Where's her purse?”

“She had it with her.”

“You have a joint bank account?”

“Yes. But she's cashed no checks. I've inquired about that.”

Barney grunted. “Got any coffee?”

“I'll put some on.”

When he had gone, Barney inspected the wedding photo on the dresser. Seeing them side by side, he could sense what held them together. Liz, gay and romantic; Ed, serious and matter-of-fact. Growing up in the same town, probably childhood sweethearts. Was the wedding night a night of discovery? Unlikely, Barney decided. Ed would have wanted her but never quite managed it. Until, suddenly, the dance, a car, a lonely road, the spiked punch in their veins … or some summer idyll in the woods, Ed worrying about the grass stains on her dress and Liz worried about nothing at all, perhaps jumping up to run after a butterfly. Ed would sit and ponder the event, looking at her solemnly. And Liz could chase the butterfly with abandon, knowing she would find him sitting where she had left him, an anchor to which she could attach herself.

What happened, Liz? Barney asked the photo. Get tired of being anchored?

Her eyes danced out of the pixie beauty of her face. For an instant he thought he understood her: loyal, affectionate, generous … and a female animal. A new enthusiasm—a man, a cause, a butterfly—could make her cut the anchor and sail gaily away.

Barney walked into the kitchen as Ed was pouring the coffee.

“Ed, one thing I've learned in the missing-persons game.” He sat down at the table. “Most disappearances are a rejection. People throw their past down the drain, take up new associations, new interests, new work. Sometimes you can go back over the ground and see how it came about. You know what I mean?”

“Yes.” Ed sat down, too, his face watchful. “You noticed something like that?”

“Your wife hasn't played chess for a long time. Last crossword puzzle she worked was three months ago. Contest entry blanks unused …”

“She's always doing that, picking up things, dropping them—”

“What's her current hobby?”

Ed frowned. “I guess the Mexico trip upset her routine. She hasn't started anything new.”

“All right, the Mexico trip. Where are her souvenirs?” Barney waved toward the living room. “Souvenirs from everywhere but Mexico. Why?”

“She'd outgrown tourist junk, I suppose.”

“Or was too busy to bother.”

Ed's mouth hardened. “What do you mean?”

“I'm exploring, Ed. Have you noticed any difference in your personal relationship lately?”

“No. We've always got along—”

“I mean your sex relationship.”

“Oh.” Ed flushed, and looked down into his cup. When he spoke, his tone was defensive. “There's always a change, I suppose. Sex isn't a ritual you follow from marriage to death like communion. When she got home from Mexico, it was like a honeymoon. But … maybe we burned ourselves out. I don't know. Also, I've been working harder than usual.…” His voice trailed off.

Barney waited a minute. “May I see the letters she wrote from Mexico?”

“Sure.” Ed rose and went into the living room. He returned with a half-inch stack of letters and postcards. “They're arranged by date. The earliest is on top.”

Barney opened a blue envelope with a San Antonio postmark. Liz had a slashing, diagonal handwriting that danced like her eyes.

Dearest Ed,

Tomorrow we leave. Alamo Tours has taken us under its wing, our driver weighs three hundred pounds if he's an ounce, and we'll be wheeling along in an air-conditioned Cadillac limousine. I met the other members of the group and of course you can't judge from first appearances, but there's an old couple from Colorado whom I already dearly love. They remind me of that old radio act, Fibber McGee and Molly. He tells jokes that aren't funny, but they really
are
, if you know what I mean. I can see you, Old Iron Puss, you'd look at him with a serious face but inside you'd be smiling. His wife reminds me of Mrs. Truman.

There's also an industrial librarian from Indianapolis. She loves animals. When she heard I had a dog she latched on to me. She has a cat named Charles she left behind … Oh, there are some others—a gorgeous lady photographer who is
chic
, simply the last word. What clothes! Makes me feel dressed for a hayride. There's one man who seems rather sullen and strange, but I suppose he'll loosen up. Oh, yes, a high school teacher (male) from Detroit, going down to study the people. Asked what my “motivation” was … very studious and intent, like you, only not nearly so handsome, darling. I said I'm going because it's
free
!

I can hardly wait. We'll be in Mexico tomorrow at ten, so says Blimpo, our driver. Wish you were here, lover. Three weeks before I see you? I won't think about it.

Adios, LIZ

For the first few days she had written a chatty letter each evening, as though she were talking to him across the supper table. She had a habit of nicknaming people: Miss Fashion-Plate was the woman photographer, Stoneface the man who had been sullen the first day. The librarian from Indianapolis she kept referring to as the Cat Woman.

But gradually the personal, exuberant note faded. The last intimate letter had come from Mazatlán, in which she described going deep-sea fishing and getting a sunburn: … took off my suit in the hotel and I looked like an Indian maiden in white brassiere and panties. If you were here tonight, Man, there'd be no hanky-panky. On second thought, I'm not burned
there
. Hey! I'd better stop
that
line of thought. Might color my dreams …

But there were no more of those. The following letlers were like duty notes to Aunt Tillie. These in turn dwindled to mere postcards which began “Dear Ed” and ended “Liz.”

Barney selected six of the postcards and fanned them out on the table like a poker hand. “Look at these, Ed. See anything strange?”

Ed squinted at the cards. “No.”

“They're written with the same pen.”

“So?”

“So look at the others. Hardly two consecutive letters have the same color ink or width of pen stroke.”

“I can explain that. Liz had a habit of borrowing pens. She must have started out borrowing from members of the group. Finally she bought her own pen.”

Barney drummed on the tabletop. “Yes, that's one explanation.”

“What's another?” His tone was belligerent.

“That she wrote these cards all at once and had someone mail them from different towns.”

Ed said slowly, “Why would she do that?”

“If she'd left the group …”

“You mean gone off by herself?”

“Not by herself, Ed.”

“I don't believe it!”

“Try to look at it objectively. At first she was telling you everything that happened, what so-and-so did on the burro ride, how she felt when the boatman pinched her, and so on. Then at the end, she tells you nothing.”

“She knew she'd be seeing me soon, and could tell me—”

“Did she?”

“She told me what she saw.”

“But about herself? What she did, amusing incidents that involved her and others? Did she talk about that?”

Ed was silent. Then, in a stricken voice, he said, “No, come to think of it.”

Barney went on remorselessly. It was better that way.

“After she got home, did she correspond with other members of the tour group?”

“… don't think so.”

“Isn't that funny?”

“I … yes. She usually collected friends the way a dog collects fleas.” He stopped, impotently. Then he slapped his palm down on the tabletop. “But, damn it! I'd have known
something
. Liz has no talent for deception.”

“Or a greater talent than you ever knew.”

Ed glared at Barney; his nostrils were stormy white. But then he sank back, and muttered, “Yes, I see it would come out to the same thing. But it doesn't matter, Mr. Burgess, does it, whether she's walked out on me or was carried off? Not knowing, we still have to look for her.” It was as if he were discussing her funeral arrangements.

Barney Burgess felt sorry for him.

He picked up the first letter. “I'm going down to San Antone, Ed. I've got to know just what happened on that tour. I'm positive her disappearance traces back to it.”

“I want to come along, Mr. Burgess.”

“Oh?” Barney looked at him. “What about your job?”

“I've been on leave of absence since the day before yesterday. I can't work, and I'm not going to sit here by the phone like a damn dummy.”

Barney kept looking at him.

Finally he said, “Okay, Ed. Grab some clean shirts and we're on our way. I keep a packed bag ready in my car trunk all the time.”

3

The director of Alamo Tours sat in a wood-paneled office surrounded by pre-Columbian figures and Mexican prints, set pieces obviously arranged by an interior decorator. He was squat, bald, and dark-skinned.

“
Buenos días
, gentlemen. What can I do for you?” He spoke in a Mexican lilt.

“You can give us the names and addresses of the people who went on your December eighteenth tour,” said Ed Tollman.

The fixed smile unzipped from the director's face. “Why?” The Mexican lilt was gone, replaced by an honest Texas drawl.

“Why not?” snapped Ed. “Are your records phony?”

Barney glanced at Ed; the gray look had deepened during two days and a night of driving. He looked desperate. Barney was edgy himself, stomach soured by greasy hamburgers and bad black coffee. A telephone call to the tour office had elicited nothing; they were trying a fresh approach.

“Of course not!” drawled the director. “But you must have a reason.”

“The reason,” said Ed, “is that one of the women on that tour has disappeared. We're looking for her.”

The director's lips formed an “Oh!” soundlessly. He rose and left the room. Ed shot Barney a look of triumph.

“Not so tough. We won't need the rest.”

“Wait and see,” said Barney. “Every office manager is a bureaucrat at heart. You jolted him into motion. He'll recover and start unreeling the red tape.”

Sure enough, the director returned empty-handed. He walked with a vaguely banty-rooster strut. “I'm afraid I can't give you those names.”

“Then we want to talk to the driver who took the tour!”

The director's manicured little hands clenched. “I'm afraid that driver is no longer with us.”

“What happened to him?”

The director got to his feet. “You can't come into my office and needle me with questions. Who the hell do you think—?”

That made it Barney's turn. He put his hand on Ed's shoulder, saying, “Take it easy, Ed,” and turned to the director. “Mr. Tollman's upset. I'm sure you can understand that.”