“These are the floors.”
I said, “Ah,” and made a mental note to quit asking about matters far beyond my ken.
The interior of the house had the cool, faintly damp smell of plaster and fresh paint. All the walls in range were a dazzling white, the windows tall and stark, unadorned by any curtains or drapes. A sly glance behind me revealed what was probably the dining room on the far side of the entryway, empty of furniture, subdivided by rhomboids of clear morning light. The echo of our footsteps sounded like a small parade.
In the living room, Fiona gestured toward one of two matching armchairs, chunky and oversized, upholstered in a neutral-toned fabric that blended with the gray cement floor. A large area rug showed a densely woven grid of black lines on gray. I sat when she did, watching as she surveyed the space with the practiced eye of an aesthete. The furnishings were striking: light wood, tubular steel, stark geometric shapes. An enormous round mirror, resting in a crescent of chrome, hung above the fireplace. A tall silver and ivory coffeepot, with a matching creamer and sugar bowl, sat on a silver tray on the beveled-glass coffee table. She paused to refill her cup. “Are you a fan of art deco?”
“I don’t know much about it.”
“I’ve been collecting for years. The rug’s a Da Silva Bruhns. This is Wolfgang Tumpel’s work, if you’re familiar with the name,” she said, nodding at the coffee service.
“Beautiful,” I murmured, clueless.
“Most of these pieces are one of a kind, created by craftsmen who were masters in their day. I’d go on rattling the names off, but I doubt they’d mean much if you’re not acquainted with the period. I built this as a showcase for my collection, but as soon as the house is finished, I’ll probably sell it and move on. I’m impatient by nature and far too restless to stay here long.” She had strong features: thinly arched brows and dark, smudged eyes, with pronounced streaks of weariness descending from the inner corners. She took a sip of coffee and then paused to extract a cigarette from a pack sitting on the table. The lighter she used was one of those small gold items and made very little sound when she flipped the cover back and thumbed the striker wheel. She held the lighter in her palm and drew deeply on her cigarette, clearly savoring the relief. She tilted her head toward the ceiling and blew the smoke out in a stream. I figured I could always drop my blazer at the cleaners on the way home.
She said, “I don’t think I mentioned this when we chatted the other day, but Dana Glazer suggested I get in touch with you. I believe she was Dana Jaffe when you were acquainted with her.”
“Really. How do you know her?”
“I’m helping her redecorate her home. She’s now married to one of Dow’s associates, Joel Glazer, whose first wife died. Do you know Joel?
He’s a partner in a company called Century Comprehensive that owns a chain of nursing homes among other things.”
“I know the name Glazer from the papers. I’ve never met him,” I said. Her call was beginning to make sense, though I still wasn’t sure how I could be of service. Dana Jaffe’s first husband, Wendell, had disappeared in 1979, though the circumstances-on the surface- were very different from the current case. Wendell Jaffe was a self-made real estate tycoon who’d faked his own death, showing up in Mexico shortly after his “widow” had collected half a million dollars in life insurance benefits. Wendell was facing jail time after a Ponzi scheme he’d cooked up threatened to unravel, exposing his chicanery. The “pseudocide” was his attempt to avoid the inevitable felony conviction. He might have pulled it off, but he’d been spotted in Mexico by a former acquaintance, and I’d been dispatched by the insurance company, who wanted their money back. I wondered if Fiona suspected her ex-husband had pulled a fast one as well.
She set her coffee cup aside. “You received the articles?”
“A messenger dropped them off at the office yesterday. I read them last night and then again this morning. The police have been thorough. . . .”
“Or so they’d like us to think.”
“You’re not happy with their progress?”
“Progress! What progress? Dowan is still missing. I’ll tell you what they’ve accomplished: zilch. I grant you, they’re going through the motions-making public pronouncements, trumpeting their concerns- but it’s all sound and fury, signifying nothing.”
I objected to her attitude but decided not to protest just yet. I think the cops are terrific, but why argue the point? She wanted to hire me and I was here to determine what, if anything, I could contribute. “What’s the latest?” I asked.
“No one’s heard a peep from him-at least as far as I’ve been told.” She took another drag on her cigarette and then tapped the ash into a heavy crystal ashtray. Her lipstick was dark and bled into the fine hairline crevices along her upper lip. She’d left a distinct half-moon on the coffee cup and a full ring around the filter of her cigarette. Her jewelry was clunky: big clip-on silver earrings and a matching bracelet. The effect was stylish, but everything about her suggested estate sales and vintage clothing shops. I fancied if I’d bent close, I’d have picked up the whiff of moth balls and cedar closets, mingled with scents from the ’40s, Shalimar and Old Golds. In moments, her looks were striking, harsh flickers of beauty she seemed at pains to accentuate. She lowered her eyes. “Of course, you realize we’re divorced.”
“There was reference to that in one of the articles you sent. What about his current wife?”
“I’ve only spoken to Crystal once throughout this whole ordeal. She’s gone to great lengths to keep me out of the loop. I receive updates through my daughters, who’ve made it a point to stay in close touch with her. Without them, I’d have even less information than I do, which God knows, isn’t much.”
“You have two girls?”
“Correct. My youngest, Blanche, and her husband are only four blocks away. Melanie, the older one, lives in San Francisco. I’ll be staying with her ’til Tuesday afternoon of next week.”
“Any grandchildren?”
“Mel’s never been married. Blanche is expecting her fifth in about three weeks.”
I said, “Wow.”
Fiona’s smile was sour. “Motherhood’s just her way of avoiding a real job.”
“A ‘real’ job sounds easier. I couldn’t do what she does.”
“She barely manages herself. Fortunately, the children have a nanny who’s extremely competent.”
“How do your daughters get along with Crystal?”
“Fine, I suppose. Then again, what choice do they have? If they don’t dance to her tune, she’ll make sure they never see their father or their half-brother again. You know Dow and Crystal have a son? His name is Griffith. He just turned two.”
“I remember mention of the boy. May I call you Fiona?”
She took another drag of her cigarette and placed it on the lip of the ashtray in front of her. “I’d prefer Mrs. Purcell, if it’s all the same to you.” Smoke trailed from her mouth as she spoke and she seemed to study it, bemused.
“Yes, well. I’m wondering if you have a theory about your ex-husband’s disappearance.”
“You’re one of the few who’s even bothered to ask. Apparently, my opinion is of no concern. I suspect he’s in Europe or South America, biding his time until he’s ready to come home. Crystal thinks he’s dead-or so I’ve heard.”
“It’s not so far-fetched. According to the papers, there’s been no activity on his credit cards. There’s been no sign of his car and no sign of him.”
“Well, that’s not quite true. There’ve been a number of reports. People claim to have spotted him as far away as New Orleans and Seattle. He was seen getting on a plane at JFK and again south of San Diego, heading for Mexico.”
“There are still sightings of Elvis. That doesn’t mean he’s alive and well.”
“True. On the other hand, someone fitting Dow’s description tried to cross into Canada but walked away when the immigration officer asked to see his passport, which is missing, by the way.”
“Really. That’s interesting. The papers didn’t mention it. I take it the police have followed up?”
“One can only hope,” she remarked. There was something hollow in her tone. If she could only persuade me, then perhaps what she said would turn out to be true.
“You’re convinced he’s alive?”
“I can’t imagine otherwise. The man has no enemies and I can’t conceive his being the victim of ‘foul play,'” she said, forming the quote marks with her fingers. “The idea’s absurd.”
“Because?”
“Dow’s perfectly capable of taking care of himself-physically, at any rate. What he’s not capable of doing is facing the problems in life. He’s passive. Instead of fight or flight, he lies down and plays dead- in a manner of speaking. He’d rather do anything than deal with conflict, especially involving women. This goes back to his mother, but that’s another story altogether.”