Before it could disappear in some cataclysmic computer meltdown, I jotted the address down on a Post-it and lifted the note off the pad. Then I hightailed it out of Victory Mutual so fast that the barrier arm at the security turnstile scraped alarmingly across the canvas top of my convertible. It was some measure of my eagerness to see Gail that I didn't even care.
When I got to the address in Eastport, I found that Gail Parrish was living in a lovingly restored, three-story colonial in the third block of Second Street, a short walk from the Severn River. A yellow VW Beetle was parked out front. I'd seen a similar car in Jablonsky's parking lot, so I figured the VW belonged to Gail.
I parked my LeBaron behind the VW and stepped out onto the sidewalk.
Gail's house had a porch the size of a postage stamp and a bright red door with a brass knocker shaped-no surprise, considering its owners-like an anchor. I trotted up the steps, lifted the anchor, and rapped loudly three times.
Nobody came to the door.
I looked around for a doorbell and finally found it, tucked into a space barely two inches wide between the door frame and the side of an oversize bronze mailbox. I stuck a finger into the crevice and pushed the bell.
No cheerful chimes, no clever tunes. From somewhere inside came a rude buzzing sound. No wonder they had installed the knocker. But still, nobody answered the door. Gail's car was out front, so where the hell was she?
There were all sorts of perfectly reasonable explanations.
Perhaps she was taking a bath. Or a nap.
Maybe she'd gone for a walk, or taken in a movie. The Eastport Cinema was less than a mile away.
Or somebody could have picked her up. Maybe her ex-was no longer an ex-? Had he come back into her life and swept her away to the Poconos for a weekend of romance and reconciliation?
I pulled the cell phone from my purse and punched Gail's number for what seemed the zillionth time. While I waited for the call to go through, I used my other hand to shade my eyes and peer through the front window. Although it was covered by sheer curtains, I could see enough through the glass to determine that there was nothing going on in the living room.
Gail's line was busy, surprise, surprise. Frustrated, I tossed the phone back into my purse.
I was heading around to check out the back of the house when something rubbed against my legs, scaring me witless. When I could breathe again, I looked down and saw that the culprit was a black and gray tabby. Gail mentioned she was taking care of the owners' cat. What was its name? Gail had told me, I was sure. Nemo? Nimitz?
I kneeled down and stroked the animal's soft, slate-colored fur. "What's your name, young fellow?" I fumbled for the tags that hung from the cat's collar. "Nitro," I read.
"Hey, Nitro old boy." Or was it a girl? With fur so thick, it was hard to tell. I rubbed Nitro behind the ears, then used the fingers of both hands to massage the bumps along his spine-a bit of pseudo shiatsu, modified for cats, that I'd picked up from Ruth.
Nitro purred like a well-tuned car. He stretched extravagantly, then rolled onto his back, reclining like an odalisque on the concrete sidewalk. "Ah, you are a girl," I observed, massaging down the full length of the shameless hussy's tail. "So, Nitro, anybody home but you?"
Nitro closed her eyes. Her nose drew ecstatic little figure eights in the air. I imagined her little kitty brain saying, "Don't talk, woman. Keep on rubbing."
I was working on one of Nitro's front paws, caked with dirt, when a woman stepped out of the house next door. Her eyes flitted in my direction. As I watched, she meandered down the sidewalk, then bent to fetch her Saturday morning paper, pressing one hand against the small of her back as if she were in pain.
"Excuse me," I called out, "but have you seen Gail?"
Gail's neighbor straightened. "She was out in the yard this morning, trimming the hedge." The woman waved her newspaper vaguely at the boxwood hedge that separated Gail's driveway from her own. Lying on the ground next to the hedge about halfway down the drive was a pair of electric hedge trimmers. A bright orange power cord snaked across the concrete and was plugged into an outlet in the foundation of the house.
"Golly," I said. "Why would Gail go off and leave an expensive piece of equipment like that lying on the ground?"
The neighbor shrugged. "Maybe she got interrupted and just forgot they were out here." She grinned. "Happens to me all the time. Know what I call it?"
I shook my head. "No, what do you call it?"
"Losing the rabbit."
I smiled at the odd but strangely apt allusion to hunting. "I find myself losing the rabbit a lot these days."
The woman limped back up her walk. "Hysterectomy," she said in response to my unasked question.
"Ouch, sorry," I said.
She shrugged. "Oh, well. What'cha gonna do?"
"Did you notice if Gail had any visitors?"
"No, sorry, I didn't."
I advanced several steps onto her lawn. "Look, I'm kinda worried. Gail emailed that she wanted me to call her about something important, but when I telephoned, the line was busy. It's been busy for five hours." I had a sudden thought. "Your circuits aren't down, are they?"
"Not that I know of." She reached into the pocket of her sweater and pulled out a portable phone. She punched a button and put the phone to her ear. "Nope. Got a fine dial tone."
"That's what I was afraid of. Frankly, I'm more than a little worried. Gail's car's on the street so she should be at home."
"You knocked?
I nodded.
"Maybe she's in the bathtub."
“For five hours?"
She raised a finger. "The Frasers gave me a key ages ago. They were away a lot on weekends, you know, sailing, and they asked me to feed the cat." She bobbed her head in Nitro's direction. "I see you've already met Nitro."
"Oh, yes." For all intents and purposes, the cat had passed out, cold, in a patch of sun on the warm cement. "You said something about a key?" I prodded.
"Oh! There I go again, losing the rabbit. If you'll wait a minute, I'll go see if I can find it."
"That'd be great. Thanks!"
She handed me the newspaper. "Here, take a look at this while you wait."
I'd barely had time to scan the headlines before she returned, waving a key. "Got it!" she crowed. "My name's Cindy, by the way."
"I'm Hannah."
"Nice to meet you, Hannah."
"Likewise." We had started up the walk, side by side, but I stopped and turned to face her. "Cindy, I really appreciate this. I'm sure it'll turn out to be nothing, but-"
"Oh, I understand completely," Cindy said. "I worked with this woman once, never late, never took a sick day, never once in three years! Then one day, she didn't show up for work. Didn't call in. Didn't answer the phone." She touched my arm. "I called the po-lice," she drawled.
"What happened?"
"Well, it took some major league convincing, but they finally agreed to send an officer to meet me at her apartment. We pounded and pounded on the door. Eventually got the super to open up." Cindy and I had reached the porch.
"And?"
"She was home, all right. Sitting on the floor in her bathrobe, like a zombie, surrounded by dirty laundry, spoiled food, unwashed dishes, and bags and bags of garbage."
"Gross." I waited for Cindy to climb the steps. "What was the matter with her?"
Cindy turned the key in the lock and pushed the door open. "Severe depression. She had to be hospitalized. Never did come back to work."
"Sad," I said. "Although I'm pretty certain we won't find Gail like that!"
Cindy laughed. "Oh, no way! She's just about the most outgoing person I know."
We were standing in the living room. "Gail?" I called out. "It's Hannah. Gail?"
Directly on our right a flight of stairs led to the second floor. "I'll check upstairs," I volunteered, remembering Cindy's recent surgery. "Can you look around down here?"