The kitchen was tidy. The red coffeepot was filled and waiting, and the canisters were filled with sugar, coffee and flour. She must plan on coming back at some point, Pete thought. If she were going away for good, she’d empty out all the food. He opened the refrigerator and grinned. It was almost as empty as his own. Chinese food containers were closed tightly, Italian foil dishes with cardboard tops, cheese, cold cuts, and bread were tied in Baggies. A bag of bagels and three apples completed the contents. The cabinets held staples and dishes. He picked up the receiver on the wall phone, held it to his ear. Nothing. He replaced it. It would cost more to have the phone reconnected than it would to keep the phone on. What was she thinking of, to disconnect it? He flicked the light switch and was rewarded with yellow light. Why disconnect the phone and not the electricity?
The bedroom was neat and tidy, the bed made, no stray clothing anywhere. The dresser was bare, with a light coating of dust, possibly powder. He yanked at the closet doors and saw clothing and shoes, a shelf with handbags and boxes of scarfs, winter hats, and sweaters. Two of the three suitcases were missing.
The bathroom was bare, nothing on the small vanity. No toothbrush. He opened the drawer to see if his was there. It was gone too. So was his shaving cream and the razor he kept in the drawer. Two towels hung neatly on the rack.
To Pete’s inexperienced eye, it didn’t seem like Maddie left in a hurry or was harried in any way. He walked over to the little rosewood desk to check it. He’d gotten the antique for her on her birthday. She loved it, would never have left it behind if she didn’t plan on coming back. She kept her bills in it, her checkbook, and all her notes for Fairy Tales. There were pens and pencils, but no papers. He started to grieve for his loss.
Maddie loved him. He knew it, believed it. She would never go away and not tell him. Somehow, some way, she would have gotten word to him. Unless . . . she wasn’t able to do so. They were supposed to get married tomorrow. He felt an ache start to build within him.
Pete took one last look around. Maddie would never have left the Red Skelton clown picture behind either. It and the rosewood desk were two of her most prized possessions.
Pete sat down. He felt drained, like a rag doll, limp spaghetti, Jell-O. All of the above. Because he had nothing else to do, he picked up the remote control to the television and turned it on. It pleased him. She must be coming back. Goddamn it, she had to come back. They had plans, places to go, things to do. They were getting married, for Christ’s sake.
He was about to bang on the end of the table when he remembered the pain he felt when he’d done the same thing in Hong Kong. He picked up a brocade pillow from the couch and sent it flying across the room. Dead flowers flew in every direction, three of the petals sailing downward, ever so gracefully, to land on his knees. He felt like crying. And why in the goddamn hell shouldn’t he cry? He was human, had feelings just like everyone else. He was supposed to be macho, tough as rawhide, able to weather anything. It was all fucking bullshit. He hurt. He ached. He felt pain unlike anything he’d ever felt before. No, once before . . .
Son, I don’t know how to tell you this, but your parents, well ... they’re gone ... to a better place, I’m sure.... You have to be brave ... big boys don’t cry. You’re going to make your parents proud someday. How was it possible to make dead people proud of you? He didn’t want to be brave. He wanted to bawl, to kick and scream. I want my mom and dad! Do you fucking hear me, I want my mom and dad! His dad was supposed to take him to California in the summer and teach him how to surf. His dad said that someday, when he was really good, they’d go to a place in Australia he’d read about called Bell’s Beach. He said giant waves came in there every twenty or so years and it was his dream. My mom’s too. I have to be real good, though . . . or I can’t go. I never got the chance to even be bad, let alone good....
Pete wiped at his eyes. He wondered what Barney would do in this situation. He was crying. That was good. Fuck you, magazine writers who say men shouldn’t present a weak image.
Pete closed his eyes, willing his closed lids to conjure up the surfboard in his closet. It was the last present his parents had given him. On his sixth birthday, the year they died. He’d dragged that surfboard with him everywhere. Sometimes he stared at it for hours.
Leo didn’t understand about the surfboard, and Pete had never tried to explain. Well, maybe he tried once when his room at the estate was being redone, and Leo wanted to toss it out. “Redone, my ass,” Pete grated. “I was never fucking there, so how could it be my room?” He’d gone at Leo with all the gusto of a nineteen-year-old, kicking and shoving, gouging and bellowing his head off. He’d used words even Leo hadn’t heard before. He didn’t get to come home that summer. Instead, Leo sent him on a backpacking trip in Wyoming that was so arduous, grown men buckled and had to be taken back to the camp. He’d made it, though, by plotting Leo’s death in a thousand different ways. He’d returned to Leo’s palatial estate in New Jersey two days before it was time to return to Harvard to find a Jaguar convertible. Had he been properly grateful? Hell no, he hadn’t. He’d told Leo to shove his Jaguar convertible. He’d never taken a second look at it.
He was twenty before he figured out why he didn’t like his uncle Leo. To this day he still didn’t know if the dream he’d had was real, something buried in his subconscious or just a plain old dream. In the dream he was four, maybe five, and he’d been playing checkers on the back porch with Barney Sims when he heard his parents talking in the kitchen. He’d heard his father say, “I’d rather pick shit with the chickens than ask Leo for a loan.” At the time he thought it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. Barney Sims thought it was funny too. Both of them had clapped their hands over their mouths to keep from laughing aloud. Then it wasn’t funny anymore when he heard his father say, “I don’t care if we lose this house and the car. I’ll get another job. Marie, I love you with all my heart, but I will not ask Leo for money. I might not be able to buy you diamonds and furs, but I’ll always make sure I take care of you and Pete. Just say you’re with me, and no matter where we are it won’t matter because we’re together.” Pete’s eyes almost bugged out of his head when he heard his mother’s voice, the voice he loved that had such a warm chuckle in it, say, “I’m with you, Albert, and so is Pete. But right now what’s important is, where are we going to get the money for Pete’s surfboard? We agreed we’d never promise our boy anything if we couldn’t keep that promise.” His father said, “I have some ideas on that. For starters, we’ll redeem all those pop bottles in the cellar. You can bake and sell your strudels, and I’ll do some lawn work for the people on the other side of town. Who knows, I might get a job in the meantime, and we can keep the pop bottles.” His mother laughed over that.
In the end, none of that worked out. They got the money for the surfboard when his mother pawned a piece of jewelry, a gold locket crafted to look like a book. There was space for four pictures that turned like pictures of a book. His baby picture was in the locket, his parents’ wedding picture, his picture when he went off to kindergarten, and a picture of the three of them. In the little box of mementos Miss Wardlaw gave him after the funeral, he saw the pawn slip for the locket with four tiny little pictures. He’d bawled for days and days. Miss Wardlaw thought it was because of the funeral, which was partly true. Every time he looked at the surfboard, he bawled his eyes out. Even now, to this day, when he opened the closet door and saw the board, his eyes misted over.
“Shit!” Pete said succinctly. A moment later he was on his feet. He didn’t have time for trips down Memory Lane.
In the small foyer he caught a glimpse of himself in an ornate mirror. Jesus! He looked like something spawned from black, mucky water. He finger-combed his dark hair. It didn’t help. He rubbed at the stubble on his cheeks and chin. He muttered another expletive. He wished he’d brought his shell-rimmed glasses with the tinted lenses. At least they’d cover the dark circles and bags under his eyes. “I look,” he muttered,
“like an undertaker’s client who can’t make up his mind.”
Minutes later he was in his Range Rover, heading for Janny Hobart’s apartment. Christ, where were they? Maddie wouldn’t take off on him like this. She just damn well fucking wouldn’t do it. There was something wrong. He could sense it, feel it. Jesus Christ, he could smell it. He thought about the small packet of wedding invitations Maddie had made up for the few friends they were inviting to their wedding. He had one folded in his wallet. He knew the words by heart: This day I will marry my friend. The one I laugh with, live for, dream with. Love.
At Janny’s apartment building he didn’t get past the doorman. “She moved out,” was all he was going to get from the bulldog countenance.
Back in the Rover, Pete realized he’d actually gotten more from Janny’s doorman than he’d gotten from Maddie’s: Janny moved out. Janny’s studio apartment was furnished, whereas Maddie owned everything in her apartment. Janny was like family to Maddie. Maybe Maddie was helping Janny relocate or ... something. Wise up Sorenson, he told himself. That would mean she’s scratching her wedding to help a friend. No, Maddie wouldn’t do that. Girls didn’t cancel weddings. Not his girl. Never his girl.
The Rover ground to a halt, made an illegal U-turn before it speeded up and headed back uptown. The minister would have the straight skinny on what was going on. Surely Maddie had called him. Jesus, what if the man thought the wedding was still on?
Twenty minutes later Pete parked in a No Parking zone. He locked the Rover and sprinted across the street to the parish house. He jabbed at the bell, waited a moment and jabbed at it again. The third time, he kept his finger pressed on the glowing white circle. He thought the bell ring sounded like the beginning sounds of the Our Father. He must be nuts. Perspiration dotted his brow and upper lip. He wiped it away with the sleeve of his shirt. He finger-combed his hair a second time, the index finger of his right hand still pressed to the bell.
Finally the minister came to the door. “Mr. Sorenson, how nice to see you. Does this visit mean the wedding is back on?”
He looks so comforting, Pete thought. His eyes were worry-free, his smile genuine. He was at peace. And why the hell shouldn’t he look at peace? Pete thought wildly. All the man did was pray to God all day. He wished that he’d been more religious in the past. “No. I don’t know. I need to talk with you, Reverend.”
“Certainly, son. Come into my study. We can talk there. Would you like some coffee or tea? Perhaps a sandwich or a slice of pie?”
How kind and gentle he is, Pete thought. He looks like an overgrown cherub. “Coffee,” he said.
The reverend chuckled. “I cultivate this image. It makes my work easier. Now, tell me how I can help you.”
“Did Maddie call you, Reverend? Did she cancel the wedding?”
“Several days ago. It didn’t sound like Maddie, but then, she was crying. Sobbing actually. I felt so bad. I wanted to go to her. I wanted to go to her or have her come here, but she said something that sounded like—and I’m not really sure this is what she said, but to me it sounded like, ‘It isn’t wise.’ She thanked me for everything and apologized. The call didn’t last more than a minute. It took me a few minutes to find her phone number, and I called her right away, but the operator said the number was temporarily disconnected. I then called her maid of honor, and the operator told me the same thing. For some reason, Mr. Sorenson, I don’t have your number.” His voice turned fretful at this declaration. Pete rattled it off, and the minister copied it down carefully.
The housekeeper, a plain-looking woman with a tie-around white apron, the kind his mother used to wear, set a tray down on the corner of the minister’s desk. The mugs were thick, plain white with sturdy handles. A large plate was filled high with plump sugar cookies. His mother used to make sugar cookies that tasted faintly of orange and lemon. He reached for one, bit into it. Identical. “Does your housekeeper make lemon meringue pie, and does it have those little brown sugar beads on the top?” Jesus, did he just say that?
The minister smiled. “Yes, she does. When she isn’t looking, I use my finger and lick them all off the pie. My mother used to swat me good for doing that. Martha’s pies are the first to go when we have bake sales.”
“My mother used to make a little pie for me. I always ate the top first. She made me my own little cakes too. I ate the icing first too. Maddie isn’t much of a cook,” he said ruefully.
“I’m sure she’ll learn, and if you share with her, I’m certain she’ll do her best to learn how to bake. What is it, son, what’s happened?”
Pete told him, ending with, “It’s not like Maddie. I know she didn’t get cold feet. She would never let me hang like this. I don’t know what to think.”
“Have you been to the police?”
“I’m going there when I leave here. Maddie’s not in a hospital. At least I don’t think so. She did call you. She’s with her friend Janny. I’m almost certain of that. First thing Monday I’m going to call Merrill Lynch to see if Janny quit her job.”
“Does Madelyn have family here in the city?”
“A stepmother and a stepbrother. She never talks about them. To be honest, I don’t even know their last name, though it’s not the same as hers. If Maddie found herself in some sort of trouble—and I’m beginning to think that’s what happened—she would never go to her stepmother. Janny, yes. They’re both gone. I’m holding on to the thought that they’re together.”
“I’ll pray for them, and you too, Mr. Sorenson. I’m afraid it’s all I can do. If I hear from Madelyn, I’ll call you.”
“Thank you, Reverend, and tell your cook these are some of the best cookies I’ve ever eaten, next to my mother’s.”
“She’ll be pleased to hear that, Mr. Sorenson. If there’s anything I can do, please don’t hesitate to call.”
“Reverend, do I owe you . . . ? Someday I’m going to come back here and talk to you about . . . a friend I had a long time ago.”
The reverend nodded. “Come to church on Sunday if you can.”
‘I’ll do my best,” Pete said. Outside, he realized he hadn’t just given lip service. He meant it. If he could, he’d make services every Sunday from now on.
At the police station, Pete sucked in his breath. He smelled stale sweat, scorched coffee, cheap perfume, and Pine Sol. The six sugar cookies rumbled ominously in his stomach. He marched up to the desk and said, “I want to file two Missing Persons reports.”
“Names?” the cop on desk duty said.
Pete cleared his throat. “Madelyn Stern and Janice Hobart.”
The officer on duty leaned over his desk before he pushed his glasses up his bony nose. “Wait here, I need a second form. Take a seat.”
Instead of sitting down, Pete paced. He stared at hookers dressed in fishnet stockings and spiked-heel shoes. It was true, they chewed gum. He felt a grimace build on his face. He listened to language so ripe, it exploded in his ears and turned them red. He turned from his frantic pacing to bump into a pimp with so much grease in his hair, it was dribbling down onto his thick eyebrows, giving them a glossy shine. He sidestepped the pimp, zeroing in on a conversation between an irate citizen and an officer who was listening intently to his explanation. “Those cruds ripped out my radio, stole my briefcase and were stealing my tires, and you arrest me! What the hell kind of society is this anyway? All I did was try and protect my property. I want a lawyer!”
“Sir, you beat the boy, you banged his head on the car. He has rights too. He’s only fourteen.”
“Rights my ass. If he’s old enough to steal my radio and tires, he’s old enough to take a beating. I didn’t even see his face when I dragged him away from my car. As soon as I saw he was a kid, I stopped slugging him. What about my fucking rights? Do any of you fucking cops care that I’m sixty-seven years old? If that punk got to me first, I’d be dead. Well, what do you have to say to that?”
“You can make one phone call. Go straight back and take a seat.”
“Amen,” Pete said, then was ushered upstairs to a quieter office.
“I’m Detective Nester,” a plainclothes officer said from behind a desk. “You want to file a Missing Persons report, sir?”
“Pete Sorenson, and yes, I want to file two Missing Persons reports.”
Nester took four phone calls and was called away from his desk twice. Pete kept looking at his watch as his fingers drummed on the dusty, littered, detective’s desk.
It was nine-thirty, according to the large clock on the wall, when Pete signed his name to both reports. “You aren’t going to do anything about this, are you?” he said wearily.
“Why do you say a thing like that?” Nester asked quietly.
“I can see it in your face. It’s my business to read people. I’m not saying you won’t do the paperwork. I’m saying you aren’t going to go out there and beat the bushes. You probably think she dumped me and didn’t have the guts to tell me. Well, you’re wrong.”
Pete fished around in his pocket for his wallet and withdrew the crumpled wedding invitation. “Read that and tell me she dumped me. No, no, you’re wrong.”
“Do people make up their own sayings, or is this preprinted? You know, they give you a list and you pick one out?” Nester asked curiously.
“No, Maddie worked it out. She said it was exactly how she felt. I feel the same way about her.” For one heartbreaking second Pete thought he saw pity in the detective’s eyes. Whatever it was, it was gone a moment later.
“We’ll be in touch, Mr. Sorenson.”
“Sure, and tomorrow is a new day,” Pete said, his eyebrows shooting upward in disgust.
“Are you trying to tell me you don’t have a high opinion of the police?”
Pete deliberately eyeballed the detective for several seconds. “I feel very confident I’ll find my fiancee before you will. Do you know why I say that, Detective .Nester?”
“No, Mr. Sorenson, I don’t.”
Desperate Measures Page 19
