A tiny hall was suggested by low iron railings with eucalyptus massed in a stone jar at one side. The living room of which it was a part had overstuffed chairs in blue and violet and cream chintz and a tailored dark blue couch, pleasingly at home with the gray-blue shag rug which had come with the house and stretched up over a step to the small dining area which gave onto a see-through kitchen. It had somewhat the serenity of water.
A miniature Christmas tree dressed in pink and rose and silver bulbs flashed from the top of a bookcase. There were gleams of brass at the fireplace in one wall —and, on the nearest of the small end tables, two letters stamped for mailing, the clear reason for her aunt’s intended return. Amanda glanced at them automatically. One was for the gas company, the other addressed to a nursery in Michigan.
She proceeded through the house, switching on an occasional light as she went, and everything was locked. The peal of the telephone was shocking for some reason, and she ran back to pick up the receiver on a man’s voice, pleasant, low, instantly doubtful. “Mrs. Balsam?”
It wasn’t a good idea to advertise a house empty for the foreseeable future. “Mrs. Balsam isn’t here right now, but this is her niece. May I take a message?”
She had the odd and fleeting feeling that she had flabbergasted the man at the other end of the line before he said, “No, that’s all right, I’ll call again,” and, without further ado, hung up.
Her aunt hadn’t mentioned the neighbors, if in fact they could even be called that, so this would be a friend from the Heights, where she had lived previously or else—she was included in the current telephone directory—someone like the Police Athletic League. Except that the caller had been unmistakably surprised at an alien voice on this line.
Here, Amanda became simultaneously aware of two things: first, that she was almost wolfishly hungry, having lunched at her desk on an apple and a few slices of Cheddar cheese; second, that the shock of what had happened to her aunt had completely driven from her mind some plan or commitment for the evening. Whatever it was, it couldn’t be helped. It was certainly, thought Amanda, having to push down the familiar ache, nothing to do with Justin.
(Who was fond of her Aunt Jane, and had a right to know that she was in the hospital in a precarious condition. Call him, with the full knowledge that this was a perfectly legitimate excuse for hearing his voice again? No, or not yet, anyway, because who might answer his telephone?)
Amanda went into the kitchen. Unlike many widows living alone, her aunt kept a well-supplied larder, but although even at a glance the refrigerator offered stuffed olives and guacamole salad invitingly sealed under clear wrap she settled for a few cheese crackers, made herself a drink, and then, bold with the lighted house at her back, opened the door and called Apple ringingly and whistled.
Icy air shot past her, carrying very distant canine sounds ranging from the deep utterance of a German shepherd to the sharp excited barking of a poodle. Had the Afghan, less than a year old and left to her own devices for so long, joined a pack?
Keep calling at intervals; once Apple was within earshot she would come romping home. Amanda knew that she could not simply finish her drink, turn out the lights, lock the door, and drive away. She could and would lie to her aunt in the morning, if necessary— “Apple misses you but she’s putting up with me for the time being”—but if the dog were permanently lost or stolen or shot the truth would emerge eventually, and Amanda did not like to think about the consequences.
Moreover, she was herself devoted to the silky, lightboned, glowing-faced Apple, who was given to sulking when she was scolded and toppling promptly over on her side if told that she was a pretty girl. Apart from wandering off for a period of two days during the first week in the new house, she had never stayed away from home before, according to Mrs. Balsam, and certainly not on a winter night which would be even colder before it was over.
In terms of the dog, Amanda ref used to think beyond tonight. The morning newspaper was loosely folded on the couch, and she picked it up idly. There were still no leads in the disappearance of Ellie Peale, a young clerk with a thin, appealing face who had been abducted at knife point from a convenience store two nights ago. A woman was suing a local cafe because she had come across the tip of the chefs thumb in her omelet; Amanda hoped she collected a mint, but could not help admiring a cook stoical enough to continue with his labors.
The teachers were considering a strike. Two prisoners had escaped from the state penitentiary, but this happened with the regularity of schoolchildren going out to recess. Amanda turned the page, gazed at the woebegone face of an orphaned spider monkey in a Detroit zoo, remembered with a rush of guilt what she was supposed to be doing tonight.
It was seven-fifteen, but she could at least call. She jumped up distractedly and went to the phone.
Sixteen feet below her, in a steel-reinforced concrete room whose trapdoor was concealed by tranquil gray-blue shag rug, the man who had killed Ellie Peale was beginning
