Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. Vol. 101, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 610 & 611, March 1993

He went methodically through all eight directories, found one of the names he was looking for, but not the other. He made a note of the number he found and reshelved the directories. A filament of dread tangled his thoughts, kept them immobilized, going nowhere.

The phone bell was gentle as a summer shower. He snatched up the handpiece.

“McCauley residence. Tom Bell.”

“I got you some info,” Alan’s voice said.

“I looked in some phone books,” Tom said. “There’s a Mary Jane Crayle living in Malibu. Don’t know if it’s our Mary Jane, though. I was just going to call and find out.”

“Aah.” Alan was suddenly guarded. “...Okay. Are you going to tell Charles?”

“Nothing to tell him, yet.”

“Well, keep me posted. Here’s what I’ve got for you, courtesy of a librarian friend, an ex-journalist, and a couple of lawyers with long memories. First, the Palmer Clinic. Run by one Henry E. Palmer, M.D., who got closed down because of irregularities involving adoptions. Not for profit, oddly enough. Apparently he was a benevolent old coot who believed in helping people out, regardless of laws and established procedures. Details are available if we need them.

“Second, Estelle Marchand.”

“The name I didn’t find in any L.A. phone book.”

“It wasn’t even her real name. She was Anne Merchant, oldest child of a well-heeled family of Providence, Rhode Island, a teenage dropout and runaway. Anne was twenty-two when Estelle died in a motorcycle accident. Riding the back of a Harley down by the beach in San Diego, skidded on some sand, crashed, broke her neck. She and the guy who owned the ’cycle had been drinking beer all morning. That was February, nineteen seventy-four. She had evaded a determined search and stayed hidden for seven years. Identified by fingerprints. She was a high-IQ underachiever who’d been in trouble all her life, so her prints were on file. Her San Diego friends had only known her three days. Hints she may have been in trouble under a fleet of aliases all the way from Providence to Haight-Ashbury. Any help?”

“Not yet. Did Mary Jane have health insurance? Not your department, I know, but I can’t ask Charles, he’s thrown me out and wants me off the inquiry. I said I was working for you.”

“Thanks. Yes, she had health insurance. She never said why she didn’t use it — pregnancy was covered — but my guess is because it would have led us to her.”

“She was that serious about staying hidden?”

“I guess so. Watch your step, young man.”

Tom was dialing the number he’d written down when Katherine opened the door from the hall. She was still in her dressing gown. He stopped dialing.

“Still checking up on me?”

She gave him a disdainful look, stepped back, closed the door.

He dialed again. After two rings a woman’s voice answered.

“Beachfront Motel.”

“Mary Jane Crayle, please.”

“This is Mary Jane.”

Her speech was leisurely and her voice disarming, with a warmth and color that made him think of bees buzzing in pine-scented air at the edge of a sunlit wood. He struggled to hide his anxiety.

“Was Crayle your maiden name, and were you once Mary Jane McCauley?”

Was there a momentary pause?

Her voice stayed friendly, but somewhere gears had shifted.

“Yes. I went back to my maiden name after the divorce. Who am I talking to, please?”

“My name is Tom Bell. I’m a law clerk at Morgan and Scherer, Charles McCauley’s attorneys—”

“I remember them. Especially Alan. What is this about, Mr. Bell?”

“Did you ever have twins, Ms. Crayle?”

“No.”

“How about Estelle Marchand?”

Silence.

A pulse began to hammer in the hand holding the phone. Seconds dribbled by. He made the hand relax.

“What is this about, Mr. Bell?”

“A question of identity. I’d rather explain it to you in person. You can call Alan Scherer and check me out, if you like.”

“I’ll do that,” she said in the same piney, bee-buzzing voice, and surprised him by hanging up.

She knew how to sound friendly and be decisive at the same time. Well, good for Mary Jane.

He cradled the phone, reached for his coffee cup. The coffee was just cold enough to taste awful. He needed a refill.

He carried the cup into the hall, found Katherine a foot beyond the door. Still in the dressing gown, face drawn, blue eyes dark and tragic and accusing.

“How did you find her?”

She must have been listening at the door.

“I looked in the phone book,” Tom said. She stared at him in mute anguish. Her vulnerability made him profoundly uncomfortable. He added lamely, “I just need to confirm some stuff, okay?” Stuff he didn’t want to explain — especially to Katherine.

Charles came down the stairs then, passing them with no recognition for Katherine’s obvious distress. He went out the front door. Beyond the Gothic arch, the chauffeur-driven Imperial was waiting to take him to the office.

The front door closed firmly.

Tom said, “You know he’s kicked me out? If I were you, I’d leave too.” He held up his cup. “Gotta find me a refill.”

He turned away. She said to his back, in a strained near-whisper, “How dare you? How dare you?”