Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 116, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 709 & 710, September/October 2000

She didn’t look good. She lost some weight, her complexion was pallid. Three nights running now she’d stayed home. She hadn’t stayed home three nights running for over a year. And the few nights she had gone out, she’d come home much earlier than normal.

He had been out. Bowling. The one night in the week he went out.

She was watching television. It was like they had changed places, reversed roles; him out, her home. He fixed himself a 7&7. “Want one?” he asked her.

She started to say no, then changed her mind. “A short one. Thank you.”

He fixed her drink and came in and sat down next to her. “How’re you doing?” he asked.

“Okay.” She shrugged, took a sip.

“You look kind of peaked,” he said.

“There’s a ton of flu going around. Half the school has it.”

He knocked back some of his drink. “Take a lot of vitamin C.”

“That’s a good idea. I will.”

He turned to her. “Have you ever run across a fellow named Wally Lombardo? He’s got an office-supply business, the school probably buys office supplies from him.”

She brought her drink down, placed it on the coffee table in front of her. She thought for a moment. “Yes, I think I have.”

“Good-looking guy? Big head of curly black hair?”

“I know who you’re talking about.”

“Some of the fellows that know him say he’s slept with half the women in town.”

She was looking at the television screen.

“He’s apparently been hot and heavy with some married woman the past year. Clandestine motel trysts, that kind of stuff.”

She picked up her drink and brought it to her mouth. “What about him?”

“He’s been missing for about a week. The rumor is he and this married woman ran off together.” He paused. “Do you know Frank Destefino?”

She nodded. “I know Frank.”

“He and Wally are buddies. Frank doesn’t know who this married woman is Wally’s supposedly having the affair with, but he knows there is someone. Frank was saying that people were starting to get worried about Wally. They were talking about calling the police. Have them go over to his place, see what’s going on there. A bachelor like that, no attachments, he could have a heart attack or a stroke, nobody would know about it for weeks.”

“Go to his place?”

“To see if he’s in there dead.”

“He isn’t dead.”

He turned to her. “How would you know?”

“Because it doesn’t make sense. If somebody was dead in their apartment for a week, wouldn’t somebody know? The landlord or the mailman or somebody. It would smell, wouldn’t it?”

He nodded. “Unless the heat wasn’t on. In weather like this, if the heat isn’t on, a body could freeze up for months.”

She finished her drink. “I’m going to bed.”

“You should. You don’t look good.” He watched her stand up. “I think the police are going to go over there tomorrow morning. If he isn’t there, they might at least find out where he is.” He stood up, heading for the kitchen and a refill on his drink. “Or who the mystery woman is. She might could give them a lead, if they could find out who she is.”

6

She was sautéeing chicken-fried steak at the stove when she heard him come in. Chicken-fried steak was one of his favorite dishes. He always came in the same way, one determined foot in front of the other. Solid, dependable. No frills, no nonsense. He was like that in every aspect of his life. A meat-and-potatoes kind of guy. It made life dull sometimes, which was why she had another life outside the marriage, but who he was also gave her a strong feeling of security, of being taken care of. He would always be there for her. But it wasn’t as exciting a life as she wanted to have.

“Smells good.”

“Thanks. It won’t be long.”

He washed his hands at the sink and fixed himself a drink. “The police went over to the apartment.” He sipped his drink, leafed through the day’s mail that was stacked on the counter. Bills. And Sports Illustrated. He’d read it after dinner.

She turned the steaks in the pan, adding a dash of tabasco for flavor. The potatoes had been mashed. They were warming in the oven. She had made a Caesar salad as well.

“It was empty. Completely cleaned out.”

Her hand holding the pounded steak by a fork stopped in midair. “What are you talking about?”

“Wally Lombardo’s apartment. The office-supply guy I told you was missing.”

“What about him?” She stirred in a teaspoon more of flour to thicken the gravy a tad.

“His apartment is empty. Stripped bare. He moved out.” He drank some of his bourbon. “And here’s the strange thing. He didn’t leave a forwarding address.”

She moved the steaks around in the fry pan. “That is strange.”

“Frank told me this,” he said. “He’s as baffled as anyone.”

“I can imagine.”

“You’d think if someone was leaving town they’d tell their friends. I’ll bet he told that married woman.”

“Maybe. You never know.” She took the bowl of warming mashed potatoes out of the oven and set it on the counter, poured a little of the cream gravy over it from the skillet, and added in some butter, mashing the mixture together with a fork. Then she shook some pepper on top and mixed that in.