P Is for Peril

and bled into the fine hairline crevices along her upper lip. She'd left a distinct half-moon on the coffee cup and a full ring around the filter of her cigarette. Her jewelry was clunky: big clip-on silver earrings and a matching bracelet. The effect was stylish, but everything about her suggested estate sales and vintage clothing shops. I fancied if I'd bent close, I'd have picked up the whiff of moth balls and cedar closets, mingled with scents from the '40s, Shalimar and Old Golds. In moments, her looks were striking, harsh flickers of beauty she seemed at pains to accentuate. She lowered her eyes. "Of course, you realize we're divorced."
    "There was reference to that in one of the articles you sent. What about his current wife?"
    "I've only spoken to Crystal once throughout this whole ordeal. She's gone to great lengths to keep me out of the loop. I receive updates through my daughters, who've made it a point to stay in close touch with her. Without them, I'd have even less information than I do, which God knows, isn't much."
    "You have two girls?"
    "Correct. My youngest, Blanche, and her husband are only four blocks away. Melanie, the older one, lives in San Francisco. I'll be staying with her 'til Tuesday afternoon of next week."
    "Any grandchildren?"
    "Mel's never been married. Blanche is expecting her fifth in about three weeks."
    I said, "Wow."
    Fiona's smile was sour. "Motherhood's just her way of avoiding a real job."
    "A 'real' job sounds easier. I couldn't do what she does."
    "She barely manages herself. Fortunately, the children have a nanny who's extremely competent."
    "How do your daughters get along with Crystal?"
    "Fine, I suppose. Then again, what choice do they have? If they don't dance to her tune, she'll make sure they never see their father or their half-brother again. You know Dow and Crystal have a son? His name is Griffith. He just turned two."
    "I remember mention of the boy. May I call you Fiona?"
    She took another drag of her cigarette and placed it on the lip of the ashtray in front of her. "I'd prefer Mrs. Purcell, if it's all the same to you." Smoke trailed from her mouth as she spoke and she seemed to study it, bemused.
    "Yes, well. I'm wondering if you have a theory about your ex-husband's disappearance."
    "You're one of the few who's even bothered to ask. Apparently, my opinion is of no concern. I suspect he's in Europe or South America, biding his time until he's ready to come home. Crystal thinks he's dead-or so I've heard."
    "It's not so far-fetched. According to the papers, there's been no activity on his credit cards. There's been no sign of his car and no sign of him."
    "Well, that's not quite true. There've been a number of reports. People claim to have spotted him as far away as New Orleans and Seattle. He was seen getting on a plane at JFK and again south of San Diego, heading for Mexico."
    "There are still sightings of Elvis. That doesn't mean he's alive and well."
    "True. On the other hand, someone fitting Dow's description tried to cross into Canada but walked away when the immigration officer asked to see his passport, which is missing, by the way."
    "Really. That's interesting. The papers didn't mention it. I take it the police have followed up?"
    "One can only hope," she remarked. There was something hollow in her tone. If she could only persuade me, then perhaps what she said would turn out to be true.
    "You're convinced he's alive?"
    "I can't imagine otherwise. The man has no enemies and I can't conceive his being the victim of 'foul play,'" she said, forming the quote marks with her fingers. "The idea's absurd."
    "Because?"
    "Dow's perfectly capable of taking care of himself-physically, at any rate. What he's not capable of doing is facing the problems in life. He's passive. Instead of fight or flight, he lies down and plays dead- in a manner of speaking. He'd rather do anything than deal with conflict, especially involving women. This goes back to his mother, but that's another story altogether."
    "Has he done anything like this before?"
    "As a matter of fact, he has. I tried to explain this to the police detective. In vain, I might add. Dowan's done this twice. The first time, Melanie and Blanche were-what? – probably only six and three. Dowan disappeared for three weeks. He left without warning and returned much the same way."
    "Where'd he go?"
    "I have no idea. The second time was similar. This was years later, before we separated for good. One day he was