Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 44, No. 6, June 1999

Huddled in my peacoat, fists clenched in pockets for warmth, I crunched across the hard-packed white stuff toward the door of Apartment 3. Already I knew what I’d find. Second-hand mismatched furniture. Worn appliances. Neutral colors on the walls, the trim, in the carpet. TV and maybe a CD player. And few personal touches except — if Shyla’s description of their relationship was any indication — a picture or two of her arm-in-arm with her dad, smiling at the camera.

Five minutes later I left, my expectations fully confirmed. Only there was just one picture, of Shy-la alone, probably her high school graduation portrait a couple of years earlier. Her hair had been brown then and longer. She looked younger and more innocent, one to whom less had happened. Same blue eyes, though.

Of Ryan himself there was no recent sign. As Shyla had told me, the sinks were dry, the bed was neatly made, and what looked like several days’ worth of mail scattered the foyer carpet. To the front storm door were stuck three yellow tried-to-deliver sticky notes, from UPS or OOPS or somebody like that. The earliest one was dated December thirtieth.

I’d knocked on the other seven doors. The two that answered claimed no knowledge of Randy Ryan, past or present. I reboarded the Mustang and, heat on high, headed south on Telegraph. Normally four lanes each way, Telegraph was down to two narrow lanes now. They were walled with high white drifts that were already turning gray-black from tailpipe crud. The traffic ran slow and sullen, the lights especially lengthy at Quarton and Maple.

Worst of all was the sprawling interchange where Telegraph intertwined with the Reuther and the Lodge freeways. There the cars, the SUV’s, and the big rigs crept along in ten foot lurches. They noisily merged and disengaged like icy, metallic, salt-encrusted lovers, tailpipes sending up thick streams of inky exhaust like plumy cats’ tails into the frigid midmorning air. I just lived through it, smoking a cigar, playing Buddy Guy’s latest on the CD, tolerant, patient. Downright tranquil even. Surely in no hurry to meet Randy Ryan’s estranged wife.

“Oh, you,” she said, grimacing at me through the storm door. “Jennifer told me about you. Come on in, I guess.”

Jennifer? I wondered. Then, as I stepped inside, it clicked. “Thanks for your time,” I said. “I’m just wondering if—”

“I know why you’re here,” Virginia Ryan said, turning on me. Physically, she was quite different from Shyla, besides being older. Short and quite round, lipless and worn, she had short wavy dark hair and deep worry fines. Her eyes were as narrow and hard and colorless as shards of window glass. She wore dark stirrup pants and a light sleeveless shirt. Silver wedding rings twinkled as she gestured. This was, I sensed, a woman who liked to throw things, starting with words and moving on, as needed, to heftier items. “You’re trying to find that sorry, sleazebag, soon-to-be-ex-husband of mine.”

“No,” came another voice as Shyla entered the room. “He’s looking for Daddy. Hi, Ben,” she added, giving me a small wave.

“Hey, kid.”

The three of us stood, for a moment seemingly immobilized by tension. The living room of the small Redford Township ranch-house was a kaleidoscope of beige: dark, medium, and light. The furniture and decorations were rounded, puffy, and plush. The scent was potpourri and sweetish, with the hint of recently baked bread and remote tobacco smoke. “Can we sit down?” I asked.

“Well,” the mother said, “I’m going to. You do what you want.” She went to the sofa and sat on its edge, facing me, and hovered over the coffee table. On it was scattered piles of what looked like mail. “As to Randy, I’ll tell you the same thing I’ve told Jennifer.” She ripped open an envelope, using considerably more force than needed. “He’s taken that money he stole and run off with that hillbilly slut girlfriend of his.”

Shyla, who stood in the archway to the dining room, scowled. “That’s so unfair. You don’t know anything about a girlfriend—”

“I have all the evidence I need,” her mother cut in flatly, unfolding an ad.

“And the money thing, too,” Shy-la charged on, “you don’t know that. You’re just connecting dots. It’s what you always do. You sit around and stew about things and—”

“For God’s sake!” Virginia snapped, slamming the ad down. “The police were here, Jennifer! Your father’s boss has filed a complaint!

”

“Did you ever get his side of it?” Shyla asked hotly. She was hugging herself, and her blue eyes were a tad glassy. “Of course not. Because you want to believe—”

“Whoa!” I interjected, making the T with both hands. “Hold the phone. Steady on, as we say.” The women looked at me, expressions eerily identical in their annoyance. “One thing at a time, if we could.”

“Who asked you?” Virginia retorted, head cocked at an angry angle.

“I did,” Shyla said.

“None of this is any of your business, Jennifer!”

“I’m involved in it, too, you know,” Shyla replied stubbornly.