me to the man. “She had to leave early.”
“It's important that I speak to her. Do you know where she can be reached?”
“Girlie, that's the hundred-dollar question,” the older man said.
I extended my hand. “Stephanie Plum.”
“Arnold Kyle. I own this place. I got a call about an hour ago from the cops telling me my store was unattended. Your friend Helen just walked out of here. No notice. No nothing. Didn't even have the decency to lock up. Some guy came in to buy cigarettes and called the cops when he figured out there was no one here.”
I had a real bad feeling in my stomach. “Was Helen unhappy with her job?”
“Never said anything to me,” Arnold said.
“Maybe she got sick and didn't have time to leave a note.”
“I called her house. Nobody's seen her. I called the hospital. She isn't there.”
“Have you looked everywhere in the store? A storage room? The cellar? Bathroom?”
“Checked all that out.”
“Does she drive to work? Is her car still here?”
Arnold looked to the young guy.
“It's still here,” the young guy said. “I parked next to it when I came in. It's a blue Nova.”
“Must have gone off with one of her friends,” Arnold said. “You can't trust anyone these days. No sense of responsibility. A good time comes along, and they kiss you good-bye.”
I turned my attention to the clerk. “Any money missing?”
He shook his head no.
“Any sign of struggle? Anything knocked over?”
“I got here first,” Arnold said. “And there wasn't anything. It looked like she just waltzed out of here.”
I gave them my card and explained my relationship with Helen. We did a brief behind-the-counter search for a possible note, but nothing turned up. I thanked Arnold and the clerk and asked them to call if they heard from Helen. I had my hands on the counter, and I looked down and saw it. A book of matches from the Parrot Bar in Point Pleasant.
“Are these yours?” I asked the clerk.
“Nope,” he said. “I don't smoke.”
I looked at Arnold. “Not mine,” he said.
“Do you mind if I snitch them?”
“Knock yourself out,” Arnold said.
At the risk of seeming paranoid I checked my rearview mirror about sixty times on the way home. Not so much for Joyce, but for the guys who might have spooked or snatched Helen Badijian. A week ago, I'd have drawn the same conclusion as Arnold . . . that Helen took off. Now that I knew about chopped-off fingers and scalpings I took a more extreme view of events.
I parked in my lot, did a fast look around, inhaled a deep breath and bolted from my car. Across the lot, through the rear entrance, up the stairs to my apartment. The hate message was still on my door. I was breathing hard, and my hand was shaking so that it took concentration to get the key in the lock.
This is stupid, I told myself. Get a grip! But I didn't have a grip, so I locked myself in and checked under the bed, in the closets and behind the shower curtain. When I was convinced I was safe I ate the Entenmann's coffee cake to calm myself down.
When I was done with the cake I called Morelli and told him about Helen and asked him to check on her.
“Just exactly what did you have in mind?”
“I don't know. Maybe you could see if she's in the morgue. Or in the hospital, getting some missing body part sewed back on. Maybe you could ask some of your friends to keep an eye out for her.”
“Probably Arnold's right,” Morelli said. “Probably she's at a bar with a couple friends.”
“You really think so?”
“No,” Morelli said. “I was just saying that to get you off the phone. I'm watching a ball game.”
“There's something that really bothers me here that I didn't tell you.”
“Oh boy.”
“Eddie Kuntz was the only one who knew I was going to see Helen Badijian.”
“And you think he got to her first.”
“It's crossed my mind.”
“You know there was a time when I'd say to myself . . . How does she do it? How does she get mixed up
“It's important that I speak to her. Do you know where she can be reached?”
“Girlie, that's the hundred-dollar question,” the older man said.
I extended my hand. “Stephanie Plum.”
“Arnold Kyle. I own this place. I got a call about an hour ago from the cops telling me my store was unattended. Your friend Helen just walked out of here. No notice. No nothing. Didn't even have the decency to lock up. Some guy came in to buy cigarettes and called the cops when he figured out there was no one here.”
I had a real bad feeling in my stomach. “Was Helen unhappy with her job?”
“Never said anything to me,” Arnold said.
“Maybe she got sick and didn't have time to leave a note.”
“I called her house. Nobody's seen her. I called the hospital. She isn't there.”
“Have you looked everywhere in the store? A storage room? The cellar? Bathroom?”
“Checked all that out.”
“Does she drive to work? Is her car still here?”
Arnold looked to the young guy.
“It's still here,” the young guy said. “I parked next to it when I came in. It's a blue Nova.”
“Must have gone off with one of her friends,” Arnold said. “You can't trust anyone these days. No sense of responsibility. A good time comes along, and they kiss you good-bye.”
I turned my attention to the clerk. “Any money missing?”
He shook his head no.
“Any sign of struggle? Anything knocked over?”
“I got here first,” Arnold said. “And there wasn't anything. It looked like she just waltzed out of here.”
I gave them my card and explained my relationship with Helen. We did a brief behind-the-counter search for a possible note, but nothing turned up. I thanked Arnold and the clerk and asked them to call if they heard from Helen. I had my hands on the counter, and I looked down and saw it. A book of matches from the Parrot Bar in Point Pleasant.
“Are these yours?” I asked the clerk.
“Nope,” he said. “I don't smoke.”
I looked at Arnold. “Not mine,” he said.
“Do you mind if I snitch them?”
“Knock yourself out,” Arnold said.
At the risk of seeming paranoid I checked my rearview mirror about sixty times on the way home. Not so much for Joyce, but for the guys who might have spooked or snatched Helen Badijian. A week ago, I'd have drawn the same conclusion as Arnold . . . that Helen took off. Now that I knew about chopped-off fingers and scalpings I took a more extreme view of events.
I parked in my lot, did a fast look around, inhaled a deep breath and bolted from my car. Across the lot, through the rear entrance, up the stairs to my apartment. The hate message was still on my door. I was breathing hard, and my hand was shaking so that it took concentration to get the key in the lock.
This is stupid, I told myself. Get a grip! But I didn't have a grip, so I locked myself in and checked under the bed, in the closets and behind the shower curtain. When I was convinced I was safe I ate the Entenmann's coffee cake to calm myself down.
When I was done with the cake I called Morelli and told him about Helen and asked him to check on her.
“Just exactly what did you have in mind?”
“I don't know. Maybe you could see if she's in the morgue. Or in the hospital, getting some missing body part sewed back on. Maybe you could ask some of your friends to keep an eye out for her.”
“Probably Arnold's right,” Morelli said. “Probably she's at a bar with a couple friends.”
“You really think so?”
“No,” Morelli said. “I was just saying that to get you off the phone. I'm watching a ball game.”
“There's something that really bothers me here that I didn't tell you.”
“Oh boy.”
“Eddie Kuntz was the only one who knew I was going to see Helen Badijian.”
“And you think he got to her first.”
“It's crossed my mind.”
“You know there was a time when I'd say to myself . . . How does she do it? How does she get mixed up
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