Where Is Janice Gantry? by John D. MacDonald

became aware of a change in attitude toward Sis’s disappearance. It wasn’t a big enough case for nationwide or even statewide coverage, but it was a hot item on our coast, from Everglades City to Tarpon Springs. Somehow the attention seemed to blur the remembered image of Sis Gantry. She was becoming oddly fictional, an actress in a play. Normal office routine had become impossible. Even with the inevitable reduction of work, Alice Jessup could not handle the entire secretarial routine. Vince Avery had wired Tom Earle in Canada, and Vince was hanging around the office waiting for Tom to put a call through to him.
    I heard that Scotty Gantry, the eldest son, had canceled his vacation plans and driven down with his family from Atlanta to be with his parents. Scotty located me at four-thirty that afternoon in the gloom of Gus Herka’s Best Beach Bar. He had stopped at the office and they had told him where he could find me.
    With no hypocrisy of greeting or handshake he said, “Wanna talk to you, Brice,” and led the way over to a far table by the bowling machine.
    He is nearing forty. He is wide, tough, deliberate and aggressive—a vice president and sales manager of a growing company that makes plastic and fiberglass boats.
    “What do you know about this, Brice?”
    “Absolutely nothing.”
    “She talked to you Monday night.”
    “Not Monday night, Scotty. Monday evening. In the office. Where did you get your information?”
    “At dinner she said something to Mom about talking toyou, something so casual Mom can’t remember what she said. So what were the two of you talking about?”
    “Nothing that could have anything to do with what’s happened.”
    “I’ll decide what’s pertinent and what isn’t. What did you talk about?”
    “You’re the big brother, taking care. Don’t lean on me, Scotty.”
    “You want to step out the back door a minute?”
    “Grow up. Neither of us has been eighteen for a long long time.”
    “I want to know what you talked about.”
    I couldn’t help the audible sigh. “It was a private conversation. She hasn’t made up her mind about marrying Cal McAllen. We were talking about that. She’s about decided to say yes. Every family can use a lawyer, I guess.”
    “Better she should marry any son of a bitch in the state than you.”
    “She married so damn good the first time?”
    “Nobody could stop her.”
    “Were you going to try to stop her this time?”
    “Why the hell should we?”
    “Nobody in the world is good enough for your kid sister, Scotty.”
    “I sure as hell know you’re not. A lawyer, okay. Not a crooked ballplayer.”
    “For something that never got into the papers, that got a lot of circulation, Scotty.”
    “It’s hard to hide dirt.”
    “If I gave a damn for your opinion one way or the other, I’d take the time to tell your story.”
    “Your version. No thanks. I’d dearly love to jolt you around some, Brice.”
    “You’ve got a lot of hostility there, boy.”
    “Sis was just getting back on her feet when you moved inon her with a lot of big talk. She always thinks everybody is just fine. You set her way back, Brice. You moved in on her when her guard was down.”
    “Do you think I hurt her? Honestly?”
    “You used her. And when you got tired of her, you broke it off. You think you did her any good?”
    I can think of forty ways I could have answered that question more diplomatically. But my patience was worn thin. His manner was irritating.
    “I guess I must have done her some good, pal. She used to scream with joy.”
    He trotted heavily to the rear door and held it open, yelling vast incoherencies at me. I had obligated myself, and so I went blinking out into a sunny ash can area. I caught three wild and violent swings on my arms, timed the fourth one, trapped his wrist, twisted it up between his shoulder blades and ran him headlong into the side of the frame building. The vice president and sales manager dropped loosely onto his