Free Act of God by Jeremiah Healy Page B

black T-shirt and black jeans, the butt of an elaborate guitar resting on his crotch. The woman had auburn hair, worn just past her shoulders. Leering at the lens, she was dressed only in a bikini bottom and midriff halter top without a bra, her body draped around his left arm and shoulder, her own left hand seeming to stroke the barrel of the guitar.
    In a tired voice, Wickmire said, “The one and only.”
    “Darbra and Rush Teagle?”
    “In one of their family-entertainment moments.”
    “How long ago was this taken?”
    “She bought the bikini for the vacation, so just before she left.”
    Only a few weeks ago, then. “He looks pretty young.”
    “He is pretty young. Twenty-two, maybe.”
    I focused on the woman in the shot. “Darbra looks older than twenty-eight.”
    “It’s not the years, it’s the mileage. And by the way, that’s not exactly the first photo in that frame.”
    I turned to her. “Who else was there?”
    “Old Rog, for one.”
    “That’s Roger Houle?”
    “Right. Posed with Darbra, of course.”
    “I don’t have a recent picture of her. Can I take this one?”
    “I guess so.”
    I slid the backing from the frame. It did come off rather easily. I put the photo in my jacket pocket and looked back at the top of the bureau. China ashtray that held coins and subway tokens, hair brush, hand mirror; woven Easter-egg basket with a pair of sunglasses, bracelets, earrings, a Swatch watch.
    The taller bureau had on it just another photo in a stand-up frame. This one was eight-by-ten, though, and showed two women in the bathing suits and hairstyles of the early sixties. One was a little more stolid than the other, but there was a striking resemblance of one to the other and both to Darbra.
    “Who are these people?”
    Wickmire said, “Darbra’s mom and aunt.”
    “Do you know which is the aunt?”
    “The heavier one.”
    “Darlene Nugent?”
    “I think that’s her last name.”
    Which confirmed what William Proft had told me. No photo of him, though. And as I took a breath, the rest of it hit me, too.
    I looked back at the lowboy. “No perfume.”
    “Bing-o.”
    I looked at Wickmire. “That’s Darbra’s allergy?”
    “To all kinds. She nearly sued this department store, one of their cosmetics whores tried to spray some on her in an aisle once.”
    I moved to the suitcase on the bed. It had been jammed with clothes, because they rose up from both sides of the clamshell. Shorts, tops, blouses, swimsuits, underwear, all mixed together and wrinkled.
    “Did Darbra usually pack like this?”
    “Like what?”
    “All jumbled.”
    Wickmire looked at the opened suitcase and shrugged. “I don’t know. She wasn’t the world’s neatest person, and after all, she was coming back, you know?”
    “Coming back?”
    “From vacation. I mean, it’s not like she was packing to go on vacation.”
    Made some sense. I crossed back to the lowboy and opened the top drawer. Underwear, jumbled. Next drawer, shirts and blouses neatly folded. Next drawer, cotton sweaters and one wool, neatly folded. The highboy had paperwork crammed into its top drawer, bundled in rubber bands. I pulled out a couple of bundles. Bank statements and rental receipts, but even the most recent was well over a year ago.
    The next drawer had shorts and T-shirts, all jumbled. More clothes in the next three, alternatingly folded or jumbled, with the key seeming to be the more casual, the less neat.
    I opened her closet door. Dresses and blazers and skirts neat, laundry in a heap at the bottom over a few dozen pairs of shoes, also helter-skelter, and three handbags.
    I said, “Do you know how Darbra keeps her keys and money?”
    “How she keeps them?”
    “Yes. Key chain, wallet, what?”
    “She’s got a key chain, and a wallet, sure.”
    “You seen them around since she got back?”
    Wickmire’s eyes roamed the room. “No.”
    I came back to the bed. “You said you didn’t know where she was on vacation. You think the