Free Nowhere to Hide by Joan Hall Hovey Page B

who fits that picture? Some particular incident that maybe bothered her? Strange letters?"
    "No. Nothing that comes to mind, anyway." Sandi had taken the last dress from the closet, laid it across the top of the overflowing heap of clothes, and was now trying to force the suitcase shut. Ellen leaned her weight on the top, while Sandi managed to zip it around. "Thanks."
    "You need some help with these?"
    "No, thanks anyway. I didn’t bring my car. I’ll call a cab." She was about to pick up the receiver when she turned, frowning slightly. "You know, there was something."
    "What?"
    "A phone call. She got this weird call."
    "Weird how, Sandi?"
    "Well, someone who just whispered, ‘ Do you know me?’ You know—the name of Gail’s new song."
    "Yes. What else did he say?"
    "That’s just it. Gail wasn’t even sure it was a he. It’s hard to tell from a whisper, I guess. Anyway, whoever it was didn’t say anything else. Just ‘Do you know me?’ Then they hung up. Gail didn’t freak or anything, but I remember she got kind of quiet."
    "When was this?"
    "Around one in the morning. Maybe a little before. Gail hadn’t been home from work very long. It was just a few nights before—" She bit down on her lower lip as she glanced at the now boarded-up window. "She was a good friend to me, always boosting me up when things weren’t happening for me just the way I thought they should. Nothing ever got her down for long. She was one of the most positive people I’ve ever known."
    "Do many people have this number, Sandi?" Ellen asked, thinking, as she had the first time she saw her, how lovely she was. It was hard to imagine modeling agencies not clamoring for her services.
    "No, not really. Just those people we needed to have it, people important to our careers. Agents, publicity people and the like. And our families, of course. The number’s unlisted."
    "I don’t suppose you considered having it changed."
    She looked surprised at the question. "No. Not for one phone call. It wasn’t like we were being harassed or anything."
    "Did you report the call to the police?"
    "No. I didn’t think of it again. Not until now. I don’t think Gail did either. Just some creep with nothing better to do."
    "It doesn’t sound like a random call, though, does it? Not just someone punching out numbers. He knew who she was. He knew the name of her song."
    Sandi said nothing. She’d gone very pale.
    "Sandi, do you have Doug Neal’s address?" Ellen asked.
    She blinked as if she’d gone into a momentary trance. "The police took Gail’s address book, but, yes, I have Doug’s address. His phone number, too, if you want it. Surely you don’t think—"
    "I don’t think anything at this point," Ellen said. "I’d just like to talk to him, that’s all."
    When Sandi was gone, Ellen walked down the hall and knocked on Mrs. Bloom’s door. It opened almost at once as if the landlady had been waiting for her. Though Ellen had never met Mrs. Bloom, she seemed to know who Ellen was.
    "Come in, dear. I’ve made a nice pot of tea. This must be so terrible for you. Do the police know anything yet? Have they found the man who did it?"
    They talked over tea. Mrs. Bloom’s apartment was cluttered with knickknacks, dusty potted plants. Yellowing lace doilies lay limply over the arms and backs of stuffed, sagging chairs. A grandfather clock stood in the corner by the window facing the street, ticking loudly, pendulum swinging. Except for the small television set at the opposite corner of the room, Ellen got the impression that the place had been decorated in the forties, and remained frozen in time. The air in the room smelled faintly of mold and cat pee, evidenced by the yellow tabby eyeing Ellen warily from one of the chairs, and another, this one smaller and black, curled up asleep on the window-sill.
    "You can see I’m a cat person," Mrs. Bloom said, smiling, bending with some difficulty to pick up the orange striped cat that had padded into the