Free While My Pretty One Sleeps by Mary Higgins Clark

his arm, his hair brushed into a thick, wavy coiffure, he looked sullenly attractive. He seemed surprised and not pleased that Neeve was still there.
    â€œI thought you were so busy,” he told her. “Are you planning to help clean?”
    Neeve’s lips narrowed ominously. “I’m planning to hang these clothes in your aunt’s closet, so she’ll be able to put her hands on them when she needs them, and then I intend to leave.” She tossed her card at him. “You will let me know if you hear from her. I, for one, am getting concerned.”
    Douglas Brown glanced at the card and pocketed it. “I don’t see why. In the two years I’ve lived in New York, she’s pulled the disappearing act at least three times and usually managed tokeep me cooling my heels in a restaurant or this place. I’m beginning to think she’s certifiably nuts.”
    â€œAre you planning to stay until she returns?”
    â€œI don’t see that is any of your business, Miss Kearny, but probably yes.”
    â€œDo you have a card where I can reach you during business hours?” Neeve felt her temper rising.
    â€œUnfortunately, at the Cosmic Oil Building, they don’t have cards made for receptionists. You see, like my dear aunt, I’m a writer. Unfortunately, unlike her, I have not yet been discovered by the publishing world, so I keep body and soul together by sitting at a desk in Cosmic’s lobby and confirming the appointments of visitors. It’s not the job for a mental giant, but then Herman Melville worked as a clerk on Ellis Island, I believe.”
    â€œDo you consider yourself a Herman Melville?” Neeve did not try to conceal the sarcasm in her voice.
    â€œNo. I write a different sort of book. My latest is called The Spiritual Life of Hugh Hefner . So far no editor has seen the joke in it.”
    He was gone. Neeve and Tse-Tse looked at each other. “What a creep,” Tse-Tse said. “And to think he’s poor Ethel’s only relative.”
    Neeve searched her memory. “I don’t think she ever mentioned him to me.”
    â€œTwo weeks ago when I was here, she was on the phone with him and real upset. Ethel squirrels money around the apartment, and she thought some of it was missing. She practically accused him of stealing it.”
    The dusty, crowded apartment suddenly made Neeve feel claustrophobic. She wanted out of this place. “Let’s get these clothes put away.”
    If Douglas Brown had slept on the couch the first night, it was clear he had been using Ethel’s bedroom since then. There was an ashtray full of cigarettes on the night table. Ethel didn’t smoke. The antique-white provincial furniture was, like everything else in the apartment, expensive but lost in clutter. Perfumes and a tarnished silver brush, comb and mirror set were scattered on the dresser. Ethel had notes to herself jammed into the large gold-framed mirror. Several men’s suits, sports jackets and slacks were draped over a rose damask chaise longue. A man’s suitcase was on the floor, shoved under the chaise.
    â€œEven he didn’t have the nerve to disturb Ethel’s closet,” Neeve observed. The back wall of the fairly large bedroom consisted of an elaborate closet that ran the length of the room. Four years ago when Ethel first asked Neeve to go through her closet, Neeve had told her that it was no wonder she never could put any outfits together. She needed more space. Three weeks later Ethel had invited Neeve back. She had led her to the bedroom and proudly displayed her new acquisition, a custom-built closet that had cost her ten thousand dollars. It had short poles for blouses, high poles for evening gowns. It was sectioned off so that coats hung in one area, suits in another, daytime dresses in another. There were shelves for sweaters and purses; racks for shoes; a jewelry unit with brass extensions shaped like