As a Favor by Susan Dunlap

Yes.” She rolled the words around on her tongue as if tasting the possibilities they held. Her whole expression showed more intrigue than worry. “We can talk here for a few minutes while I wait for Mrs.…for the client. Confidentiality, you know.”
    I opened my pad, wondering what Fern Day thought I might do with this valuable client’s name. And if the woman arrived while I was here, would she enter in disguise? “Where is Anne’s family?”
    “She never mentioned any. She’s not the family type.”
    “What was her full name?”
    “Her middle name was a last name—Martin? Marvin? Something like that. I know it began with M because she had a purse with her initials on it.”
    “And a dress?”
    “Yes. She wore it Monday. Why do you ask?”
    “Would you recognize it again?”
    Without hesitation Fern said, “Yes. I have a good visual sense. I am an artist’s wife.”
    I arranged for her to stop by the station and have a look at the bundle of clothes found by the Bay. Taking out my notepad, I asked, “Who are Anne’s friends?”
    “Besides the men here?”
    “Not excluding them. Was she particularly close to someone here?”
    “I think she knew Alec Effield, our supervisor, before she started here, and of course she did train Nat Smith. He’s a graduate student, been here only about a year.” Fern looked at the name on my pocket. I asked quickly, “Who did she see outside of work?”
    I could almost see the speculations lining up behind her eyebrows. “I’m afraid I don’t know. Anne doesn’t tell me about her private life.”
    I asked about Anne’s enemies, but seemingly the informational blackout had been total. “Can you think of any reason she would have left so suddenly?”
    Fern’s finger went to her mouth. It was a tapered finger on a long graceful hand, a hand that looked as if it were on the wrong body. “No, I can’t. Poor Alec’s just been swamped, trying to take care of her cases. It was so inconsiderate of Anne. But then Anne’s not really a thoughtful person.”
    “She’s been inconsiderate?”
    “I wouldn’t want to say that.” She paused. “Don’t think that I don’t like Anne; it’s just that she’s, well, rather immature in some areas.” Fern leaned forward. “Anne hasn’t really learned to care about other people. It’s not that she dislikes people as much as that she’s oblivious to their needs. It doesn’t occur to her to put herself out.” She sighed. “Anne would never see a client at lunch.”
    “Didn’t Anne get on with her clients, then?”
    Fern bit the finger. “I didn’t say that.”
    I waited while Fern went through a string of circumlocutions to arrive at the conclusion that there was no reason Anne’s clients should have liked her but no proof to the contrary. “Of course,” she said, “Anne has more variety in her caseload—some families, a lot of single adults, and a number of clients who have part-time jobs—they’re street artists on Telegraph, waitresses, or such.”
    Glancing at the cluttered green desks, I asked, “Which is Anne’s?”
    “None of these. Anne’s desk is in the back.”
    I stood up. Following my example, Fern raised herself and led me through the kitchen—now converted to a one-desk office—to what had been a laundry room.
    “Anne’s,” she said.
    The regulation metal desk stood where the big sinks had been. The room was small, dingy, and cold. Despite the desk and chair, it still looked like a laundry room. I wondered what Alec Effield had had against Anne to assign her to this place.
    I was about to ask when a woman’s voice called, “Mrs. Day?”
    Fern turned.
    Taking advantage of her need to rush, I said, “Where were you Monday evening?”
    “That’s a strange question,” she said, looking toward the door. “I thought Anne was missing.”
    “Missing can cover a lot of ground.”
    “You mean it could be more serious?”
    I nodded.
    “She could be…” There was a long pause as if Fern