said, reaching for the bottle of Bordeaux.
“Nah, I’d better not,” I said. “I need to get an early start tomorrow.”
I was in my Jeep by exactly nine the next morning. As I pulled out of the garage, it struck me that this would be a good chance to swing by Blythe’s apartment. It might be smarter to surprise her with a visit than leave a bunch of messages. The building on 5th Street turned out to be a brick tenement midway down the block. The kind of place that probably held a mix of artsy types and people down on their luck, typical for the neighborhood. Blythe’s name was on the mailbox along with an apparent roommate, T. Hardwick. I rang the bell.
A female voice asked, “Who is it?” sounding both groggy and wary.
“Blythe?” I inquired.
Long pause.
“Who wants to know?”
“My name is Bailey Weggins, and I’m a friend of a friend, and something’s come up that I think she’d want to know about.”
“Blythe isn’t here.”
“Is this her roommate?”
“Yes, and I’m trying to sleep.”
“When do you expect her?”
“I don’t know. Maybe never.”
The hairs on the back of my neck shot to attention, as if they’d heard a loud bang.
“Look, is it possible for me to come up? This is a fairly urgent matter.”
There was another long pause. Finally, she announced that she would come down and I should wait in the foyer.
I was expecting another struggling actress, but the nebbishy, irritated-looking chick who pushed open the door into the vestibule was so lacking in charisma that it was pretty obvious the biggest part she’d ever played was a farm animal in a fifth-grade show. She was dressed in a pair of saggy jeans and an oversize mustard-colored T-shirt. Her blue eyes were nearly obscured by a pair of dark-framed glasses, and her hair, a reddish brown you see only on horses, was pulled back in a low ponytail under a baseball cap.
“What’s so important?” she grumbled.
“You’re T. Hardwick?” I said, smiling pleasantly.
“Terry Hardwick. What’s this about?”
“Like I said, I’m Bailey Weggins and I’m looking for Blythe.”
“You’re the one who left the phone message.”
“That’s right. It’s really important that I talk to Blythe.”
“She owe you money? Good luck getting it.”
“No, I just want to talk to her. Has she moved out?”
“That’s one way to put it,” she said scornfully. “I think the term they usually use is
skipped
out. She took off with a guy, saying they were doing a movie together. Not only does she owe me rent money, but she stole every tube of sunblock I had and this white eyelet bathing suit cover-up that cost me seventy-five bucks.”
It sounded as if I might have just solved the mystery of Tom Fain.
“Was it about a week and a half ago?” I demanded. “With someone named Tom?”
“You a girlfriend of Tom’s?” she asked, narrowing her eyes.
“No, but I’m a friend of a friend, and I’m trying to locate him. He’s missing.”
She scrunched up her mouth. “No, it wasn’t with Tom— though he was here once or twice. This new guy had a foreign-sounding name. I think she met him in Williamsburg. And they took off longer than two weeks ago—around the first of August.”
That was right around the time the cutesy Hallmark card campaign had come to an abrupt end. So she wasn’t with Tom. She had obviously cooled on him once she’d found another dude to go apeshit over.
“Do you know where they went—and if there’s any way I can reach her?”
“I don’t know
where
she is,” she answered with disgust. “She called a few weeks ago for her messages and said she was in the Miami area, but she’s such a liar, it’s hard to know. I can’t believe I ever trusted her. She’d get all teary-eyed and ask if I could pleeeeease give her just one more week on the rent because she’d just done this commercial for Burger King and would be getting a big check. Between the rent and the food and all the clothes of
“Nah, I’d better not,” I said. “I need to get an early start tomorrow.”
I was in my Jeep by exactly nine the next morning. As I pulled out of the garage, it struck me that this would be a good chance to swing by Blythe’s apartment. It might be smarter to surprise her with a visit than leave a bunch of messages. The building on 5th Street turned out to be a brick tenement midway down the block. The kind of place that probably held a mix of artsy types and people down on their luck, typical for the neighborhood. Blythe’s name was on the mailbox along with an apparent roommate, T. Hardwick. I rang the bell.
A female voice asked, “Who is it?” sounding both groggy and wary.
“Blythe?” I inquired.
Long pause.
“Who wants to know?”
“My name is Bailey Weggins, and I’m a friend of a friend, and something’s come up that I think she’d want to know about.”
“Blythe isn’t here.”
“Is this her roommate?”
“Yes, and I’m trying to sleep.”
“When do you expect her?”
“I don’t know. Maybe never.”
The hairs on the back of my neck shot to attention, as if they’d heard a loud bang.
“Look, is it possible for me to come up? This is a fairly urgent matter.”
There was another long pause. Finally, she announced that she would come down and I should wait in the foyer.
I was expecting another struggling actress, but the nebbishy, irritated-looking chick who pushed open the door into the vestibule was so lacking in charisma that it was pretty obvious the biggest part she’d ever played was a farm animal in a fifth-grade show. She was dressed in a pair of saggy jeans and an oversize mustard-colored T-shirt. Her blue eyes were nearly obscured by a pair of dark-framed glasses, and her hair, a reddish brown you see only on horses, was pulled back in a low ponytail under a baseball cap.
“What’s so important?” she grumbled.
“You’re T. Hardwick?” I said, smiling pleasantly.
“Terry Hardwick. What’s this about?”
“Like I said, I’m Bailey Weggins and I’m looking for Blythe.”
“You’re the one who left the phone message.”
“That’s right. It’s really important that I talk to Blythe.”
“She owe you money? Good luck getting it.”
“No, I just want to talk to her. Has she moved out?”
“That’s one way to put it,” she said scornfully. “I think the term they usually use is
skipped
out. She took off with a guy, saying they were doing a movie together. Not only does she owe me rent money, but she stole every tube of sunblock I had and this white eyelet bathing suit cover-up that cost me seventy-five bucks.”
It sounded as if I might have just solved the mystery of Tom Fain.
“Was it about a week and a half ago?” I demanded. “With someone named Tom?”
“You a girlfriend of Tom’s?” she asked, narrowing her eyes.
“No, but I’m a friend of a friend, and I’m trying to locate him. He’s missing.”
She scrunched up her mouth. “No, it wasn’t with Tom— though he was here once or twice. This new guy had a foreign-sounding name. I think she met him in Williamsburg. And they took off longer than two weeks ago—around the first of August.”
That was right around the time the cutesy Hallmark card campaign had come to an abrupt end. So she wasn’t with Tom. She had obviously cooled on him once she’d found another dude to go apeshit over.
“Do you know where they went—and if there’s any way I can reach her?”
“I don’t know
where
she is,” she answered with disgust. “She called a few weeks ago for her messages and said she was in the Miami area, but she’s such a liar, it’s hard to know. I can’t believe I ever trusted her. She’d get all teary-eyed and ask if I could pleeeeease give her just one more week on the rent because she’d just done this commercial for Burger King and would be getting a big check. Between the rent and the food and all the clothes of
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