While My Pretty One Sleeps by Mary Higgins Clark

move a shoulder, droop a lip, change her posture and literally become someone else. She had an excellent ear for accents and could range her voice from a Butterfly McQueen high pitch to a Lauren Bacall throaty drawl. She shared a studio apartment in Schwab House with another aspiring actress and filled out her family’s grudgingly small allowance with odd jobs. She’d given up waitressing and dog-walking in favor of cleaning. “Fifty bucks for four hours and you don’t have to drag along a pooper-scooper,” as she’d explained to Neeve.
    Neeve had suggested Tse-Tse to Ethel Lambston, and she knew Tse-Tse cleaned for Ethel several times a month. Now she regarded her as a messenger from heaven. As the cab arrived, she explained her dilemma.
    â€œI’m supposed to go there tomorrow,” Tse-Tse explained breathlessly. “Honest to God, Neeve, that place is enough to drive me back to walking pit bulls. No matter how tidy I leave it, the next time it’s always in shambles.”
    â€œI’ve seen it.” Neeve considered. “Look, if Ethel doesn’t pick up this stuff today, I’ll take you there in a cab tomorrow morning and leave everything in her closet. You have a key, I guess.”
    â€œShe gave me one about six months ago. Let me know. See you.” Tse-Tse blew Neeve a kiss and started jogging down the street, a flamingo with her permed golden hair, her crazy makeup, her bright purple wooly jacket, red tights and yellow sneakers.
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    At the shop, Betty helped Neeve again hang Ethel’s purchases on the Will Call rack in the sewing room. “This has gone beyond Ethel’s rattlebrain behavior,” she said quietly, a worried frown creasing the permanent furrows in her forehead. “Do you think she’s been in an accident? Maybe we should report her missing.”
    Neeve piled the accessory boxes next to the rack. “I can ask Myles to check about accident reports,” she said, “but it’s too soon to report her missing.”
    Betty grinned suddenly. “Maybe she’s found a boyfriend at last and is off somewhere on an ecstatic weekend.”
    Neeve glanced through the open door onto the sales floor. The first customer had arrived, and a new saleswoman was showing her gowns that were absolutely unsuitable for her. Neeve bit her lip. She knew she had something of Renata’s fiery temperament and had to watch her tongue. “For Ethel’s sake, I hope so,” she commented, then with a welcoming smile went over to the customer and the saleswoman. “Marian, why don’t you bring the green chiffon Della Rosa gown?” she suggested.
    It was a briskly busy morning. The receptionist kept trying Ethel’s number. The last time she reported no response, Neeve had the fleeting thought that if Ethel had met a man and ended up eloping, no one would cheer louder than Ethel’s former husband, who after twenty-two years was still sending alimony checks every month.
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    Monday was Denny Adler’s day off. He had planned to spend it following Neeve Kearny, but on Sunday evening there was a call for him at the public phone in the hallway of the rooming house.
    The manager of the deli told Denny he’d have to come in to work the next day. The counterman had been fired. “I was figuring out the books and the sonofabitch had his hand in the till. I need you.”
    Denny swore silently. But it would be stupid to refuse. “I’ll be there,” he said sullenly. As he hung up, he thought of Neeve Kearny, the smile she’d given him the day before when he delivered lunch, the way that coal-black hair framed her face, the way her breasts filled out the fancy sweater she’d been wearing. Big Charley said that she went to Seventh Avenue on Monday afternoons. That meant there’d be no point trying to catch up with her after