Out of habit I started to make her bed, which had apparently been slept in, but then caught myself. Corpses aren’t known for their bed-making skills, especially after they’ve been carted off to the morgue. Hernia might not have the sharpest police department around, but they weren’t complete slouches either. At least that’s what I thought back then.
I took one last quick look around. None of my furnishings had disappeared. The cheaply framed print of “The Angelus” still hung on the wall, the Gideon Bible remained on the desk, and in the bathroom I could still see two towels. There were even two drinking glasses on the sink instead of the usual one, which was quite all right with me. Any guest who wanted to leave usable items behind was welcome to do so.
If I must say so myself, I did a superb job of replacing the tape. Only a slight wrinkle on the end of one of the strips betrayed my intrusion, and for all I know, it had already been there.
The next item on my agenda was to call the phone numbers Miss Brown had listed on her guest application. Of course, they were toll calls, but what’s a buck or two when you are about to lose your shirt—make that a blouse—to the cleaners?
I called the number listed as her residence first.
After about the fourth ring a mechanical voice, supposedly female, got on the line, told me my call could not be completed as dialed, and then proceeded to lecture me on how I should consult my phone directory in the future.
The second call, to her place of business, was slightly more satisfying. That call was answered on the second ring by a rather hearty-sounding male voice. “Jumbo Jim’s Fried Chicken and Seafood Palace,” it said. “Jim speaking.”
“Is this the workplace of Miss Heather Brown?” I asked.
“I’m sorry, but you must have a wrong number,” said Jumbo Jim. He had a very pleasant voice, sort of like the Chief s, but with just a tinge of southern twang. “Is this 410-555-3216?”
“Correcto. And what’s your number, doll?”
Of course I was taken aback. “I don’t give my number to strangers.”
Jumbo Jim laughed, but I didn’t feel he was laughing at me. “ ‘Strangers’ is a relative term, doll. Most relatives are strangers. Or at least pretty strange.”
“You’re telling me!” My double first cousin Agnes Miller married a wealthy corset manufacturer and moved not only to Philadelphia, but to the snobbiest address on the Main Line. When the bottom fell out of the corset market, Agnes had to work at the hat-check stand at the Club just to make ends meet. Her husband got work there as a busboy. Of course, both Agnes and her husband wore disguises to their jobs, and it was fourteen years before the other members discovered that Agnes, the hat-check girl, and Alfred, the busboy, were really their friends and neighbors.
“So, what’ll it be, doll?” asked Jim in that wonderful voice.
I’m easily rattled. “One of Hamlet’s soliloquies?” I asked hopefully.
Jumbo Jim laughed again. “Sorry, doll, but I sell chicken and shrimp. Did you want to place an order?”
I forced myself to stick with my program. “I’m trying to locate a Miss Heather Brown. This is the number I was given as her place of employment. Are you sure she doesn’t work there? Maybe under another name?”
“What does she look like?”
I described Heather to him. The Heather I’d met the day before, of course, not the Heather that resembled a bag of potatoes.
“Sorry, doll,” said Jim sympathetically. “I know a lot of women like that in Baltimore, but none of them works here.”
“In that case, I’m sorry I wasted your time,” I said. I knew that mine certainly had not been wasted.
“No problemo, doll. You want to go ahead and place an order anyway? Our special this week is an eight-piece bucket of chicken, extra crisp, and a dozen deep-fried shrimp, all for the low price of $12.99.”
“With or without skin?” I asked.
“With, of course. Fat’s where it’s at. Want that delivered, or are you coming in, hon, to pick it up?”
“I live in Hernia, Pennsylvania, Jim.”
“No problemo, doll. Just give me directions from Baltimore. I’m off next weekend. I’ll run it up then.”
“Just take Interstate 70 all the way up until it joins the Pennsylvania Turnpike. Go west until you get to Bedford. Then take Route 96 south. I’m at the PennDutch Inn. Everyone in Hernia knows where it is.”
“Will do, doll.” He hung up.
Of course I was just kidding, but was Jumbo Jim? I could hardly wait until the next weekend to find out. I’m very partial to chicken fried extra crisp.