Swimsuit Body by Eileen; Goudge Page B

for Vegas, and not to play the slots.
    I let myself into Arthur’s apartment, hoping I’ll find some clue about where he and Gladys went. It’s a one-bedroom unit, and the furnishings consist of a futon sofa and seventies-era coffee table, a recliner that sits opposite the forty-six-inch flat-screen TV, and a particleboard computer desk. It looks as it always does, except the suitcase that’s normally in the hall closet is gone, as is the toothbrush from the medicine cabinet. There are no travel brochures lying around, and when I check the search history on the computer, I don’t see any links to travel-related sites.
    I try my brother’s number one more time, and the call goes straight to voicemail. I leave another message, this one more pointed than the last. “Arthur. Where the hell are you? Call me, dammit.”
    Next, I dial the home number for Shondra Perkins, the director at the senior center. She picks up after three rings. “Arthur asked for some time off. He didn’t mention anything about a trip,” she says after I’ve explained why I’m calling. “But I can give you Mrs. Sedgwick’s number. I also have a number for her son. He might know something.” She puts me on hold for a minute.
    After she’s given me the numbers, I broach a more delicate topic. “You mentioned she and Arthur had become close. Did you get the impression they were … you know.”
    â€œRomantically involved?” Shondra doesn’t sound shocked. In her years of dealing with senior issues, I’m sure she’s seen it all. “No, the thought never crossed my mind. But I don’t see the harm. It would be … unusual, yes, but Mrs. Sedgwick is young for her age, and they’re both adults.”
    â€œAs long as Arthur remembers to take his meds,” I mutter.
    â€œGood luck,” she says. “Let me know when they turn up.”
    I dial Gladys’s number and leave a message asking her to call me back, then try her son. The voicemail message on his cell provides me with his home number. “Sedgwick residence. Howard speaking,” answers a deep male voice when I finally reach him. He sounds like the butler in Downton Abbey . I explain why I’m calling, but from the way he acts, you’d think I dialed the wrong number. “I don’t know anyone named Arthur. You say he’s a friend of Mother’s?”
    â€œHe gives computer lessons at the senior center. That’s how they met.”
    â€œI know about the computer course. She even bought herself a laptop of all things. My mother!” He says this as though she were a ninety-year-old who was missing some marbles and not a spry septuagenarian. “But she never mentioned anything about a new friend. You say she and your brother went away together? I’m sorry, Miss Ballard, but that’s absurd. Mother wouldn’t go on a trip without letting me or my sister know.”
    â€œWhen was the last time you spoke with her?”
    â€œJust yesterday, and she didn’t mention any travel plans. She doesn’t even own a car.” He explains that she’d gifted her Pontiac to his youngest son when she’d sold her former home and moved to Oak Knoll.
    â€œWhy don’t you see if you can reach her?” I suggest. “I didn’t have any luck.”
    â€œShe’s probably out with friends. I’ll check with her, of course, but I’m sure this is all a misunderstanding.”
    â€œBelieve me, nothing would make me happier.”
    He mutters something and hangs up.
    Fifteen minutes later, I’m talking to an irate Howard Sedgwick. When he was unable to reach his mother, he called a neighbor of hers, who reported that she’d seen Gladys leaving with her suitcase earlier in the day . “This is totally unacceptable!” Howard thunders as though my brother were entirely to blame. “We’re talking about a