The Fan Letter by Nancy Temple Rodrigue Page B

us.” She shook her head as if to rid it of the thought and started for the stairs leading up to her apartment.
    “Say,” Wayne called, stopping her. As she reluctantly turned back, he indicated inside his apartment with his head. “I have enough Chinese food in there to choke a horse. I didn't know how generous the chefs are here. I have egg fu yong.”
    “Appealing as you make it, no, thank you,” as she started up the stairs.
    “There's plenty.”
    “Then it looks like you'll be having egg fu breakfast,” she called back without turning. She let out a silent breath of air when she heard his chuckle and the door close. “I don't need this now,” she muttered as her own door closed and was quietly locked.
    T en-fifteen a.m. Thursday. Most of the residents of the Brighton Apartments had left for work or had gone out for the day. The gardeners were busy at another section and it was the manager's day off. Wayne Fields had left his apartment at nine-thirty dressed in a dark suit and hat. At ten, he had returned to the complex, parked in the visitor's section in the back, and left the jacket and hat in the car. Under the slacks that he removed was a pair of tennis shorts. The loafers were switched with athletic shoes and a white visor was pulled low over his eyes. Grabbing up a gym bag, he walked unhurriedly past his own door and up the stairs. Using a pick, he entered Leslie's apartment and noiselessly closed the door.
    Pausing just inside the door, Wayne set down the gym bag and looked around her living room. He was using different eyes, as it were, than he had used the first time he had broken in. Now he looked for evidence of the two distinct personalities of which he had gotten glimpses. The quiet, almost shy individual was most prominently displayed. Her rooms carried the same Victorian atmosphere as the boutique in which she worked, only not as plush and expensive. The off-white sofa and loveseat had tapestry borders that were highlighted by floral throw pillows. The dark accent tables were cluttered with filigree picture frames, cut-glass vases, porcelain flowers, dried arrangements and crocheted white doilies. The pictures on the walls were inexpensive oils of landscapes and flowers. The largest picture over the sofa was a copy of a pastel garden party done by one of the more-popular Impressionists.
    Her one bedroom was more of the same. The queen-sized brass bed was covered with a floral comforter and had lacy pastel pillows at the head. Two old-fashioned prismed chimney lamps hung from the ceiling and were poised over the nightstands. Intricate glass perfume bottles, a gold satin jewelry box, more doilies, stuffed animals, and a Venetian glass cockatoo sculpture were on the top of a triple dresser. The French cradle phone, clock radio, and a small television set seemed out of place in this feminine, old-fashioned setting.
    It was in the shadowbox and in the collage picture frames that one began to see another side of Leslie. Here the whimsy was evident, the humor. The shadowbox, at first glance, continued the feminine ambiance. But a more careful scrutiny caused one to see items that didn't seem to belong. A large silver sheriff's badge, a brass sailing ship, a wind-up kangaroo that did flips, and a “Time Police” badge all fit neatly into the wooden spaces but didn't exactly blend in with the miniature white ducks, Tiffany-style lamp, small antique music boxes trimmed in gold, and porcelain thimbles.
    On one of the walls he noticed two picture frames that held a total of thirty-five snapshots. They appeared to be of family and friends and vacations. But, mixed in were pictures of a popular singer in concert, the cast members of “The Time Police,” and a close-up of Phillip Beck in costume. What made Wayne stop and reconsider was that these were not pictures cut out of magazines. They were not publicity photos signed at conventions—they were taken by a personal camera. Since the quality of the