Cut to the Chase. Joan Boswell

would be an answering machine. No such luck.

      He hadn’t called Candace that Sunday evening. It had been his regular time to call, but he hadn’t done so. He’d been home Sunday afternoon, gone out and not returned.

      She booted up her computer, typed Canada 411 and found that the number he had called was “unlisted”. Another dead end.

      On the Friday there had been a call to the nightclub where he worked and a second one that she dialed. A lilting woman’s voice told her she’d reached the correct number, asked her to leave a message then wished her a happy day.

      “My name is Hollis Grant. I’m trying to locate Danson Lafleur. Please call me.”

      The other three calls connected to answering machines. She left the same message on each one.

      Discouraged didn’t begin to describe how she felt.

      Seven

      "Hi Howis, waffles,” Elizabeth said and launched herself at MacTee.

      “Anything on his computer?” Candace asked.

      “I went through his recent phone messages first and didn’t get any leads. As for his computer, he saved many messages, which is a good thing, but none have provided clues about his whereabouts.”

      In the kitchen Candace placed the ingredients to build combinations to order on the counter. Elizabeth, given the opportunity to choose, surveyed the plates and bowls.

      “Strawberries, bananas, finger puppets, yoghurt,” she said.

      “Finger puppets?” Hollis asked.

      “That’s her name for raspberries, because she can put them on her fingers,” Candace explained. She spoke to Elizabeth. “You forgot the magic word.”

      “Please,” Elizabeth said, and they smiled at one another.

      Plates loaded, they ate in silence for a few minutes.

      Hollis rose, plucked the coffee pot from the machine and refilled their coffee mugs. “I’m curious about Gregory, the invisible tenant without a surname. You haven’t remembered what it is, have you?”

      “No. Danson told me a Montreal friend gave his name to Gregory. That’s not much help, is it?”

      “I figured out that much from the e-mails. The friend’s name was George Rostov. Does that mean anything?”

      “I met George once or twice. He and Danson lived in the same student housing their first year at Concordia.”

      “I’ve downloaded his address book, and I’m contacting every name to see if anyone knows where he is. I’ll also ask George about Gregory.”

      “Should I be doing this?”

      “You could, but since I have the names and addresses, it’s easier if I do.”

      Hollis, acknowledging the size of the task, had reluctantly relinquished her plan for a Centre Island visit. “When I return the computer late this afternoon, I plan to talk to the other tenants. Since it’s Sunday, they may be home. I’ll see if either one has any idea where he might have gone or can report anything unusual.”

      “There must be something I can do,” Candace said as she collected the dishes and opened the dishwasher.