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add to her electric bill. She looked around the tiny apartment which was decorated for optimum Christmas cheer in spite of its small size.
    Ellen lived in a second floor studio apartment located just outside of Fairport, about twelve miles east of Rochester. The front door opened into a small foyer facing a double closet. The closet had mirrored doors which were covered with Christmas cards. They were the same doors she'd thrown the shoes at the night before. A long crack bisected the mirror and several Christmas cards lay on the floor where they had fallen.
    To the left of the closet was the bathroom and to the right was the living area which doubled as a bedroom. At the far end of the living area was a doorway that led to the kitchen. The kitchen stood back to back with the bathroom creating a perfect square.
    Ellen hobbled to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. She needed a good stiff shot of caffeine to clear the fuzziness out of her head. Why hadn't the police called her back last night? She tried Pat's number and it just rang and rang, so she called the police to see if they'd checked on Pat. A chirpy girl answered.
    "Desk Sergeant D'Amico, can I help you?"
    "My name's Ellen Beamon. I called 911 last night about Pat Phillips and nobody ever called me back. Is she okay? What did they find? What's going on? Why didn't they call me back?" Ellen figured if they'd found something horrible they would have called Pat's parents, not Ellen. If Pat were okay, she'd have been mad enough to call Ellen herself and give her an earful. Pat Phillips was a feisty package every which way you looked at her.
    The chirpy voice interrupted her thoughts. "Please hold and I'll check for you. What was that name again?"
    "Pat. Pat Phillips."
    "And your name?"
    "Ellen Beamon."
    "Just a moment please..."
    Englebert Humperdinck's voice came on the line singing After the Lovin' . The minutes ticked by and she wondered if the desk sergeant had forgotten about her. Ellen felt a cold chill. She wasn't sure if it was fear, or the morning sun highlighting the room with a stark coldness.
    In the wintertime the sunlight made the apartment feel somehow colder, not like the cozy feeling one got in the evening with the Christmas lights twinkling cheerfully and your world limited to what you saw within your four walls. Dim light softened everything - sunlight exposed every worn thread. The chirpy voice broke into her thoughts.
    "Hello, m'am?"
    "Yes?"
    "We did check it out and you must have made a mistake. A Michael Potter lives at that address. We even checked with the landlord this morning. No Pat Phillips has ever resided there."
    "You checked 1830 Highland Ave., Apartment 3?"
    "Yes, m'am, we checked it quite thoroughly. There's no record of a Pat Phillips at that address or phone number, nor has there ever been."
    "Okay well... thank you." Ellen hung up the phone not knowing what else to say. Maybe Pat had rented the apartment under this Michael Potter's name and had something going on that Ellen didn't know about. It was unlikely that Pat would keep such a secret but there had to be an explanation. Ellen researched the phone number for herself and there was no record for a Patricia Phillips. There was, however, a listing for Michael Potter at 555-0126. Then Ellen remembered that she'd seen Pat's phone bills. The phone was listed under Pat's name! Ellen was sure of it, so why were the police claiming otherwise? They must have made a mistake.
    Ellen wondered how to get Pat on the phone. Maybe Pat would answer if her mother were to call. Ellen dialed Pat's mother, Norma. A man's voice answered. He sounded Mexican.
    "Allo?"
    "Hello. May I speak with Norma Phillips, please?"
    "Oooo?"
    "Norma Phillips."
    "You got de wrong number, lady." He hung up before she could reply.
    Ellen knew Pat's parents had a listed phone number. They were old school, growing up during the days of party lines when you shared a phone line with your neighbors. If your neighbor was on the