Author's note: This story is written for Circle Writing Project #1 at Jixemitri.

The first time I heard the song "The Lady Down The Hall" was at a Sweet Adeline music camp. The members of an International champion quartet, Rumors, were the faculty and they sang several of their numbers at different times during the weekend. Their tenor, Charla Clare, has a voice that angels must stop to listen to, and she sings this from her heart ... and from personal experience. The song can also be found on Nancy LaMott's CD, Listen to My Heart.

Thanks to Kyrie for her encouraging words!

Usual fanfic caveats apply: not my characters and darn sure ain't no profit involved.

P.S. Misty, this one's for you.

Ruthie wasn't there when he got home off the late shift. Instead, Dan Mangan found a letter on his pillow when he tiptoed into their bedroom. Surprised, he picked the letter up and looked around for his wife.

"Ruthie? Ruthie, where are you?"

A quick check was all Dan needed to determine that Ruthie was nowhere to be found. Even someone without the skills of Detective j.g. Daniel T. Mangan could search their "efficiency" apartment top-to-bottom in less than five minutes. It only consisted of the one bedroom, plus a bath in which you could sit, shower and shave at the same time, as well as the slightly larger living area, with a little kitchenette partially hidden behind a bump-out wall.

Dan forced his racing heart to maintain calm. He and Ruthie had had another argument the night before, and he had stormed off to work, leaving her in mid-sentence. He didn't even remember what this fight had been about: probably money, again. "That doesn't mean she's left me. She wouldn't do that to me... to us. She's probably just run out to the market. But ...oh, god...what's this letter about?"

Turning the envelope over and over in his hands, Dan sank down onto the padded ledge below the single window that the living room boasted. Ruthie insisted on calling it a "window seat," despite the fact that it was barely big enough to hold their cat. Ruthie was like that.

"That's why this room is the color it is," Dan thought as he glanced around the room. His subconscious mind recognized this as a lame attempt to distract himself from the problem he didn't want to deal with.

When they moved into the apartment, Ruthie's artistic sensibilities had deemed the single window inadequate to the task of lighting up the place, and she had insisted on painting the room a bright, sunny yellow to help it out. "She even took that old Big Bird doll of hers down to the hardware store to match the paint color. I thought the guy was going to choke trying not to laugh out loud."

Dan was startled from his musings by a sudden thump next to him. "Gleeps, you scared the snot out of me," he admonished the cat. "Where's Ruthie, big guy?"

Having succeeded in getting Dan's attention, Gleeps made him no answer, but simply jumped down off the window seat and padded toward the kitchenette and his breakfast. Ruthie and Dan had rescued the big yellow tom from one of the city animal shelters. He had come by his name because he reminded them of their friend Trixie, both because of his "blonde" fur and his immense curiosity.

"Well, you're a big help," Dan called out after the cat. Giving himself a mental shake, Dan looked down at the envelope in his hands once more. "Get a grip, Mangan," he told himself. "The only way you're going to find out what's going on is to open this thing."

Dan took out his pocketknife and slit open the envelope, recognizing the "stationery" with a pang. To save money, Ruthie had bought a pad of plain white notepaper, and had calligraphed each sheet at the top with "Ruthie Kettner Mangan." Pulling the letter out, he unfolded the single sheet and began to read.

Dan swallowed once, hard. "Oh, Ruthie," he whispered past the lump in his throat. "I do love you."

"Well, you sure haven't shown it much lately," he reminded himself. "There was a time when you couldn't keep your eyes- or your hands- off of her."

Dan suddenly remembered one day, early in their marriage. They had been in bed on one of his rare Saturdays off, listening to the oldies station, cuddling and drowsing in a warm afterglow. The old Chicago song Saturday in the Park had come on the radio, and they had both had the same idea, instantly. Packing a picnic basket and a blanket, the two of them had headed off into Central Park for a day with no agenda but each other.

They passed a boy with a pogo stick, and talked the kid into letting them try it. They listened to some street musicians for a while, and sat on a park bench playing "fashion police." They fed each other lunch, then Dan took Ruthie to a sheltered hollow in the park that only the cops knew about, and they spread their blanket and made love in the shadows of the trees.

"It can be like that again, Ruthie," Dan vowed. "It WILL be! Just give me a clue where you are and I'll prove it to you."

Then it dawned on Dan. Ruthie had left the clue in the letter- "the lady down the hall!" "She must be with one of the neighbors," Dan mused. "But which one?" Many of the apartments in the building were rent-controlled, and there were several widow ladies on their hall who had lived there for years. Dan turned back to the letter. Sure enough, Ruthie had left him the clues he needed.

"I'm not going anywhere, Ruthie," Dan promised. "And I'm going to bring you home right now." He knew exactly where she was now. Because of his schedule, Dan hadn't made the acquaintance of many of the people in the building, but, being a cop, he had automatically noted names and faces. "Pink fuzzy slippers and a Yankees hat can only be Mrs. Grady in 518."

Dan dropped the letter on the floor, flung the door open and dashed down the hall without even reading the rest of Ruthie's message. Curious about this odd behavior, Gleeps crossed the carpet and nosed the letter into a satisfactory position, then settled himself directly on top of it, obscuring the last four lines: