Before I left Blaine’s palace, he dredged up a photo of Melissa. It was her high school senior photo, so she might have dyed her hair or who-knows-what in the five years since she graduated. In the photo, her mousy-brown locks were brushed back from a perfect oval face that featured full lips and her father’s green eyes.
Blaine also gave me copies of articles about B & K Developers, including one with a full-color photo of Blaine and Slava Kandinsky sitting side-by-side. Kandinsky had longer legs, knees sticking out at awkward angles compared to his shorter partner’s. He had a swarthy complexion and eyes that gleamed like wet tar.
I left the house and crossed a driveway that led to a three-car garage, slipped into my blue Fiesta, and fired it up. I lowered the windows to let in the warm, early September breeze. Then I drove to the local library, took my file and laptop inside, and started to put my thoughts on paper while they were still fresh.
When I start a case, I like to create a flowchart. In this case, I had to find two people who may or may not have known each other. So I turned to a blank page in my notebook. Yes, I use paper and pencil for this stuff. I refuse to go all digital.
I penciled in the name “Melissa Anne Blaine” on the right side, making an oval around it. Under her name, I wrote “MICA”, the acronym for the art school, pronounced “mike-ah.” On the left, I wrote “Slava Kandinsky” and drew a rectangle around that, then added the few additional names I’d squeezed out of Blaine. I put my client’s name at the top of the page and underlined it, then drew arrows between that and each of the others, noting the relationships along the lines.
With the preliminaries out of the way, I turned on the laptop and scoped out Melissa’s last-known address and social media presence. Nothing. Not finding her on Facebook wasn’t surprising, since teens and young adults are apparently fleeing the site. However, Melissa’s friend Katie Saunders was there and was identified as a graduate of Damascus High School. I next turned to Instagram—the logical place for a young artist. And Pinterest. But there was no sign of Melissa on either one.
I needed to delve deeper by using a subscription database—one of the few I can afford. I avoid using those outside my home, because I’m concerned about wi-fi security (or lack thereof). The downside is that some of these databases are often weeks or months out of date. I would have to rely on my threadbare people skills to gather the most recent intel. I set my sights on Katie Saunders first.
I looked online for all the Saunders listed in the Damascus, Maryland, area. There were only five—Damascus isn’t exactly a huge metropolis. After jotting down the numbers and addresses, I left the library, returned to my car, and dug my cell phone out of my shoulder bag.
I punched in the first number, and someone of indeterminate gender rasped a greeting.
“Hi,” I said. “Is Katie there?”
“Who? Kaley?”
“No. Katie.”
“Either way, you’ve got the wrong number.” I heard a click, and that was that.
I kept going and hit pay dirt on the fourth try. A woman who sounded like someone’s grandmother answered. When I asked for Katie, she said, “She’s away at college, dear.”
“Would you mind if I got her number, ma’am?” I chirped. “I’m putting together a contact list for the next high school reunion.” I figured the lie would protect Stuart Blaine.
“Well, I don’t know . . . I’ll need to ask her mother.”
“Is she there?” I pressed. “Can I talk to her?”
“She’s out, but she should be back soon.”
“How about if I check back in half an hour?”
“She might be back by then, although you may want to wait an hour, just to be sure.”
“Awesome,” I gushed. We exchanged brief farewells and hung up.
I had no intention of calling in an hour; I would go to the house instead.
I started the car and headed toward a shopping center I had noticed on the way to see Blaine. There was just enough time to grab a sandwich from the deli before stopping by the Saunders’ house.
I bought a Reuben on pumpernickel, which I wolfed down while I scanned my notes and planned my general strategy. I would need to visit the art school, of course, and I could swing by the coffee shop while I was there. And as for Mr. Kandinsky, I would deal with him in good time.
As I ate and reviewed notes, I stayed alert as always to my surroundings. Not that I expected anyone to attack me here, but old habits die hard. Fortunately, this wasn’t the bar where some drunk had tried to feel me up. I hadn’t expected that, either. And he hadn’t anticipated my fist connecting with his nose. Good thing I hadn’t connected squarely. I could have smashed his nose right into his brain.
That kind of behavior lands you in court. Which leads to court-ordered anger management therapy. Which extends into talk therapy, ad infinitum. So many words, so little progress.
I finished eating, did the minimal amount of cleanup expected of good citizens, and left.
Katie Saunders’ house was tucked behind a stand of trees at the end of a long driveway. The architect must have been a fan of Frank Lloyd Wright’s late period work. The house had a post-post-modern design—all sharp angles and big windows. The property slanted downhill in back, and a porch surrounded the house, cantilevered over the hill by large beams. The driveway ended in a circle, making it easy to turn around. How considerate.
The sound of birds singing floated up from the woods behind the house. I left the car next to a bed of yellow and orange marigolds and walked up to the front door. After I rang the doorbell, I could hear a set of chimes echoing faintly from somewhere inside.
The door was opened by a woman who looked too young to be the mother of a college student. She was wearing khaki shorts, an oversized green polo shirt, and glasses with blue rectangular frames. Her blonde hair was tied back into a low short ponytail, and her cheekbones were high and sculpted.
“Our housekeeper says you’re looking for Katie?” she said, before I could get a word out.
“Yes, ma’am. I’m Erica Jensen.” I extended my hand, but the woman didn’t shake it.
“And why do you need to talk to her?” Her face was expressionless, but her voice had an edge.
“I’m with the reunion committee. We’re updating our contact list. Are you Katie’s mother?”
The woman’s eyes widened. “Good god, no! I’m her older sister. Mom asked me to take care of this.” She flapped a hand, as if drying her nails.
“Look,” I said, adopting an easygoing tone. “I just want to be able to reach Katie, when we start planning the big reunion.”
“Well.” The word hung between us. She scrutinized me for a long moment. “Which high school did you say this was for?”
“Damascus,” I said. Good thing I had checked Facebook. “I didn’t catch your name.”
She crossed her arms, as if to hold the information to her bosom. “I didn’t pitch it. So, why do you really need to reach Katie?”
This was going downhill fast. I could either come clean or punch this woman in the face, which wouldn’t help my cause.
“Why do you ask that?” I said.
The woman smirked. “You could find that information easily if you were really on the reunion committee.”
This game was already getting tiresome. “Look,” I said. “My name is Erica Jensen and I’m looking for Melissa Blaine. She’s missing and may be in trouble.” Okay, that was pushing things. But my intentions were good. “I understand she and Katie were friends, and I was hoping Katie could help me find her.”
I fished out my business card with my name, contact information, and the words “Research Service” underneath.
She glanced at the card. “Research service. Is that what they’re calling private eyes these days?”
“I don’t normally handle missing persons cases.” My patience was running thin. “Can you help me or not?”
“Sorry, but no.” She tucked the card in her pocket. At least she hadn’t thrown it in my face.
As she closed the door, I said, “Is there a reason you won’t help me find Melissa?”
In response, she simply smiled. Then, the door thudded shut.