SIX

(Day #4: Tuesday Afternoon)

Just because everyone thought Daphne drove to Sedona, didn’t mean she did. According to Alex, she often flew to Nashville. Perhaps in wanting to get out of town quick, she flew to Arizona. Or Tahiti or Canada or anywhere but here.

Sea Pine’s airport was located down the road from Oyster Cove Plantation. Like everything else on the island, its relaxed vibe lent an air of vacation even when traveling for business. One waited for arriving flights on white Adirondack rockers inside an unhurried terminal. A counter with a handful of check-in stations to the right, a single security lane in the center, and a baggage claim area to the left, it no bigger than a living room.

The secured parking lot was unattended. An automated machine spit out a ticket. Once retrieved, the barrier arm lifted and I drove along the drive to the main surface lot. A treed lane divided two public sections, long-term and short-term, each with six rows of spaces. Covered in leafy oaks and tall pines, it would be difficult to see any of the parked cars from a Google satellite map.

I weaved the Mini around cars and planters, circling each aisle. Having the top down made it seem as if I was just passing the time, cruising along with nothing but a seaside breeze on my mind.

With so few cars to inspect, it didn’t take but ten minutes to spot Daphne’s Camry in the second to last row. I double-checked the license plate against the flyer, then found my own parking spot in short-term near the airport entrance.

The recognizable sound of plane engines roared overhead as a jet lowered itself over the ocean and onto the airstrip behind the main building. Several people idly rocked along the window while security personnel unlocked the doors to the ticketed area.

“Excuse me,” I said, approaching one of the security agents. “May I speak to someone about your parking surveillance?”

“You can report damages or lost and found articles to any airline agent,” she replied. “Up at the main counter or at the gate.”

“Thank you, but I’m here regarding a missing person.” I showed her my credentials. A PI permit with the Sea Pine Police seal on one side of a leather bifold and my Ballantyne business card and driver’s license on the other. A quick flash was usually all that was necessary. Quick enough not to read the words “permit” and “training” in red print.

She eyeballed me to the point I figured she’d read the small print, but then told me where to find her supervisor.

I heard her click the mic attached to her shoulder radio and announce me as I walked along a hallway near the secured gate area exit. I passed the vending machines, restrooms, three unmarked doors, one door marked Department of Homeland Security, and finally reached the last on the left. A simple brass plate was screwed to the front with “security” spelled out in block letters. A man answered my knock, his hair long gone, though mostly due to a razor, and his skin tanned from a lifetime of summers in the sun.

“Yes, ma’am?” he said. “I’m Sergeant Whistler.”

“I’m Elliott Lisbon with the Ballantyne Foundation,” I said. “Can we talk inside your office?”

He stepped aside and indicated a worn chair across from his equally worn desk. “How can I help you, Ms. Lisbon? Officer Yates mentioned a missing person?”

“Yes, Daphne Fischer, from Summerton. Her car is parked in your lot.”

He sat up straighter, reaching for his phone. “You sure?”

“It’s the silver Camry in the fifth row of long-term. A ‘There’s No Planet B’ sticker on her bumper.” I pulled a folded flyer from my messenger and placed it on the desk in front of him.

“Bring in the bulletin on that missing girl out of Summerton,” he said into the handset, then replaced the receiver. “Sheriff’s bulletin didn’t say she’d be at the airport. Said something about state highways.”

“Yeah, I think the general consensus has been that she likely left town, but by car. That she drove to Sedona.”

“But her car’s here,” he said. “Well, I’ll be dipped.”

“Can we look at the security footage? She probably arrived Saturday night. After eleven, maybe.”

He hesitated, no doubt considering how much to share with me, a civilian.

“I’m not sure if you’re familiar with the Ballantynes—”

“Course I know Ed and Vivi,” he interrupted. “Their jet is parked here most days. And you can see their Big House ’bout the same time you see the runway overhead. And I know you. Seen you in their Rolls more than a few times.”

“I’m the Foundation Director. Tod Hayes and I usually pick them up. I’m also a consultant with the Sea Pine Island Police under Captain Sullivan.” A slight embellishment, but I held his gaze, letting my confidence win the upper hand in his internal battle.

“I guess I need to look at it anyway,” he finally said. “Can’t hurt to have you in the room. As long as you stay out of the way.”

We used a side door from his office I hadn’t noticed earlier and entered a compact command center. A large oval table with six chairs and three phones overlooked a wide wall with video screens. Just below them was a long metal desk with keyboard/mouse combinations every few feet. Two officers wearing uniforms and handguns watched the video screens as various images blinked and shifted.

Sergeant Whistler spoke to the man sitting closest. “Bring up the feed from Saturday night. Give us three views of parking: Long-term, ticket booth, front entrance.” He turned to me. “You said before midnight, right?”

“Yes, most likely,” I said. “Her cell phone pinged on the island, or nearby, right before eleven. Turned off about an hour later. It’s a silver Camry.”

“Last flights of the day already landed by that time,” he said. “Nothing departing.”

Took three minutes to get the feeds up on the screens and another five to locate the proper timeframe for each. The sergeant made calls while I watched streaming video race by.

The quality was outstanding. Not the grainy footage one saw when watching reality crime shows replaying liquor store robbery films. This was state-of-the-art. Crisp, high-def digital material, and in color.

It was late night. Tall high-pressure sodium lights cast shadows against the wide leafy branches spread throughout the lot. Like the sergeant said, because of the late hour, the last flight had already landed. Its crew and the airport’s staff, along with two remaining passengers, straggled from the building entrance to various parked cars. The officer manning the video sped through the images, stopping when oncoming headlights entered the frame.

Daphne’s Camry stopped at the ticket booth at 23:37, according to the timestamp. Almost midnight. An arm reached out the driver’s side window, pulled the ticket from the dispenser. The security arm lifted. Switching screens, I watched as the Camry circled, then slid into a space next to a planter, where it was still parked. The car’s front end was partially obscured by low-hanging branches and billowing Spanish moss. Strategic parking choice or happenstance?

A figure wearing a hoodie ducked from the driver’s side and jogged away—from the lot and from the camera. No other cars entered or exited. The leaves rustled and the shadows danced in the quiet night.

The officer repeatedly replayed the footage on a loop.

“I can’t tell who it is,” I said. “It’s dark and there are a million trees.”

The officer’s fingers flew along the keyboard. “I’ll grab stills. Might help with traffic cams.”

“I’ll call Sheriff Hill,” I said.

“Already did,” Sergeant Whistler said, heading for the door. “Probably arriving about now. We’ll go meet him.”

“Thank you,” I said.

We left the command center, quickly making time to the sliding exit doors in the terminal near baggage claim. We stepped into the warm sunlight. It was early afternoon as we continued walking through the lot to the second to last row.

By the time we arrived, three police black and whites were approaching the barrier arm at the parking lot entrance. It lifted automatically. Close behind them, as if in a processional, I recognized cars. Juliette’s, Millie Poppy’s, several from the search party at the Cake & Shake.

“Clarence,” Sheriff Hill said, his hand extended to the sergeant.

“Will,” he said in return. “Thanks for getting here so quick.”

“I’d checked every flight departing through Sea Pine, Savannah, hell, even Charleston and Jacksonville. She wasn’t booked on a single one.”

“Makes sense,” I said. “Because whoever drove this car here, left it and jogged away.”

“That so?” Sheriff Hill said.

“We watched the footage,” Sergeant Whistler said. “Got some stills we’re printing. I’ll email ’em to you, too.”

“Footage of what?” Zanna said. “Oh my God, that’s her car.” She stopped as if her soles had been superglued to the asphalt. She seemed to be experiencing the second half of fight or flight. Freeze or faint.

“What’s happening?” Juliette said, running up quick to grab my arm. “Is she here? What did you find?”

Tucker, Alex, Millie Poppy, and Sam jogged up behind them. Zanna stood firm, refusing to come closer.

Tucker reached for the driver’s door. He’d nearly touched the handle before an officer stopped him. He whipped his hand back. “What are you doing? Open the door.”

Juliette peered inside the passenger window. An officer approached her. “I’m not touching, just looking. It’s locked. That’s good, right? I have keys.”

“You have her keys?” Tucker asked.

“Ma’am, how is it you possess her car keys?” Sheriff Hill said.

“I mean, her spare key, obviously,” Juliette said. “We swapped, like, forever ago. But I’ve kept it on me since Sunday. In case she calls. You know, from the side of the road with a flat.”

“May I have the key?” Sheriff Hill asked.

Juliette handed it to him, and Zanna found her voice along with her feet. She marched over to the passenger side. “You better hand me that key,” she said. “I’ll know if something’s missing. I’m her mother.”

“You can’t know what’s missing,” Juliette said. “You haven’t been in her car in, well, ever? I mean, you never come down here.”

“Doesn’t mean I won’t know something when I see it.”

“Well, I can see inside, Zanna,” Juliette said. “There’s nothing in there, so back off already. We’ll handle this.”

Sheriff Hill kept the key in his hand and spoke calmly. “Law enforcement will be the only ones inspecting the car. We’ll need full access, and it’s best if you all wait on the walkway up near the entrance.”

I noticed two officers standing at the ready near the trunk. Sheriff Hill didn’t want to inspect the car as much he needed to check the trunk.

“I’m not leaving,” Zanna said.

“No one’s leaving,” Juliette said. “Look, wait, there,” she pointed to a small dent near the rear bumper. An officer semi-blocked her from getting closer. “Open the trunk,” she said. Her voice shook slightly as her face paled.

Zanna seemed to realize what the Sheriff was really waiting for. “You think she’s in the trunk? Oh my word.” She stepped backward onto Sam’s foot and nearly stumbled over.

“Sweetie,” Millie Poppy said. “Let’s go on up and sit in a rocker. These gentlemen need to handle this.”

“If my daughter is here, then I need to be, too,” Zanna said.

“Me, too,” Juliette said. “We can’t abandon her.”

“Zanna, Juliette,” I said. “Millie Poppy is right. Let’s give them space.” I turned to Tucker and lowered my voice. “They will never open that trunk with the family standing here. Convince them to wait up on the walk.”

Four more cars pulled into short-term. The occupants spilled into the lot wearing Find Daphne shirts.

“Folks, really, I know you want to find her,” Sheriff Hill said. “But we’re going to consider this an active crime scene, and we need you waiting on the walkway.”

“Come on, Jules,” Tucker said. “You know it’s right.” He held her hand and gently pulled her away.

Millie Poppy looped her arm through Zanna’s. “It’ll be okay. We’ll just wait up there. We can see the car from the rockers.”

The crowd around the Camry slowly thinned until the only person next to it not in uniform was me.

“Oh, I’m staying,” I said to Sheriff Hill.

“She has credentials,” Parker said wryly.

I hadn’t seen her arrive, but having her close somehow reassured me. Because I did not want to see them open that trunk. With Daphne missing a solid three days, the scales had tipped in favor of her being in that trunk.

The officers, both Sea Pine and Sheriff’s Office, started their search with the main interior. They wore gloves, carefully touching as little as possible. It was as tidy as her bedroom. Not a tossed wrapper or crumpled anything, and the manuals were neatly stacked in the glovebox.

An officer clicked the trunk button on the key fob. The latch released and the lid slowly rose. The officer shook his head quickly.

I didn’t realize I was holding my breath until it came out in a swoosh. I stepped over to peer inside. It was spic and span and practically empty. A red first aid bag on the left. A spare tire beneath the gray carpet. Hard to tell if it had been freshly vacuumed immediately before being parked here, or if Daphne simply kept it that way.

A tow truck rambled up to the security arm, which lifted automatically.

“We’ll finish processing the car here, then take it to the main station,” Sheriff Hill said. “We’ll take possession, as it’s our case. But keep Sea Pine involved. The lab will start analyzing today.”

“I’ll tell the family,” I said.

He returned to his deputies and Parker, calmly giving orders, while I walked to the friends and family on the sidewalk.

“The trunk’s clean and empty, like the rest of the car,” I said. “The evidence team will analyze it taillight to headlight this afternoon in Summerton.”

Zanna stared straight toward the Camry. A thousand-yard stare. Tears streamed down both cheeks. “She didn’t drive to Sedona. I thought for sure.”

“Finding her car doesn’t mean anything,” Alex said. “Maybe she Uber’d.”

“To Arizona?” Juliette said.

Parker eventually joined us. We numbered close to twenty-five. She encouraged the teams, both search and flyer-hangers, to return to their zones. With a squeeze to my arm, she left.

I spent the long afternoon hours with Zanna and Juliette and Millie Poppy. The four of us waiting and watching. The evidence team arrived. Uniformed technicians collected and swabbed and sealed the tiniest bits into bags. The entire Sea Pine Island Airport’s lot was thoroughly examined. It gave up its own selection of random detritus. Hard to know what would be important. Better to simply collect it all.

As the sun’s rays faded, the tow truck driver loaded the Camry onto the truck’s flatbed. Loud clanging of metal and cables, along with the officers’ soft murmurs, floated across the lot to accompany our silence. No one spoke. There wasn’t much to say, and I’m sure we were all thinking the same thing.

What the hell was Daphne’s car doing at the airport without her?

It only meant one thing. The shift in urgency had picked a side.

Daphne Fischer was truly missing now. Not missing on purpose, but missing in danger.