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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 house. 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.
Chapter Three
As I drove home, I mulled over the odd behavior of Katie’s sister. I understand why people want to be left alone, but looking up a number for me? To help find a missing person? Seriously?
I pushed aside any more thinking about Katie’s sister and her ’tude. It was weird, but that was her problem, not mine. I sped south down New Hampshire Avenue, turned onto Randolph Road, then snaked through a series of backstreets toward a side road off Georgia Avenue in Wheaton, to my apartment-office.
I had managed to find a studio apartment I could barely afford at the Heights, a building rehabbed from a sixties-era mid-rise into a gleaming high-rise tower. It was a short walk to the Metro Red Line. Not to mention all sorts of fancy new stores and the arts district. All part of the suburban renewal effort of the past few decades.
I pulled into the garage and parked as close to the entrance as possible. I grabbed my notes as I left the car and walked up the two flights to my place. The apartment was just big enough to suit my needs. A short hall led past the bathroom on the right and opened into my living room-dining room-kitchen-office-bedroom.
The wall on the left held my flat-screen and a watercolor painting I had found at a yard sale. On the right, a bookshelf housed an array of worn paperbacks. A bluebird-colored futon sat in the middle of the floor with a small desk behind it. Beyond the utilitarian living room/office, a kitchenette was squeezed into one corner and a nook into the other with just enough room in between for my emerald green Formica-topped table and four matching chairs. From the window, I had a view of the beautiful “downtown” area. For privacy, I had curtained off the nook, which held a makeshift closet and single bed. Not that I hold parties or have many visitors. Or any visitors. But you never know.
A quick glance at my phone and its blinking red light, let me know there was a message waiting for me. I had a funny feeling that I knew who it was, but I checked it anyway.
