She's Not There (10 page)

A painting of a face. A woman’s face? He went closer.

Yeah, it was a woman because now he could see the harsh brush strokes that formed her long eyelashes, and a string of pearls around the elongated neck. It was modern in style with the carved-up perspective of Picasso crossed with the Crayola crassness of Leroy Neiman. He didn’t know much about art, just what he had absorbed from hanging around the homes of clients. So he wasn’t sure exactly what he was looking at.

But he knew who he was looking at.

It was Amelia. Bright primary yellow streaks for the hair, pool-blue for the eyes, a magenta slash for a mouth. And just like in her photographs, that strange feeling of emptiness behind it all.

He turned to the fireplace, topped with a big plasma TV, and flanked by shelves of books. The books were, Buchanan thought, the first evidence that normal human beings, with likes and dislikes, interests and pastimes, dwelled here.

He did a quick scan of the left side. The titles were variations on a theme:
The Story of My Life
by Clarence Darrow.
In the Shadow of the Law
by Kermit Roosevelt.
Emotional Intelligence: Why It Can Matter More Than IQ
by Daniel Goleman.
The Legal Analyst: A Toolkit for Thinking about the Law
by Ward Farnsworth.
One L
by Scott Turow.

He turned to the right shelf. It held hardcover fiction bestsellers, stuff by Jodi Picoult, Wally Lamb, Mitch Albom, Nicholas Sparks. Another shelf held travel books, mainly slick coffee-table editions about Tuscany, Paris, the Greek isles. On the bottom shelf was a collection on fitness:
French Women Don’t Get Fat. Perfection Through Pilates.
The Happy Book: 30 Fun-Filled Exercises for Greater Joy.

It was all pap. Nothing that was evidence of the kind of mind that Joanna McCall described as “so much more than what you saw on the surface.” And, oddly, no books about dance.

Buchanan turned, looking for something, anything, in the vast white bedroom that could tell him what kind of woman he was looking for.

There was a frosted glass door across the room that he suspected to be a closet. He didn’t know much about art, but he was up to speed on clothes and labels because what people chose to hang on their bodies or put on their feet spoke volumes about their personalities. Plumage . . . it was all part of the
jizz.

He opened the door. It was Alex’s closet. Walls of white lacquer and glass cabinets and long shelves. Racks of dark suits on wood hangers at perfectly spaced intervals. Rows of gleaming shoes, drawers filled with folded dress shirts still bearing their paper laundry bands, pullout metal racks filled with a rainbow of silk ties. And behind one glass panel, pastel cashmere sweaters stacked like mints in a candy box.

He left the closet and turned to a second frosted glass door. It opened onto a closet even larger than the first one. The same walls of white cabinets and long shelves but transformed into a mini-Versailles of gilt, chandeliers, and mirrors. And in the middle of it all, sitting like the Queen of Hearts’ throne, was a tufted blood-red satin chair and a small matching ottoman.

Alex’s closet had given off a faint smell of newly polished shoes. But Amelia’s was heavy with perfume.

The scent was oddly familiar, and Buchanan closed his eyes, trying to place it. He was certain he had smelled it before, somewhere and sometime deep in his past.

Finally he opened his eyes and began to explore the closet. Behind one door was a pyramid of matched Vuitton luggage, ranging in size from a trunk on the bottom up to a large purse on top. So where had that odd suitcase down in the garage come from? He tried one of the cases but it was locked. He turned over a white airline tag on one of the suitcase handles—
MSP, FLIGHT 86, 8-23-14
.

He recognized the airport code: Minneapolis–St. Paul. He made a mental note to call the New York City Ballet office again about Carol Fairfield.

Buchanan turned his attention to the racks of clothes. Amelia’s taste ran to classic styles and neutrals, lots of gray Armani, beige Burberry, and black and white Chanel. Her taste in accessories was just as bland—low-heeled Chanel slingbacks and Prada pumps, black Fendi clutches and tan Gucci totes. There was a drawer of beige and black sweaters, and another drawer holding scarves and shawls, Hermès mainly, in muted colors. He opened a third drawer but stopped halfway when he saw the neatly folded lingerie in white, beige, and black. Expensive, sure, but nothing to stir any man’s juices. When he tried to close the drawer, it stuck on something in the back.

He pulled out a small shopping bag. The writing on the front said “La Perla, Bal Harbour.” When he opened it, he saw a tangle of color, and he pulled out a delicate web of lace—a turquoise bra. The bag also held a sheer red camisole and a tiny triangle of panties the color of a ripe peach.

He had a hunch these weren’t for old Alex. A sudden snippet of music floated into Buchanan’s head, some old disco song about a guy named Tommy who “lost his lady two months ago, maybe he’ll find her, maybe he won’t.”

“Cherchez La Femme.” That was the name of it.

Buchanan put the lingerie back in the bag and the bag back in its hiding place. Then he stood, hands on hips, and exhaled a deep breath of frustration. This was nuts. On the surface, Amelia Tobias was a cipher. But experience had taught him that no one really was, at heart. Especially a woman who kept peach-colored panties hidden in her closet.

And that damn perfume,
her
perfume, was there, swirling about him.

What was he missing?

His eyes traveled over the cabinets. In the far corner, one cabinet door stood ajar, and he spotted the corner of a box on the floor inside. Not a nice box that matched the white cabinets either; this was plain old cardboard. He went to the closet and pulled it out.

The old box, big enough to hold a microwave oven, was crushed down to half its original size. Someone had written Amelia’s name and address in Magic Marker on one flap. And in smaller type, a return address in Morning Sun, Iowa.

Buchanan slipped a finger under the yellowed packing tape and opened the box.

On top was a pilled purple cardigan sweater, a stuffed bear missing one ear, a pair of beat-up pink ballet shoes, and a small faded blue T-shirt with lettering on the front:
U
NIVERSITY OF
O
KOBOJI
.

Buchanan dragged the box across the carpet and sat down in the red silk chair. He set the top items aside, revealing a layer of books. A “Tiger” yearbook from Crusade High School, Childcraft volume five
Life in Many Lands
. A stained yellow cloth book called
Dance for a Diamond Star
by Rosemary Sprague. A children’s book by Neil Gaiman called
The Graveyard Book
. And a worn picture book by Eleanor Estes called
The Hundred Dresses.

Buchanan turned the book over and read the back copy.

Wanda Petronsky wore the same faded-blue dress to school every day. It was always clean but it looked as though it had never been ironed properly. One day when a classmate showed up wearing a bright new dress that was much admired, Wanda said, “I have a hundred dresses at home.” That had started the teasing . . .

Buchanan set the books on the little red ottoman and returned to the cardboard box. More old clothes, a small blue plastic jewelry box, a plastic flamingo, and some letters bound in ribbon, the top one with a return address of a military base in Kandahar, Afghanistan. He set those aside, along with a red Capezio ballet slipper box filled with snapshots. One thing left in the box. He pulled out a large green scrapbook.

From the first page, he knew what he was looking at: Amelia’s history as a dancer. It was all there, from the faded program of Amelia Bloodworth’s first ballet recital at age seven at Graham’s Dance Center in Burlington, Iowa, right through to her last review as Melia Worth with the Miami City Ballet. Page after yellowed page of her touchstone moments: a letter of acceptance from the School of American Ballet in New York; her first review in
Dance Magazine
from a student concert; a copy of her corps member contract with the New York City Ballet.

Outside of the one student concert review, there were no others from Amelia’s time in New York, and Buchanan knew it was because as a corps member, her only job was to blend in. But the reviews from the Miami years, when she was a soloist, were glowing, all mentioning Melia Worth’s “intelligence,” “sensuality,” and “joy in movement.”

And the photographs . . .

Heart-shaped face and big dark eyes, framed by the severe ballerina-bun hairstyle in a dark shade. And always a dazzling smile of pure joy, whether it was a candid moment caught in performance or a formal portrait headshot. Melia Worth was lit from within.

He thought of the blank face of Amelia Tobias in the society rags. It was like he was looking at two different women.

Buchanan slumped back in the red silk chair. The sweet perfume was heavy in his nostrils, teasing his brain.

Magnolias . . . it was magnolias.

I’m here, Bucky.

Buchanan shut his eyes. The smell was all around him and suddenly, so was she. Coming in from the backyard in their little house in Berry Hill carrying the flowers just cut from the tree. Arranging them in a blue vase, pouring in Sprite to make them last because magnolias never lasted long enough.

When you coming back?

Around eight maybe.

It’s going to rain.
The tires are bad on your car. You should take my truck.

I’ll be fine. I’ll be back before you can miss me, Bucky.

Buchanan opened his eyes. The perfume was still there, but she was gone.

He sat there for a long time, his hands light on the scrapbook open in his lap. Enough . . . he had to get his mind back to the task. He had to find something to unlock Amelia Tobias’s life because he knew from experience that the longer a runner was missing, the harder it was to find her.

He looked down at the things he had set on the ottoman. Maybe it was there in her brother’s letters or in the box of old photos. He’d have to take it all back to the hotel and go through it carefully. He set the scrapbook back in the box and repacked all the other things. As he closed the flaps, his eyes caught the return address in Morning Sun. Amelia’s family were all dead, and his instincts were telling him that if her memory returned she might go to Carol Fairfield—or maybe a lover. Still, he’d have to check out the Morning Sun connection to be sure.

He rose and picked up the box. He started to walk away but then stopped, staring at the ottoman.

There was something lodged in the side of the cushion. He bent down and pulled it out. It was a tiny rubber bone.

Damn.
It wasn’t an ottoman. And that Vuitton purse . . .

He went back to the first closet of luggage and pulled down the purse. It had mesh on both ends. It was a dog carrier. He looked at the airline tag. Someone had inked in: “Brody Tobias.”

But where was the dog? He hadn’t seen any other evidence of an animal, not even a water dish in the kitchen.

He put the dog carrier back in its place, and hoisting up the box of memories, he retraced his steps to the foyer. He left the cardboard box there and went to the kitchen. Esperanza was just coming in from the French door leading out to the patio.

“You are finished now?” she asked.

“Yeah, I’m just leaving,” Buchanan said. His eyes did a quick sweep of the kitchen. No sign of the dog. Maybe it had died. But that airline tag had been for a trip to Minneapolis just three months ago.

“Mrs. Diaz, does Mrs. Tobias have a dog?” he asked.

She smiled. “Yes. Brody the dog.”

“Where is he?”

“At dog place.”

“What, the vet?”

“No, place where they clean him. Mrs. Tobias take Brody there the day she left. But then she didn’t come home and things go crazy around here.” She said something else in Spanish, shaking her head.

Buchanan was trying to remember what was in Amelia’s Day Runner. The Friday of the car accident there had been a notation about an appointment at a place called Fancy . . . no, Fantasia Spa. He had assumed it was her own spa.

“I better call Mr. Tobias,” Esperanza said. “He go get Brody at dog place.”

“No, you’re very busy,” Buchanan said quickly. “I’ll tell Mr. Tobias about the dog.”

Esperanza gave him a small smile and thanked him. Buchanan said a quick good-bye, grabbed the cardboard box from the foyer, and left. He had no intention of telling Alex Tobias about the dog. Because there was a good chance that Amelia might remember the dog and go back to get it. If she hadn’t already.

He pulled out his cell as he walked toward his rental car. He summoned Siri and asked for Fantasia Dog Spa. Her nasal voice came back immediately with the number and dialed it for him.

“Hi. You’ve reached Fantasia Dog Spa. We’re closed for the day and your fur baby is tucked in for the night. But if you’d like to leave a message . . .”

Damn it.
He clicked off and looked back at the Tobias mansion, glowing deep pink in the waning sunlight. He’d call again first thing in the morning.

But for now, there was nothing to do but go back to the hotel. There was a minibar stocked with good scotch and a Kindle that might be unlocked with a dog’s name.

CHAPTER TWELVE

When Amelia woke, the room was cold. It took a few disorienting moments for her to remember she was in the boardinghouse in Brunswick, Georgia. She heard a flapping sound and looked to the window. The shade, pulled down against the wan morning light, was moving in the stiff breeze.

She started to pull the chenille bedspread up over her but then remembered the small white dog that had nestled in the crook of her knees. She was gone. Yet in her mind, she was still there, as real and as warm as . . .

“Brody,” she said.

She bolted upright. Brody was a dog.
Her
dog. She could see him and feel him as clearly as if he was there in the room with her—a tiny terrier-Chihuahua mutt.

She could suddenly remember everything about him. He was black, one of his ears was broken, and the tip of his tail looked like a paintbrush dipped in white. A kid had found him under a freeway bridge, tied to a chain-link fence, probably abandoned by a homeless person. He was sick with pneumonia, infested with fleas, and starving. The kid had the good sense to drop the dog off at Animal Control nearby. It was there that Amelia had found him, curled up in a cat cage because the dog cages were all filled with howling pit bulls. He was twenty-four hours away from being put down.

Why had she been at Animal Control that day? She couldn’t remember. All she could remember was that she knew she had to have that dog. And she knew she had to have him here with her now.

She sat still in bed as a flood of emotion washed through her chest like warm water. It was relief. Relief that things were coming back, just like the doctor had said they would.

Another memory pushed forward. Alex. And what his face had looked like when she walked in the door cradling the sick dog.

What the hell is that?

I found him at Animal Control.

Animal Control? I don’t want a dog in the house, Mel.

Why not? I want—

They’re dirty. And who’s going to take care of it?

I will.

Mel . . .

I’m keeping him, Alex.

Amelia swung her legs over the side of the bed. She had to find out if Brody was okay because she couldn’t be sure that Alex wouldn’t get rid of him.

Pulling the spread off the bed, she wrapped it around her and went downstairs to the black rotary phone on the hall table.

Details were starting to come into focus fast now, and she could see herself handing Brody across a counter to a smiling plump-faced woman and she could hear muted barking in the background just discernible below the murmur of Muzak.

We’ll take good care of him, Mrs. Tobias.

She had left Brody somewhere. The vet?

You can pick him up tomorrow after nine.

He hadn’t been sick, she remembered. She had taken him in for a teeth cleaning and grooming and they had to keep him overnight. But where? What was the name of the place? She shut her eyes, trying to summon a name, but all she could see in her mind were hippos dancing in tutus. Like that old Walt Disney movie . . .

Fantasia
.

Her eyes shot open and she grabbed the receiver. She dialed information and they connected her.

“Good morning, Fantasia Dog Spa.”

“Yes, hello, this is Mrs. Tobias and—”

“Oh, hi, Mrs. Tobias. This is Kristin.”

Kristin. The young groomer with the lizard tattoo. “Yes, yes, hello Kristin,” she said. “I’m calling to check on Brody.”

“Well, we just opened like five minutes ago and I haven’t had time to check in on him yet.”

“But he’s still there?”

“Oh yeah. I saw him last night. He was fine, just a little mopey because he wants to go home. Weren’t you supposed to pick him up yesterday?”

Yesterday? She had dropped Brody off and then gone home. She remembered that later she had showered and put on the Chanel dress. Everything after that was still a black blur.

“Mrs. Tobias?”

“Yes, I’m here,” Amelia said. “I’ve . . . I’ve had a change in plans and had to go out of town suddenly. Something has come up, a family emergency, and I have to be away from home for a couple weeks.”

“No problem. I’ll call Mr. Tobias so he can come get—”

“No! No, don’t call my husband.”

Silence on the other end. Amelia took a deep calming breath. “I’d like to arrange for Brody to be sent to me.”

“Sent? Sent where?”

“Georgia,” Amelia said.

“Geez, Mrs. Tobias, I don’t know if we could send Brody—”

“Of course you can. We can arrange it all with the airline and you could have him flown up here. You can just charge it to my account, right?”

“Wouldn’t it be easier if I just called Mr. Tobias and—”

“No, don’t do that.” Amelia interrupted. “My husband is out of town on business for the next two weeks. I need you to send Brody to me.”

“Well, geez, Mrs. Tobias. I need to talk to Mrs. Chapinski, and she won’t get here ’til like nine.”

Mrs. Chapinski . . . she was the spa owner. Amelia knew the woman would be able to arrange for Brody’s transport.

“Okay, call me back when you find out what we can do,” Amelia said. “I really don’t want to leave Brody there any longer than I have to.”

“Will do, Mrs. Tobias.”

Amelia started to hang up but then stopped. “Wait! Kristin?”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t have my cell. Call me at this number, okay?” Amelia picked up the old rotary phone, squinting to read the number scribbled in the middle of the dial. She gave Kristin the number and hung up.

The creak of the stairs made Amelia look up. Hannah was coming down, hands holding her robe closed. Angel came bouncing down after her.

“I thought I heard you down here. You okay, hon?”

Amelia reached down and scooped up the dog. “Yes,” she said, with a smile.

Buchanan threw the Kindle down on the bed in disgust. He was smarter than this. Why couldn’t he figure this out?

He had spent half the night trying to break the Kindle’s password, using every variation on “Brody” he could come up with. People often used their pet’s name as a password so he had combined the name with every number and fact he knew about Amelia Tobias. But the damn Kindle stayed locked.

He glanced at his watch. Nine ten. Time to call about the dog. A woman answered on the second ring.

“Fantasia Dog Spa. Can I help you?”

“Yes, I’m calling about Brody.”

“Oh, hi there, Mr. Tobias.”

It never ceased to amaze him how much people assumed on the phone. Now he just had to play his cards right and make nice. It was a little harder with women—they were always more suspicious than men—but this one sounded young, and they were usually more trusting.

“Yes, hello. Ah, forgive me, but I’ve forgotten your name.” He had to work a little to hide his Southern accent. He hadn’t had to do it in a while.

“This is Kristin.”

“Kristin! Well, listen, Kristin, I won’t keep you—”

“That’s okay. We just opened and I’m not busy.”

“I just wanted to make sure everything went okay with Brody.”

“Oh yeah, he’s cool. Like I just told your wife, he’s just a little—”

“My wife? She called?”

“Yeah, about a half hour ago.”

Sometimes you just get lucky.

“Well, you know how my wife is about Brody, Kristin. She can’t stand being away from him, even for a day.”

Patience . . . don’t press her.

“Yeah, she did seem sort of upset.”

Keep her talking. Get whatever you can.

“Yes, she is upset,” he said. “Her mother is in the hospital, you see, and Mrs. Tobias had to go . . . home to take care of her.”

“Yeah, she mentioned she had an emergency. That’s terrible about her mom. But I talked to Mrs. Chapinski and it looks like we’ll be able to ship Brody to her after all.”

It was just like he had told Alex Tobias. All he had to do was sit back and wait for her to make a mistake.

“Well, that’s good news, Kristin. Did she give you the address?”

“No, not yet. I have to call the airline and see when they can take Brody. I was going to call Mrs. Tobias back and update her.”

“Don’t bother, Kristin. I’ll call her. Damn, I can’t find her mother’s phone number. I know I have it here somewhere. My desk is a mess . . .”

“I got it right here, Mr. Tobias.”

Kristin rattled off the number. Buchanan thanked her and hung up. The area code was 912, not Florida. He grabbed his laptop, called up his PeopleFinders account, and typed in the phone number. The result came up immediately:

Owner Name: Hannah Lowrey

Full Address: 1877 Union Street, Brunswick, Ga.

Phone Type: Landline

Was this a relative? The name had not turned up in any of his research, so he doubted it. Well, at least it was a landline, which was a helluva lot easier to find than a person toting a cell phone.

He pulled up the Delta Airlines website. There was a flight from Fort Lauderdale to Brunswick Golden Isles Airport, via Atlanta, leaving in two hours. He booked the ticket.

Why the hell would Amelia Tobias go to Georgia? It didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was that he find her, report back to the husband, collect the rest of his fee, and go home. What happened between Alex and Amelia Tobias was none of his concern.

He closed the laptop and began to pack his bag.

It was near six by the time Buchanan turned onto Union Street. He slowed the rental car to a crawl, trying to read the numbers on the houses. Between the three-hour delay in Atlanta and the flight to Brunswick, it had taken longer than he had expected.

There it was—number 1877. He pulled to the curb in front of the big yellow house and rolled down his window. There were lights on downstairs and an old Chevy parked in the driveway. If Amelia Tobias was inside, all he had to do was confirm she was here and call the husband.

A man was coming down the street. He gave Buchanan a look as he passed but continued on. Buchanan watched him go, realizing he was too easily spotted sitting here at the curb. Amelia wasn’t expecting anyone to trail her here but experience had taught him to be cautious in small towns.

The wind was picking up, filling the car with the smell of brine. He glanced left and saw the dark outlines of a church. No lights on, and fronted with a dark parking lot. He put the car in gear, headlights off, and swung into the lot, parking behind a hedge that gave him a good view of the house but enough cover to be hidden.

He killed the engine and slumped down in the seat, considering his next move. He could wait here, hoping Amelia would come out. It was only six thirty, but it was already dark and the temperature was dropping fast. That left one other option—sneaking up to the house and looking in the windows.

He pulled out his Dunhills and lit a cigarette, his eyes locked on the yellow house.

He had been reduced to this sad state once before, when he was just starting out. Crouching in the snow outside the window of an Econo Lodge in Anchorage, peeping at a female embezzler, like some cut-rate Norman Bates.

And even the good money hasn’t made it any better, has it, Bucky?

Her voice was coming often now. Too often. And there was nothing he could do to silence it. Except drink, and he couldn’t risk that right now. Later, after this damn case was finished, he could go home, crawl back in his hole, and let the screech of scotch drown out her voice and the past.

The porch light went on.

Buchanan tossed the cigarette out the window.

A moment later, an elderly woman came out onto the porch. She wrapped herself in a big sweater, went to the porch swing and sat down.

Then a second woman emerged from the house, carrying a tray and trailed by a small white dog.

Buchanan sat up straighter in the seat, trying to get a better look. The woman was tall, but she had what looked like a quilt draped over her shoulders so it was hard to see her body. She wore glasses and had short dark hair. She sat down in a chair next to the old woman and handed her a mug from the tray. She took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes.