Invisible (11 page)

“Well, maybe missing. And she does match the description of that poor girl who was found in the river, so I’m concerned.”

I invited him in. He sat on the sofa. I offered him iced tea. He declined. I perched on the edge of Harley’s old recliner and explained my relationship to Kendra, then added, “We were supposed to attend church together last Sunday morning, but she didn’t show up, and I haven’t seen her since. And I just have a very bad feeling about all this.”

“I see.” Detective Dixon pulled a pen and small notebook out of an inside pocket. “And this woman’s full name is . . . ?”

“Kendra Alexander. I don’t know her middle name.”

“Could you give me a description of her, please? In your own words.”

“She looks about twenty-three or twenty-four, somewhere in there. She’s several inches taller than I am—”

“Which would make her?”

“I’m five one. So that would make her about five foot six or seven, maybe even five eight. Slender, very attractive. Blue eyes and long brown hair. Except I’m almost certain brown isn’t her natural color, that she’s really blond.”

He’d been writing down everything I said, but he glanced up when I mentioned the hair, as if he found this item of particular interest. He underlined something in the notebook.

“And just last week I saw her wearing a black dress with big red flowers on it.”

“Do you remember what type of fabric it was?”

“Something slithery. Clingy. Rather expensive, I believe.”

Those facts also seemed of special interest to Detective Dixon.

“I don’t suppose you’d have a photo?”

“I’m sorry, no. Actually, I don’t even have a camera anymore. I used one of those little disc cameras for several years, but then it got to where you couldn’t buy disc film anymore. Anyway, I just never bothered to get another camera.” I gave myself a mental kick, realizing this LOL rambling was not helping the credibility of my report.

“You went to church together often?”

“No, but she’d said she wanted to go that Sunday. At the time, when she didn’t show up, I assumed it was because she’d decided to do something with her friend instead—”

“Friend?”

“A man friend. Someone she was . . . seeing. I don’t know his name. Thea and I called him Kendra’s ‘young man,’ but he was actually somewhat older, I think.”

“Have you tried to contact Kendra?”

“Oh, yes. I went to her apartment. Actually, I went inside.” Hastily I explained my responsibility with the house.

“And it looked as if she hadn’t been there for several days?”

“The apartment is empty. Everything, except the furniture that belonged to Thea, is gone.” I squinted into the distance, picturing the apartment again and seeing a peculiarity. “Though now that I think about it, all the lamps are gone too, and I’m sure they belonged to Thea.”

“So what you’re saying is, it appeared as if this young woman had moved out.”

“Yes . . .” Although I had difficulty imagining Kendra stealing lamps. And she wouldn’t have had much room in the little car to put such bulky items.

“Was this woman employed?”

“She worked in the office at a used-car lot over on Sylvester Street. Bottom-Buck Barney’s. They told me there that she’d quit her job.”

“Did she have a car?” the officer asked.

“Yes. A red Corolla. I don’t know what year.”

“You wouldn’t happen to know the license number?”

“No. But I’m sure it was a Missouri plate. So she must’ve bought it here instead of bringing it with her from California.”

“She was from California?” he asked.

“That’s what she said.”

“And you haven’t seen the car since she moved out?”

“No.”

He politely asked more questions. Did I know where Kendra had lived before renting the apartment? What about family? Friends? Yet even as he wrote down my skimpy answers, I suspected the interview was basically over. Detective Dixon didn’t see Kendra as a missing person, simply a young woman who’d quit her job and moved on. People did that all the time. He closed the notebook.

“Well, thank you, Mrs. Malone. We appreciate your help. If we need anything more, we’ll be in touch.”

That old line: Don’t call us; we’ll call you.

He stood up and glanced around the room. Suddenly I saw it through his eyes. Clean. Furniture out of date but dusted and polished. Everything turned toward the TV, as if it were a magnetic center of the universe. I saw myself through his eyes too. Nice little old lady trying to be helpful but making the proverbial mountain out of a molehill. I felt a flare of resentment at the polite dismissal.

“I know it looks as if she just moved away. But I don’t think Kendra would leave without saying good-bye. Or without checking on her security deposit refund. And she wouldn’t steal Thea’s lamps! Maybe everything was set up to make it look as if she moved away. And she’s really . . . dead. Because someone killed her.”

Matt Dixon’s head and shoulders reared back in surprise at the passion in my outburst. He studied me as if making a reassessment. “That’s possible.” His tone said unlikely, but possible.

“I’m really . . . very concerned.”

“We’ll run her name through the files and also check out her car and see if we come up with anything.”

“Thank you.”

The officer looked out the window. “My grandparents used to live here on Madison Street,” he offered, as if he felt apologetic about his dismissal of my concerns and wanted to make amends. “The Polanskis. But that was a long time ago.”

“But I remember the Polanskis! They were much older—”

I felt a jolt. And embarrassment. “About the age I am now, I suppose. But I remember Mr. Polanski owned a meat market, and they had this great flock of towheaded grand-children—”

“Yeah, I was one of ’em.” Detective Dixon grinned. “On holidays we’d descend like a herd of hungry locusts. I broke my ankle jumping out of an upstairs window, playing Superman or something. But the house is gone. I think there’s a Blockbuster Video there now.”

“Yes, Madison Street has changed.” I didn’t add the obvious.
Not for the better.
“I don’t suppose your grandparents are still alive?”

“They died about ten years ago. Within a few weeks of each other.”

I put my hand out in silent sympathy, and he clasped it. Then, totally surprising me, he added a big hug.

“I don’t really think the body in the morgue is your friend, but we’ll check it out.” He patted the shirt pocket where he’d put the notebook. “Then you won’t need to be worrying about her.”

I nodded. But now we were down to a final point I’d been considering.

10

“I think . . .” I paused and swallowed an uprising of squeamishness. “I think I could probably tell if it’s Kendra if I saw the body. Unless, since it may have been in the water several days . . .”

Matt Dixon hesitated before speaking. “Actually, the body is in fairly good shape.” Another pause, this one reflective. “Considering.”

Considering.
The squeamishness reared up again, but I didn’t rescind the offer.

“But I’m not sure . . . Look, I’ll check with my superiors and get back to you, okay? There’s a couple from Philadelphia who thinks this may be their daughter who disappeared last month. They’re flying in today. If they can identify the body or if we can determine that Kendra Alexander just moved in with her boyfriend or something, there won’t be any need to put you through this. Identifying a body can be a . . . traumatic experience.”

A new thought occurred to me, and I brightened. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before, but there may have been a family emergency out in California, and that was why Kendra left so abruptly. Maybe I’ll hear from her in a few days. Or today.”

“Right. Good thinking. You let me know if that happens.” He reached over and squeezed my shoulder. “Just don’t let this prey on your mind now, okay?”

* * *

I hoped I’d hear good news from Detective Dixon by that evening. Kendra was alive and well somewhere. Or, tragic as it would be, that the Philadelphia couple had eliminated Kendra by identifying the body as their daughter. But the only time the phone rang was when Magnolia called. She small-talked for several minutes, obviously waiting for me to come up with an explanation about my afternoon visitor. I waited her out, and Magnolia eventually tired of the roundabout approach.

“I saw a police car in your driveway earlier. I’ve been wondering what it was doing there.”

I had anticipated Magnolia’s curiosity, so I had an answer ready. “It was just a little matter to do with Thea’s place.”

True. Although a rather narrow version of the truth.

“It hasn’t been broken into, I hope? There’s so much crime these days.”

“Oh no. Just the police checking up on things.”

Magnolia apparently hadn’t yet made a possible connection between Thea’s disappearing renter and the body in the river, and I saw no point in passing along speculations.

“I’m looking forward to the barbecue,” I added brightly to dodge further questions.

* * *

I skipped the stakeout at the cemetery that night. Next evening I carried my warm peach cobbler over to Magnolia and Geoff’s house. The city didn’t allow long-term parking of recreational vehicles in driveways or on the street, so Geoff had taken their motor home to a storage lot, but a different motor home, apparently the fabulously haired Mac’s, stood in the driveway now. It was smaller than the Margollins’ boxy whale, but newer looking. A rack on back held a bicycle.

Cars were parked all along the street. The scent of barbecued chicken and sounds of country music and voices drifted from the backyard. I didn’t own anything I considered “western” wear, but I’d done what I could to look cowgirlish with jeans, a plaid blouse, and a red scarf tied around my neck.

I paused outside the gate to the backyard, wishing now that I’d come earlier instead of waiting for the call that hadn’t come from Detective Dixon. I had the uneasy feeling Magnolia would make a big entrance out of my attempt to slip in unnoticed. I was right.

“Ivy, there you are!” Magnolia swooped down on me like a hawk after a cowering mouse. She threw up her hands. “Oh, and you’ve brought one of your fabulous cobblers!” As if it were some big surprise.

Tonight Magnolia, who always did these elaborate themes for her get-togethers, had outdone everyone in her denim skirt, enormous squash-blossom necklace, and boots, complete with spurs. A cowboy hat rode her hair like a bronc buster caught in a sea of cotton candy. From an invisible tape deck, Hank Williams sang about a cheatin’ heart. Magnolia grabbed my hand and held it up as if I were a victorious prizefighter.

“Hey, everybody, I think most of you know my neighbor, Ivy Malone. Ivy, you know the Dugans and the Roharities . . . and everybody.”

Magnolia’s wave took in the twenty or so people in the yard, but she didn’t give me time to acknowledge the few I did know among the RV Roamers group. “Mac, where are you?”

Subtlety was not Magnolia’s strong point. She located her intended victim on the other side of the barbecue grill and, spurs jangling, dragged me along as if I were now a prize cow headed into the show ring. Beaming, she introduced us. Ivy Malone, Mac MacPherson.

“I’ll just leave you two to get acquainted. And Mac, you absolutely must try some of Ivy’s cobbler. Ivy is truly the most divine cook I know.” Magnolia gave me a wiggle of eyebrows apparently meant to say,
There, I’ve done my part, it’s up to you now
, and jangled off with an air of mission accomplished.

Mac stuck out a hand. The movement revealed a blue motorcycle tattooed on his forearm.

“I’m pleased to meet you,” he said.

As Magnolia had earlier said, he had a fine head of hair. Nicely silver-white. Also an attractive tan, blue eyes, and an admirably flat belly. Sunglasses dangled from a clip on his blue polo shirt. His build was stocky, with sandy-haired, muscular legs below khaki shorts. Reeboks on his feet, no spurs.

His knees were on the knobby side, and I’ve never been a fan of the blue-tattoo school of body decoration, but, in total, he was a rather presentable package.

But if you aren’t in the market for pickled eel . . .

We shook hands—good, solid handshake—and I murmured a repeat of the pleased to meet you. I still had my cobbler tucked under my left arm. I rejected an urge to thrust it at him—
Here, Magnolia says you have to eat this
—and beat a quick retreat.

“Let me set that on the table for you,” he said.

I still suspected that Mac MacPherson had had no warning that under all this window dressing of people and food he was the hors d’oeuvre of the day. Yet I could also see that he was a quick study and was gamely prepared to live up to his duties as bachelor guest.

“Beautiful evening,” he said when he returned. He made a gesture toward the crescent moon. No clouds tonight.

“Yes, isn’t it? Too bad Magnolia’s magnolias aren’t in bloom now. They put on such an impressive display, unusual for this area, that the newspaper usually sends someone out to take photos in the spring.”