Time and Trouble (18 page)

No wonder Becca had been sure she
’
d find her. Too polite to simply say,
“
You
’
ll be the old one.
”
By the time she rounded up Penny
’
s friends, the other carpool mamas would be gone, and Billie would stand out as if outlined in neon.

This was what it was going to be like, wasn
’
t it? Little by little, whole populations and age groups would look at her and see only
“
the other.
”
Worse
—
the
“
has-been but who cares?
”
The way she secretly regarded Emma. Emma might be smart and experienced and have a lot to share, if ever she would, but Emma was old, past it, whatever
“
it
”
was. Younger was better. In the cosmic scheme of splendid blazing life, Emma didn
’
t count quite as much as Billie.

She didn
’
t approve of such thoughts and hadn
’
t realized she had them until she saw them reflected in the faces and eyes of the pack of girls approaching her. She wondered if Emma felt as surprised by the implicit gulf as Billie just had. If Emma felt as unchanged and fully alive inside as Billie did.

She waved and nodded, and they came toward her, five of them, looking assembled by a politically correct casting director. One freckled carrot-top with a crew cut, one Scandinavian blonde with a French braid, one Asian
—
Billie thought Vietnamese
—
with black hair in a Joan of Arc bob, one with cornrows and tawny port skin, and one who might be Hispanic with a lush mass of brown-black waves. Nothing extreme about them except geographical ancestry. None visibly pierced or tattooed. Every one wore gauzy patterned skirts, oversized sweaters, blousey jackets, and heavy lace-up boots.

Pretty, but not drop-dead. Not weird, not nervous, as they approached her. No eyes averted, no hunched posture or awkward giggles. Too self-confident to have been cast as pariahs or losers, but probably not the reigning queens of their class, either. The great bulge in the bell curve of adolescent possibilities. Which suggested that Penny Redmond was also nice-normal. Except nice-normal didn
’
t include running away the second semester of senior year.

She picked out the French braid as Rebecca and allowed herself a flash of smugness when that girl moved forward, taking leadership. The flash ended when the girl spoke.
“
Becca says you
’
re looking for Penny, right?
”

So much for Billie
’
s ESP. The tawny port girl nodded, setting her cornrows jiggling, and tilted her head, waiting. Billie smiled greetings to Becca and nodded at the girl who
’
d spoken.
“
I was hoping you
’
d be able to give me information about her. I figured you guys would know what was really going on in her life.
”

They wrinkled brows and looked at each other.
“
You police?
”
the French braid asked.
“
Could I see identification?
”

“
I
’
m not the police. I
’
m an investigator. A private investigator.
”

“
A PI,
”
French Braid said.
“
Cool.
”

Billie couldn
’
t tell if that was praise or a put-down.
“
This isn
’
t a criminal matter. Penny
’
s eighteen. She can move out, quit school, whatever. But that doesn
’
t mean her parents aren
’
t worried about what
’
s happened to her.
”

“
Her parents,
”
Becca said.
“
Worried.
”
Words delivered in the teenage flat tone that implied complete, stunned disbelief.

“
No?
”
Billie noticed the girl with the Joan of Arc hair shivering.
“
Listen, it
’
s cold. Is there somewhere we could go to get a soda, talk more comfortably?
”

Becca shook her head. Billie wondered if she
’
d picked the hairdo because it reacted so nicely to her tendency to move her head, or if she
’
d developed the emphatic head-shaking to draw attention to the braids.
“
I have to get back. We
’
re rehearsing. Missy has to get back, too.
”

“
And me,
”
Joan of Arc said.
“
I
’
m stage manager.
”

Billie wanted them to know that she
’
d been an actress, she
’
d been there, knew how wonderful-awful the rehearsal process was. Wanted to see a flash of recognition, of kinship, but instead, she said,
“
My car
’
s right here. It
’
d be warmer. I can turn on the heater.
”

They nodded and filed in, four in the back, giggling over the squeeze, the partial overlaps, the girl with the bob up front with Billie, who swiveled to face Rebecca. At Billie
’
s request, they identified themselves. Dru in red hair, Becca in cornrows, Missy in French braid, Cara in the dark waves, and Anne as Joan of Arc.

“
I wondered if you could tell me about her. What kind of person she was. Interests. Things like that.
”

Almost as one, they shrugged and looked to each other for inspiration.

“
She wanted to be an actress,
”
the girl with the black hair said.
“
To be famous. I know you have to have a passion to be a success in the arts and all, but she kind of overdid it for a long time. And then, boom, she didn
’
t even go out for this play, so I don
’
t know what she meant. She said she was coming to tryouts, but she didn
’
t.
”

“
I liked her better last year,
”
Becca said,
“
but it wasn
’
t like we were close or anything, even then. Not that we were enemies, but I was wondering why Mrs. Redmond gave you my number. I didn
’
t think she approved of Penny hanging with me, my being a dark-skinned girl and all.
”
She laughed as she drawled out her last few words.

“
Then with whom was she close? Whom might she have confided in?
”

Becca shook her head.
“
Like I said, she was real private this year.
”

“
A snob is more like it,
”
Dru said.
“
Called everything
‘
babyish.
’
She meant us, too.
”

“
Private,
”
Becca repeated.
“
Way more than she used to be.
”

“
Like nobody here was really, really interesting enough to pay attention to.
”
Dru was not about to give up her take on the missing girl. Nor was she or anyone providing any help in finding her.

“
Do you think it might have been because she was involved with this guy?
”
Billie asked.

“
What guy?
”

“
I was hoping you knew. She went off with a guy in a yellow hearse. Strike any bells? Did you see that car around?
”

“
There really was a guy?
”
Dru said.
“
We thought
…”

“
To tell the truth,
”
Becca said,
“
I don
’
t think Penny ever would have met him here
—
if she met him anywhere
—
where everybody could see.
”

“
Whyn
’
t you admit it?
”
Cara said.
“
If she did tell you something, you couldn
’
t count on its being the truth.
”

“
She
…
exaggerated?
”
Billie suggested.

“
You could call it that.
”

“
Or lying.
”

“
Harsh,
”
Becca said.

Cara shrugged.
“
Why
’
d he have to be a secret, then? I mean, like from us? Why should any of us believe her
—
this time? Her true love. Really!
”

“
Her parents,
”
Becca said.
“
Really strict on her. She was probably afraid they
’
d find out.
”

“
Did she ever say a name?
”
Billie asked, but without consulting each other, they all shook their heads.
“
Does the name Stewart mean anything?
”

This time they did check each other out before shaking their heads, then they muttered about a long list of boys named Stewart who were, however, the same age or younger than the missing girl. Plus, nothing mysterious. Plus,
“
in relationships anyway,
”
or
“
just too geeky to be a possibility,
”
or
“
maybe gay.
”

And within minutes, they reminded Billie that they had to get back to play rehearsal. She wrote down their names and phone numbers, gave them her number and asked them to please call if they heard from Penny or remembered anything that might be at all helpful.

She thought she saw one of the girls flip the business card she
’
d handed her into the first refuse basket she passed. But maybe that was a trick of the light.

She shouldn
’
t be depressed or feel defeated. Even Emma had talked about slogging around, getting no results for a long time. But she
’
d been so set for a quick breakthrough. Her First Case, after all. Or second, if she had to count the surveillance, which she chose to think of as a warm-up exercise that didn
’
t count. But this was for real and with her first day gone, all she
’
d learned was that the missing girl needed a good haircut and was a liar.

On the other hand, maybe she should be depressed.

Eleven

People were incredibly stupid, Emma thought. Which was good news for her. She
’
d never entirely lack for business because human beings would inevitably, irresistibly screw up, lie, cheat, pose, and, in general, wreak havoc. And at some point during that process, someone who still believed life could be brought into alignment would want help from a person like Emma.

She drove along Route 80 from Sacramento, past stretches of tract homes that looked dropped from above, possibly onto the cows that till recently had been the only inhabitants, toward the East Bay urban sprawl. The latter mess was appealing because it meant home was over the bridge a few miles ahead. Her back ached for her chair
—“
nothing more than an impression of your butt with ugly upholstery,
”
her daughter had said three years ago, the last time she
’
d deigned to visit. Emma found the insult apt and endearing, and now she thought with yearning of the butt-chair and a cold beer, feet up while she wrote her report on the laptop. And then
if
she could find one, her favorite lullaby, a subtitled foreign film on TV.

Meanwhile, she worked on getting over personal disappointment about Glenda Walker, self-declared candidate for change, popularly known as Glenda the Good. Glenda was the advocate of everything compassionate. Perfect for her North Bay electorate. And furthermore, she was a newcomer to politics
—
a citizen-candidate with no prior elected office. She was what everyone wanted
—
a politician who wasn
’
t one. Luckily, in addition to intriguing ideas, she also had a husband who
’
d made millions in software and who doted on and bankrolled her, so she was not accepting any special-interest money. She was even photogenic and had photogenic kids. A pure-gold candidate, Emma would have said.

Except that, having been hired to check up on her, Emma now knew that the woman was either overly sure or pathetically unsure of herself. One or the other impulse had prompted her to invent a past. To lie about items so easily checked, they weren
’
t worth the effort of fabrication.

Touching Glenda
’
s dossier was like grabbing an overripe peach. Emma
’
s fingers slipped straight through its rottenness.

Glenda was not the Phi Beta Kappa grad of U.C. -Davis her press releases and shiny-paper pamphlets claimed. She was an idiot. Why lie about that when university records showed that Glenda Arnold had never completed her degree, let alone been honored for scholastic excellence?

And, of course, this revelation prompted Emma
’
s employers, the gleefully disloyal opposition, to request further examination of her r
é
sum
é
and past life. Past
lives
had turned out to be more like it. Nothing criminal, but one more marriage and child than she
’
d chosen to mention and two fewer positions than she
’
d claimed to hold. She had indeed worked at those agencies, but as an office temp, not exactly the policy-making position she
’
d presented on her r
é
sum
é
. Automatic upgrades via frequent liar coupons, as Emma put it. At one point, her excellence at word-processing won the heart of her employer, Mason Walker.