Pick up the Pieces

by Flo Fitzpatrick

  “None taken.”

  Nic continued, “The whole set-up here is mad. Preposterous. Insane. So if you’re harboring illusions and delusions believing a Beta Zeta reunion dance will not have some disaster associated with it, I envy your optimism but have to ask if you’re rowing with all the proverbial oars.”

  Cam threw his hands in the air, grumbled, “I give up,” and then headed back inside the hall muttering to himself.

  I began to pace the lobby like a duck in a carnival booth. After my fifth time around Nic grabbed me. “Stop. Look, I’m sure rehearsal is about at an end this evening. We haven’t been able to locate Saffron and you don’t need to keep singing when you’re exhausted. I’d say getting home and getting some rest is the smartest thing for everyone at this point.”

  I nodded, but started pacing again. “Nic, have we tried any and all numbers for Saffron? The woman is admittedly not noted for punctuality but it’swhat? Eleven o’clock now and we haven’t heard a word from her, which is beyond even Saffron’s sense of irresponsibility. I hate to say it but panic is starting to set in. It could be time to call Reece. It could be past time to call him. I mean, here’s another girl matching the description, apart from being a bit older, who hasn’t shown up in way too long.”

  Nic pulled out his phone.

  Glenn grabbed my arm before I could do another lap around the lobby. “Bebe, please tell me you’re not imagining what I’m imagining?”

  “Probably. Hey, it’s been a whole whopping thirty-six hours without a blonde soprano going missing. It’s time, right?”

  Glenn winced then said, “Don’t say that. Don’t even think it.”

  “Sorry. I’m just so ticked Saffron didn’t call it’s making me crazy. And I can’t get images of Marigold and Daria out of my head and I’m unbelievably angry at whoever did this to them. So my sarcasm isn’t up to its usual standard. In fact, it stinks. I apologize.”

  Nic finished his perusal of his electronic address book. He frowned, “Saffron has two numbers. Her cell, which Cam and I have both tried at least fifty times tonight, and her landline at the motel where she’s been staying. Again, nada. Zippo. Nothing.”

  “Do we need to call the police?”

  Nic pursed his lips. “I don’t know.” He sighed. “Look, she may be fine. She has some other stuff going on and I’ll explain later. But even so, she’s usually good about answering her phone. Meantime, I say we all head out and check her hotel room. Maybe she wasn’t feeling well and took something to help her sleep?”

  We packed up instruments and left the ballroom. The entire band including Glenn and Stone, piled into two separate vehicles (Dusty’s truck and the Illusions van) and headed down I-35 toward Round Rock where, according to Nic, Saffron had been staying the last week or so.

  After pounding on Saffron’s hotel door for a solid five minutes while simultaneously calling her room phone and yelling, we decided we needed reinforcements.

  The manager at the Dew Drop Inn wasn’t thrilled with being awakened, finding the key, and then allowing us access to Saffron’s room. But when confronted with six scowling men and one female prepared to tear down the door with bare hands if necessary, he capitulated. “She’s a good tenant, folks. Paid up through the rest of the week. Now don’t disturb nothin’ or take anythin’ either ‘cause Miz Baker would be upset.”

  Hearing his comments made me want to throw the tacky lamp resting on the tackier table by the front door. “The only thing we want to take is Saffron. Intact.”

  The studio wasn’t large. A bedroom leading into a kitchenette with a space one could euphemistically call a breakfast bar. If one was prone to exaggeration and lies. A small hallway opened onto a surprisingly spacious bathroom complete with countertop, vanity and a shower stall bigger than my bedroom closet back in Jersey.

  Nowhere in any of these rooms did we find Saffron. Clothes were scattered everywhere, make-up spilled on the bathroom counter, but the clutter didn’t worry me. I had a feeling being a slob was Saffron’s normal housekeeping pattern and not an indication of foul play. But her total absence did worry me. “Dammit. Where is the woman? Cam? Try her cell again. I don’t see it here and I don’t see the charger either.”

  Cam shook his head but did as asked. “Ringing. Voice mail.” He held it out. “Cute outgoing message. She kind of paraphrased and mutilated the first lines of the old Donovan song Mellow Yellow. ‘If you’re wild about Saffron, then leave a message. Later.”

  No answer. It was now just past midnight.

  We gathered in the kitchenette area again, which gave us viewing access to the entire studio except for the bathroom and since we’d covered each room pretty thoroughly, including letting me, as the only girl, peek inside the shower to make sure Saffron wasn’t lying naked face down in a puddle we’d decided the bathroom wasexcuse the terma wash.

  From our vantage point in back of the bar counter separating kitchen from living room we slowly surveyed the space. I didn’t see a bloody thing indicating whether Saffron had run away to Tahiti, was having a sleepover with a biker gang down in San Antonio, or been snatched by anyone from aliens to the person or persons responsible for taking Marigold, Daria and Arianna.

  Cam turned to face us all. “Ideas?”

  Glenn nodded. “She has a grandmother who lives in Thorndale. Maybe she decided to visit and ended up eating too much good country cooking, fell asleep and Mrs. Baker hasn’t bothered to wake her?”

  “A grandmother in Thorndale?” I asked. “Why the heck hasn’t she been staying there anyway? Cheaper than this studio and closer to Georgetown too.”

  Nic raised an eyebrow. “If you were Saffron, would you want to be staying with an elderly lady or be seconds away from the nightspots of Austin? We’re talkin’ wild child Saffron, not Bebe.”

  “I’ll have you know, I’ve sampled the nightlife a time or two. But I get your point.” I glanced at Cam. “Road trip to Thorndale?”

  “Oh sure. Gas prices haven’t gone up in the last hour so we’re good driving all over Texas for the night.” His voice sobered. “I hope we don’t have to. I hope the young Ms. Baker is cozily sitting in Granny’s kitchen eating sausage with biscuits and gravy so I can haul her butt out of there and then fire her butt for making us all crazy. Glenn? You know where this place is?”

  “Address only.”

  Five men dug out various phones with map apps. Clifford was the only male who apparently hadn’t jumped into the era of the GPS tracker for all. I bit my lip and tried not to laugh as they raced one another for who’d find directions the fastest as soon as Glenn gave them.

  Nic won. He quickly shared with the others the best route then pointed to the door. “Okay, the search is on. Outta here. Let’s make tracks and roust this woman out of whatever eating binge or sleeping stupor she might be engaged in.”

  Once again, we piled into separate vehicles, then took to the road. Down I-35 to Highway 79, then to small farm to market road 486 and some little cul de sac not far from Jackson Lake. Only a few houses dotted the landscape. We found Number Five, the Baker residence, but couldn’t tell from the street whether anyone was up and around.

  Doors opened from Dusty’s truck and the Illusions van. Simultaneously the front door of the Baker house opened, the porch light clicked on and out stepped a four-foot nothing ball of fury, wearing a red robe, yellow high-tops and a man’s brown fedora left over since the 1940s. She was also sporting a very large weapon.

  Chapter 32

  I’ve never fired a gun. Never held one. I’d seen them on the various TV crime shows I’m addicted to but wouldn’t know a .38 from a .22 from a water pistol. But even I could tell the gun in this woman’s hand was of the very lethal variety. She was holding a double-barreled shotgun. And aiming it right at us.

  “What the hell you idjits doin’ on my property at this time of night? You wanna rob me? Well, you jes go ahead and try. If I don’t get ever last one a ya on my first shot, then Brutus will finish the j
ob.” She whistled and a mean-looking Rottweiler appeared beside her. Brutus, I presumed.

  I figured I probably looked the least threatening of the gang. I waved my hand and hurriedly called out, “Mrs. Baker? We’re friends of Saffron’s. We came to see if she might be spending the night with you.”

  She glared at us all, but lowered the shotgun. “Well, dammit, why didn’ ya jes say so ‘stead a standin’ there in the street like a bunch of thugs? She ain’t here, but come on in and have some sausage an’ biscuits n’ gravy fer yer trouble.”

  There was no way out of this. We were in for a spread of fat and calorie-laden goodies. When a woman with a big dog and a bigger weapon invites you inside for a little snack after midnight, even when you’re worried about the whereabouts of her kin, you don’t quibble. You sit down at a kitchen table, pat the hundred-plus-pound beast who’s gone from snarling to drooling on your sandals, placing his massive head on your knees and staring at you in adorationand you eat sausage, biscuits and gravy when you’re not sneaking bites to the mutt.

  Like the dog, Granny Baker warmed up to everyone once we were seated and eating. She began worrying about her granddaughter the minute we informed her Saffron hadn’t shown up for rehearsal, hadn’t answered her cell and hadn’t left word with anyone as to her current whereabouts. We politely refrained from mentioning the disappearance of three other young ladies so as not to alarm Granny but she was ahead of us.

  “You supposin’ the loser wacko has her?” she asked. “The one’s been snatchin’ those other girls who look like Saffron? And I heard on the news the cops found one of ‘em in a grave. What a sicko.”

  Nic shook his head. “We don’t know what to think. Saffron’s tough and she can take care of herself but with what’s been happening we’re not exactly thrilled she hasn’t been in touch.”

  Granny chewed on a gravy-slathered biscuit. “Didja’ll try Travis?”

  We stared at her. Clifford was the first to speak. “Travis?” He asked. “Who’s Travis?”

  “Her on again off again fiancé. And when I say on and off I’m talkin’ nearly six years of this nonsense. Personally, I don’t care if she ever gets married ‘cause marriage ain’t no bed of feathers to tell the truth, and I should know having changed my damn name four times ‘fore I found Mr. Baker, who wasn’t great shakes either, but a decent provider. Anyways, she and Travis have planned more weddings, then cancelled ‘em, in those six years than St. Elizabeth’s church has done actual ceremonies.”

  Wow. Saffron was one close-mouthed lady. First a gun totin’ much-married grandmother, now a mysterious fiancé no one knew about.

  Seven voices chorused with “Where? Does this Travis have a number we can call?”

  Granny shrugged. “I’d imagine he does but it don’t do nobody no good. I ain’t got no number for him. He don’t own no real phone, just one of them mo-bile jobs and I ain’t never had no call to be gettin’ in touch with him anyway. But he lives up in Jarrell, ya know, where the tornado hit in Ninety-seven and damn near totaled the town.”

  Time to leave. Everyone took turns patting Brutus’ head and trying to give Granny Baker a hug. Brutus was happy, whining with mixed emotions of pleasure over the petting and sorrow at seeing all these friendly folks leaving. He followed me out to the car and gave me an extra hug with both giant paws wrapped around my neck. Granny was more particular. She only let Nic hug her. No big surprise. Didn’t matter the age of the lady, they all wanted a piece of Nic Jericho.

  Waves instead of hugs and we were back on the road. Again. Jarrell was northwest of Thorndale with no direct route. We had to retrace our steps and miles almost to Georgetown before heading back up Highway 79. An hour later we were in Jarrell, searching for the home of Travis Winslow, occasional fiancé of Saffron Baker. At this point we were so tired we were getting a little slap-silly, almost forgetting there might be an urgency in finding Saffron.

  More county roads and farm to markets and we were on another tiny street with cute little new houses that had obviously been built since May of 1997 when, as Granny had noted, Jarrell had been leveled by one of the worst tornados in Texas history.

  For a few moments, Cam, Nic and I sat in the van. Nic passed around some cinnamon mints which were welcome after Granny Baker’s sausage and biscuit feast and we munched and chatted about the changes to the Southwestern campus and tried not to speculate on where Saffron could have gone. Stone, Glenn, Clifford and Dusty hadn’t exited the other vehicle either. We weren’t ready to face a man who apparently loved Saffron enough to want to marry her, knowing we had to promptly dive into questioning the gentleman regarding her whereabouts. My overly imaginative scenarios for why she wouldn’t be with him were either sleazy and hurtful to him (Saffron running off with my mythical biker gang) or frightening (Saffron stuck in a small room somewhere with a rag stuffed into her mouth, reeking of chloroform.) I hoped for a third alternative.

  Finally, Nic slid open the van door, eased out, then helped me down. “Nothing to do but the ‘asking’,” he stated. The other men saw us and hopped out as well. Cam slowly slid out from behind the wheel of Illusions. I could see my theories on where Saffron was mirrored on every face. I had to wonder if one of these guys was a damn good actor.

  We cautiously walked in pairs toward the front door of Travis Winslow’s house. I half expected another weapon or giant canine to come barreling out and demand satisfaction for trespassing or disturbing sleep but all was quiet.

  Nic and I reached the house first. He turned around to face the others. “Crunch time all. Be ready to duck. This is a damned stupid hour to come visiting.”

  Everyone was in agreement but we didn’t see a way out of it. Nic rang the bell and we waited. I expected a Texas-sized ranch hand to answer. But when the door opened only moments later, what greeted us was a pint-sized nerd.

  Travis Winslow was about five-foot two, with patchy mousy-brown hair and grey eyes sheltered behind heavy black glasses, which hadn’t been in style since the 1950s. I almost asked him if he was prepping to go to his day job as a computer programmer somewhere in Silicon Valley.

  He stared at the mob confronting him. “What the hell?”

  Nic went into charm mode. “We’re so sorry but we’re Pieces. Saffron’s new band? I know it’s a ridiculous hour but she didn’t show for rehearsal tonight and we thought she might have come here and forgotten we’d scheduled it.”

  It wasn’t the best explanation, albeit true. Travis was no dummy. His eyes opened wide, he ushered us inside, then began pacing across a cozy home office, which apparently doubled as parlor or den. For a moment there was silence. Nic broke it by providing introductions and Travis stared at each of us in turn. “You don’t need to bother. I know who’s who. Saffron did a great job of describing everyone.” He smiled then and I saw why Saffron had been caught for six years. Beautiful smile. Perfect teeth and something amazingly sexy about the way his mouth turned up in an attitude part ironic and part Cupid on a Valentine’s Day spree. He turned to me. “Obviously you’re Bebe, but even if there were six other women here, Saffron nailed your looks perfectly. She told me you were a dead ringer for one of Fabian Perez’s portraits of flamenco dancers. Circa Nineteen-sixty-seven. She was right. All you need is the dress and castanets and you could step right into his paintings.”

  Travis declined to make specific comments on how Saffron had described the men but I was just pleased she hadn’t called me the too-tall klutz who needs more vocal training. Travis let his smile fade as he surveyed us all. “She’s missing. She didn’t just ‘not show up for rehearsal’ and make everyone pissed. Right? Damn it. I told her if she had a brain left in the margarita-soaked skull of hers she’d get the picture it’s open season on blonde sopranos associated with your band and the Beta Zeta sorority.”

  He’d summed it up in one neat, scary package. I sank down into the nearest chair, a silver ergonomic beast, which turned out to be the most comfortable seat I’d ever put my bottom into, then
I started to cry. “She’s gone, guys. We’ve known it all along but we didn’t want to face it. We’ve been having a high ol’ time chasing down highways and byways and eating biscuits and learning more about Saffron’s private life but the fact is, we don’t have a single stinking clue where she is.”

  Nic knelt down by the chair, took my hands in his and tried to comfort me. “We’ll find her. We will.” He glanced up at the others who looked stricken. “Guys, I’m no psychic but I just have this sense she’s okay. I believe she’s not part of whatever else is going on. She has a lot more going on and she hasn’t bothered to call and she’ll turn up. I just feel it.”

  I stared at him, then at the other men in the room, including Saffron’s fiancé. It struck me Nic was right, but not because of any foo-foo sensing and feelings regarding where she might have gone. I’d just realized Saffron couldn’t have been taken by the same person who’d taken Arianna, because all of the men closely associated with Pieces had been at rehearsal or chasing down interstates on a search for the girl. They were as clueless as to her whereabouts as Nic and I. I felt certain aboutone thing. He didn’t have heryet.

  Chapter 33

  “Well, guys, this has been great fun. Let’s do it again, sometime, whacha say?” My tone was probably a bit snippy but it was now close to three in the morning and since the last four and a half hours had been spent jumping in and out of vans touring half of Texas in search of a missing soprano I wasn’t in the best of moods.

  We were back outside the Palace Theatre. Nic had left his SUV there and Cam decided it was better to stop and let him pick it up than wait ‘til tomorrow nightexcuse metonight and have to give him a ride from Austin back to Georgetown for the last rehearsal. Glenn and Stone waved goodbye and headed on to their respective vehicles. After all, we’d determined Saffron wasn’t at her fiancé’s place, and no one had come up with any bright suggestions as to where else to look, so it seemed pretty pointless hanging out for the rest of the night in the parking lot.