by Lisa Bork
“Your attorney called me a couple times.” She started to walk toward the street. “I remember now.”
I fell into step with her. “We need help finding this girl. We thought maybe she was a friend of your daughter’s.”
Mrs. Bryce stopped walking. “My daughter didn’t have many friends. We were here less than a year before she … died.” She inhaled deeply. “Please, show me the picture again.”
I waited in silence while she looked it over. Mrs. Bryce appeared to be around my age, not unattractive but certainly not vibrant. The bun containing her over-treated hair and the bags under her eyes made her appear worn and tired. I thought I caught a whiff of cigarette smoke from her clothing. The white sweater seemed way too much for such a hot summer day, but Mrs. Bryce didn’t weigh much. Maybe she needed the insulation.
She handed the picture back to me. “I don’t recognize her.”
“Did Abigail have any friends I could contact to see if they know this girl?”
“I don’t know any names. She never brought any school friends home, but maybe you could ask at the school. I think the office keeps summer hours.”
I tried not to feel too disappointed. If it had been a simple task, Greg Doran wouldn’t have suggested hiring a private investigator. He’d have tied it all up in a bow instead. “I will. Thank you. Did Abigail have any regular hangouts I might check as well?”
“She wasn’t much for hanging out. If she wasn’t in school, she was usually home.”
We reached my car. “Can I still buy you an iced tea or lemonade? Or maybe give you a ride home?”
“Thank you, no. I have to go on to work. I waitress at the diner during lunch hours.”
The blue dress was a uniform. I should have known. “I’d be happy to drive you.”
Mrs. Bryce backed away. “Thank you, no. Good luck with your search.” She turned and continued on.
I thought of something else and called after her. “Mrs. Bryce, do you think I could talk to your husband? Maybe he would recognize this girl.”
She stopped walking but didn’t turn to face me. “He’s at work.”
“Somewhere close by?” A hint of desperation slipped into my voice.
Mrs. Bryce must have heard it. “He works at the water park. He should be there now.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Bryce. I’m terribly sorry about your daughter Abigail.”
Her hand waved as if to acknowledge my words. She trudged away. By the time I started my car and turned back toward Main Street, she had disappeared.
Back in my car, I took a second to call Cory and check on Noelle.
His day was going better than mine. “Noelle’s sleeping now. She had mashed banana with her bottle for a snack.”
“Sounds like everything is going well.” I could only hope Erica’s shift went so smoothly. “Any interesting calls or visitors?”
“Just one tire kicker who got his fingerprints all over the Ferrari. I’m going to polish it again while Noelle is asleep.”
Tire kickers. I needed collectors, Magnum P.I. fans, or some wealthy speed demons to take the car off my hands. Maybe next week’s group of lakeside cottage renters would include one. All I needed was one. Was that too much to ask? Was everyone buying their cars off the Internet these days? No wonder Isabelle had insisted on improving my website.
It was already eleven o’clock when I hung up. I decided to try the high school next. If the office kept summer hours, I didn’t want to miss them. Too bad I had no idea where to find it.
I must have had a lot of testosterone in my body, because I didn’t stop to ask anyone for directions. I just drove around the side streets of Canandaigua until I happened upon the high school, a sprawling two-to-three story brick structure with a portico covering the main entrance.
My high school had been much smaller and housed the elementary and middle school as well. Very convenient for me since I was responsible for getting my sister, who was five years younger, back and forth to school every day. I never got to participate in after-school activities, not that I really wanted to. High school, in my opinion, was something to get through in order to move on to real life.
A stout brunette bustled to the counter in the main office when I entered. “Can I help you?”
I pulled the picture from my pocket. “I’m trying to find out if this girl was a student here. Last year perhaps?”
The woman’s eyes narrowed. “May I ask why you want to know?”
I told her my sad tale. She wasn’t moved by it. “I would need her name to find her record. Sorry.”
“What about yearbooks?”
“We have a copy of every yearbook in the library, but the library is closed for cleaning. I’m sorry, we can’t help you.”
She stared at me until I decided to retreat. I stood in the empty hallway, smelling the weird combination of sweat and mustiness all schools seem to have. My only prudent choice was to leave. But I wasn’t feeling all that prudent.
I took off down the hall in search of the library. With any luck, it would be unlocked and the yearbooks readily accessible.
I found it quickly. Its door was wide open. I stepped inside. No one was in sight. I started my search.
After five minutes, I had the last three yearbooks on the table in front of me. I flipped through the pages, studying all the girls. The most recent yearbook didn’t yield any clues.
Abigail Bryce’s picture was in the prior year. Apparently she had either graduated early or young. In the three books, lots of the girls resembled Noelle’s birthmother … and none of them did. A Candace Morton caught my eye, though. Was she related to the Cynthia Morton Mrs. Bryce had mistaken me for? I rose to put them back on the shelves.
A man’s voice said “Excuse us.”
I turned to find the woman from the office glaring at me. Next to her stood a man in a business suit, a principal-looking man, who didn’t look too pleased to see me.
____
By the time I reached the water park at one o’clock, I felt hot, sticky, hungry, and frustrated. The principal had taken me to his office and chewed me out. Thirty-seven was a little old to visit the principal’s office for the first time. I left the school red-faced.
My day didn’t improve. A cashier charged me nineteen bucks to get into the water park, but she promised me a fourteen-dollar refund if I returned to the gate with my wristband still dry and intact. I was wearing a navy linen pants suit from Talbots and two inch heels for Pete’s sake. Did she really think I’d head for the waterslides?
She pointed me in the direction of the food concessions and said Mr. Bryce managed that area. Given it was lunchtime, he was probably busy. I decided to buy myself a burger before attempting to approach him.
I got in line behind a tall man in a Speedo. Ugh! No man should ever fool himself into thinking his gumballs looked good so tightly wrapped. This guy had gray in his hair, too. He should have known better.
“Dad, we need two more orders of fries and another Coke.”
He turned to acknowledge the willowy teenager, who approached from our left. She appeared to be with a birthday party occupying a picnic table under a white tent. “Okay, Christina.”
The man’s voice sounded familiar to me. Could he be a customer? I tried to circle to his left to see his face, but the line moved forward.
After he placed his order for four burgers and two orders of fries and two Cokes, I knew I’d spoken with this man before … and more than once. I still couldn’t place him, but I had to know who he was. Maybe I could sell him a slightly used and abused Ferrari.
I placed my order for a cheeseburger and a Coke and moved over to the line for picking up orders. Again, I tried to get a look at the man’s face, but his back was to me.
My order came up before his. I accepted the tray and moved to the condiment area, waiting to come face-to-face with him there. After taking excruciating care with applying ketchup to my cheeseburger—I did resist drawing a smiley face like I do to entertain N
oelle, however—the man approached.
“Excuse me. I know you from somewhere but I can’t place you. I’m Jolene Parker. I own Asdale Auto Imports in Wachobe.”
The man’s eyes widened and his tray jerked, bumping into mine. My Coke slopped over onto my wristband. I could kiss my fourteen dollar refund goodbye.
“Dad, can I take the tray?” His daughter slid it from his hands and smiled at me. “My friends are hungry.”
I returned her smile. “I’m sorry. I’m keeping your father from you. Is it your birthday?”
“Yes. I’m sixteen.”
“Happy Birthday! I’m Jolene Parker, by the way.” I held my breath, hoping her sixteen years included the right kind of social training.
“Christina Wynn.” She glanced up as a woman under the tent called her name, then offered me an apologetic smile. “My mom is calling. Nice to meet you.”
“Enjoy your party.” I waited until she was out of hearing distance then focused on Mark Wynn. He was the same man I saw at Christmastime last year when he and Cory began dating, except today a gold band encircled his wedding finger. “I recognized your voice from when you call the shop to speak to Cory.”
Unspoken words hung in the air between us. Words like Cory never mentioned you were married.
Mark looked over at the tent.
The woman Christina had identified as her mother, his wife, gave me a curious smile and waved.
Since my hands were full, I nodded and smiled in return. Then I looked at Mark and raised my eyebrows.
His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down again. He leaned down. “Cory means the world to me.” Then he walked over to join his family.
And left me holding the hot potato.
While I ate my cheeseburger in the scorching sun, dampened the underarms of my suit with sweat, and tried to keep my mind off Cory’s doomed love life, I watched the staff behind the concession counters, trying to decide which one was Mr. Bryce. Most of the employees wore polo shirts and looked like teens or college kids. Two men, one maybe in his early forties and the other in his fifties, wore short-sleeved dress shirts. The older man had on a wedding ring. I pegged him as Mr. Bryce.
Wrong again.
“I’m Bryce.” The younger, better-looking man sidled over, taking the spot across the counter from me in place of his co-worker.
Bryce’s hair was cut an inch on the crown of his head and shaved up the sides. Flecks of gold sparkled in his hazel eyes, along with what I interpreted to be sexual interest. He had that familiar heavy cologne smell—eau de ladies’ man. No wonder Mrs. Bryce looked so weary.
I identified myself and explained I had spoken with his wife earlier in the day. Then I pulled out the picture. “This is the girl we’re looking for. We think she might have known your stepdaughter. Do you recognize her?”
Bryce took it in his hands and appeared to study it with care. “No. Sorry.”
I accepted the photo back. “Do you know of any place Abigail liked to hang out? Maybe someplace she might have met this girl?”
Bryce busied himself with emptying one of the cash drawers. “Abigail didn’t go out. She could have gotten in here for free, but she never wanted to come.” He sounded almost disgusted.
“Would you know the names of any of her friends that I might ask?”
“No. They’ve all graduated and left town by now anyway.”
“Did Abigail have plans to go to college?”
“You’d have to ask her mother.” He glanced at the clock on the wall. “I have to go now.”
He left the stand with a vinyl envelope filled with cash and took off in the direction of the entrance to the park. A string of keys dangling from his belt jingled with each step he took. I watched him walk away, frustrated, thinking it’s hopeless. In an instant, my mind made a one-eighty. No, persevere.
I pulled the picture out and showed it to all the staff behind the counter, receiving only headshakes in return. Most of the kids were new to the water park this summer. I needed to find longer-term employees who had worked here a year ago when Abigail Bryce was still alive. I asked the kids about hangouts and got the usual responses: shopping plaza, movie theater, and Kershaw Park beach. If I stood outside the entrances to all those places for an entire day, what would be the odds I would find someone who recognized this girl in the fuzzy picture?
An hour had passed since my arrival. My three o’clock appointment waited.
I stopped at the exit and showed the cashier the picture as well. She didn’t recognize it, but she said this was the first summer she had worked at the park. Then I showed her my park band, which was tinged brown. After explaining about the Coke spill, pointing out my hair wasn’t wet, and holding out my wrist for her to sniff for chlorine, she refunded my fourteen bucks. At least somebody bought what I was selling today.
I asked her if I could see the manager. She called him on the phone and he appeared, looking flustered. He must have thought I had a complaint. When I showed him the girl’s picture, he didn’t recognize her. He’d worked there for three years. The water park was a dead end.
My car released a heat wave that shimmered in the air when I opened the door. I considered stripping down to the camisole under my short-sleeved suit jacket and decided to crank up the air instead. While I waited for it to kick in, I dialed Erica’s cell.
Erica answered on the third ring. “We’re at the park, but Noelle’s rubbing her eyes. I’ll take her for nappy-bye soon.”
“And you’re alone with her?”
“No, Jo. We’re surrounded by screaming children and their keepers.”
I decided to be more direct. “You’re not with Sam.”
“I’m not with Sam. He had things to do today. I think he’s getting me a ring.” Erica’s voice rose with excitement.
Oh, joy. Sam was only in his early twenties and had never worked a day in his life. I hoped he wouldn’t steal a diamond. Nevertheless, nothing immediate to worry about. “Great. I’ll see you at four forty-five.”
I spent the next hour of my drive trying to figure out why Mr. and Mrs. Bryce made me so uncomfortable. They’d answered all my questions, except the one about college, which really wasn’t all that important. Abigail Bryce never made it to college. She couldn’t have met Noelle’s birthmother there.
Mrs. Bryce had looked worn out, but she’d lost her only child. Every day I feared losing Noelle, but Noelle wasn’t going to die. I couldn’t imagine how I would take it if she did, but the lone warm tear rolling down my cheek and huge lump in my throat at even the mere thought were pretty good signs.
Why had Mrs. Bryce failed to answer her doorbell? Why was she so afraid I might be Cynthia Morton? Maybe I should have asked her. Ray would have asked her. Could it have something to do with her husband, the ladies’ man? Bryce had been polite, but I didn’t like him. Polite wasn’t always a good thing. Just look at Mark Wynn. He had perfect phone manners every time he called the shop to speak to Cory. Now he smelled like yesterday’s garbage. Would he tell Cory the truth about his wife and daughter during their romantic weekend? If he didn’t, should I? It was so hard to know if that would be the right thing to do as Cory’s friend, or the absolute wrong thing.
____
The 1970 240Z that Dave Barclay hoped to purchase sat in a six-car garage attached to an imposing three-story brick mansion overlooking the churning gray waters of Lake Ontario. The plates on the silver Jaguar in the garage indicated the owner was a member of the judicial society. Maybe he’d recognize a plea deal when he heard one.
He introduced himself as Ed.
“Here she is.” He lifted a cover off the Z to reveal a red, white, and blue paint job. Car number 112, at least in its last race.
“How long have you owned the car?”
“Sixteen years.”
“When was the last time you raced her?” By habit, I ran my hand along the contours of the hood and circled the vehicle, looking for rust, dents and scratches, hints of Bondo, or other evidence of
contact on the track. The car was clean. Not that Dave Barclay had asked or cared. After all, the car was going to be buried. He hadn’t even specified that it needed to be in one piece, which was a good thing because often racecars were completely disassembled between races to check every bolt and wire in an effort to improve performance. Cory could have put it back together, if necessary.
“1998 maybe. I changed hobbies.”
“Really? What’s your new hobby?”
Ed lifted the tarp off something that took up two garage bays. It looked like two wings attached to a bicycle seat.
At first I thought it was a replica of Orville and Wilbur Wright’s first flyer at Kitty Hawk, the one pictured on the North Carolina quarter. But I didn’t want to guess. “What is it?”
“An ultralight. It’s a light-weight airplane.”
I’d heard of them. “Where do you buy them?”
“I built this one from a kit. Got it on eBay.”
“Really?” A plaque on the garage wall caught my eye. Flying is the second greatest achievement known to man. Landing is the first.
“It’s great fun. Makes you feel like a bird.”
“So you fly it?”
“Every chance I get.”
“Where did you learn to fly?”
“I got an instruction manual off eBay.”
I choked back a third “really”? Man must have a bird brain. “Don’t you need a license?”
“Nope. FAA has no control. It’s total freedom. Nothing like it.”
“Wow.” All the more reason he should be willing to give up the Z. If Kim Barclay’ grandfather had more time, we could just wait until the inevitable estate sale after this guy crashed and burned. “Sounds like a great hobby. Are you ever going back to racing?”
“Doubtful.”
“So you might be interested in selling the Z?” The sale was in the bag.
“Well—”
A boy of around ten in a grimy T-shirt and black gym shorts trudged up the driveway. “Hey, Dad.”
“Hey, Max. This is Mrs. Parker.”
The boy held out his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Parker.”
We shook hands. Nice manners.