Girl Missing, #1

by Kate Gable

  I've always loved skiing here because during the days it can be in the 60s and even warmer with the hot sun heating you up through the thin air. From December through March, heavy snowfall is not uncommon creating snowdrifts of four to five feet tall.

  This is the place where I grew up. Up here, the communities are scattered, mainly focused around the lakes. The biggest one is Big Bear Lake, my hometown, but there's also Lake Arrowhead, and a smaller Green Valley Lake. There are other small towns like Running Springs and Crestline, which have a few thousand inhabitants each. Tourism is the main business. In the winters, people ski and snowboard. In the summers, they rent boats and water skis.

  White flurries collide with my windshield and I know that my Prius is not the optimal vehicle for driving in the snow. I used to have a four-wheel-drive, but the gas was expensive and I needed to find bigger parking spots so I sold it and got this one. Whenever I come up here in the winter, I strongly regret that decision.

  About five minutes away from Running Springs, the first town on the drive up the hill, I see the flashing signs telling me to put on chains.

  “Perfect," I mutter to myself.

  Chains are a good idea but an annoyance to deal with especially in the middle of the night. You have to pull over, get out of your vehicle, get them from the trunk, and then spend a few minutes wrapping them carefully around each wheel to make sure that you have a good grip on the road and don’t slide around causing accidents.

  After forgetting them once and then spending an hour standing in line at the general store to buy an expensive, overpriced new pair with the rest of the tourists, I carry them with me in the trunk at all times.

  What I did forget was my gloves.

  With the wind whizzing around my ears, I grip my frozen hands on the ice-cold metal and try to wrap the chains around the snow-covered tires, cursing myself. For a moment, I’m tempted by the bright lights of the exit sign pointing in the direction where I can buy another pair, but I grit my teeth and focus.

  The cold nips at my nose and my cheeks, but I force myself to stay. Mom has plenty at home.

  5

  I get to my mom's house in Big Bear. It's an A-frame home that's a few streets away from the lake. My mom bought it back in the '70s and refused to move when the prices started to go up.

  Big Bear is mainly a vacation market type of place. Tourists everywhere. A lot of people from LA have moved out here and others bought second homes when they were still affordable. Now, one goes for almost half a million if you want to get a three-bedroom, two-bath in a good area, that is. Second homes used to be something that people enjoyed on weekends, but now they are mainly rented out as an Airbnb.

  My mom's house, my old house, is a three-bedroom, one-bath, and less than 1200 square feet. That's considered quite small, as they build much bigger now. It has low ceilings and a tight dark kitchen. It has shag carpeting and a big fireplace that my mom orders wood for every winter.

  A lot of my friends that I grew up with moved down to Southern California to get away from the snow, but those who are ski bums and the like have stayed behind. My mom never asked me to stay, she knew that I wouldn’t. I like skiing and I snowboard pretty well, but there's no way that I could stay here for long.

  When I finally get home, I find my mom walking back and forth around the living room, completely distraught. Her eyes are bloodshot. Her pale skin is practically translucent, so gray that it's practically green. The lighting in this place isn't the best and there are dark shadows everywhere. She likes it this way. It looks like it's twilight at all times.

  I’ve bought my mom a number of lamps over the years, but they just end up going into the makeshift garage that's really a big storage unit where she keeps everything that has been discarded but she can't bring herself to throw away.

  Her hair is curly and big around her head like always, but a little bit messier and I can tell that she's been pulling at it, something of a tendency of hers. I walk through the door without knocking and she grabs me immediately and takes me into her arms.

  "I'm so glad you're here," she whispers my name over and over again. Her voice cracks practically at each syllable. "She's just gone. I can't believe that she left."

  She smells of cinnamon and mint mixed with chocolate. I know that she's been eating her favorite Andes candies and she always lights that cinnamon candle from Bath and Body Works. I have bought her more than one on occasion and she always burns it down to the very end, keeping the glass containers in a collection on her dresser.

  The toilet flushes and a police officer comes out from the back. I wonder if he had noticed the carpet around the toilet that has been there since I was a kid and whether he, like everyone else in the modern world, was disgusted by it. Another thing my mom refuses to change.

  "This is," my mom starts to introduce him, but he extends his hand and says, "I'm Deputy Tourney… Greg Tourney."

  He's a tall, masculine man who looks like he walked out of a 1960s police drama with everything, including the mustache. He looks to be in his 40s but is fit with piercing blue eyes that catch me off guard at first. From the outside, he's quite attractive, but there's something off about him.

  I tell him who I am and can't help but flash my detective badge from the LAPD. As soon as he sees it, his temper and everything about his demeanor changes. It's like there's a shift. Suddenly, he's not so friendly or outgoing anymore. A tension appears. It’s like when, back in school, the teacher would ask you to read out loud and you knew that you were going to mess up just because you were doing it in front of the whole class.

  "I'm just here because she's my mom," I explain, trying to put him at ease. "I'm not here in any sort of official capacity."

  "Yes, of course. I understand," he says, but I don't believe him.

  I decide to tread lightly. I put my bag down in the living room and we all sit down around the weathered coffee table, with the edges rounded by age rather than by design, to talk about my sister. To say that this is surreal would be a huge understatement.

  Tourney takes notes. I see his little notebook and my mom repeats the story. It's pretty much verbatim to what she told me earlier on the phone. He then turns his attention to me. He asks me when the last time was I spoke to her. I try to think of when and I can't. I look at my phone.

  “I guess it has been a week. I thought that we had texted, but I was kind of busy. I have a few cases that have piled up on me.”

  “Uh-huh,” he mumbles and licks the tip of his pen before pressing it against the paper.

  I glance over at my mom. I'm glad she called the cops. I told her to do that, but I wasn't sure if she would. Sometimes she takes things into her own hands, but sometimes she tends to waver and wait for me to fix her problems.

  She was a young mom with me and the whole time that I was growing up, she sort of relied on me to help her along in life. I didn't realize that until I got older and now I find it a little difficult to deal with.

  Growing up, of course, it was just natural. I had no idea that there were other mothers around, but now that I'm older, I know that I would never want to be a mom like that. That's probably why I haven't had kids yet. I just never think that I'm ready for it.

  An older man who looks and acts like Tourney’s boss comes in to talk to us. Captain Talarico is a few years older, but much quicker on his toes. There are lines that have settled into his face and a haircut that doesn't seem exactly straight across, but I get a completely different feel from him.

  “We’ll get right on this. Everyone in the department will be on the lookout for your daughter now,” he says.

  His confidence puts me a little bit more at ease.

  They ask a few more questions and then they take off. They say that they'll be in touch soon, probably in a few hours if they hear anything. They seem optimistic and I like that, but I know as well as anybody that these cases have to be solved really quickly and these girls have to be found within a few hours if we want to get the
m back alive and in one piece.

  After the cops leave, my mom heads into the yellow-wallpapered kitchen and opens the refrigerator. This is her go-to move when she's nervous. She opens it up and looks inside, bending in half to peer into its depths. The problem is that there isn't much there.

  She's not much of a cook and neither am I. Growing up, we generally ordered takeout or ate leftovers. Sometimes I heated up macaroni and cheese and occasionally, she made eggs and other easy dishes. When I was fifteen, she learned how to make casseroles so we had that for nearly a year until we both wanted to throw up.

  My mom is thin and trim, and she likes to wear UGGs around the house to keep warm. The heater has been acting up and the only source that has been working is the fireplace, which requires constant tending. They are real logs and it's a real fire after all.

  "I can't believe that it's still so cold here," I say when she closes the refrigerator door, pulling out some packaged frozen food from the freezer. She holds two packages up, one in each hand.

  One is some sort of Indian dish and another is Italian.

  “Want to share?" she asks.

  "Sure. Let's go with Palak Paneer."

  She smiles.

  I know that's her favorite as well. She gets it down the hill at the local Trader Joe’s. I would be lying if I said that I didn't basically survive on that back at my place.

  I decide to reheat it in the microwave since the stove is too daunting right now. We sit down around the small kitchen island and wolf it all down without saying a word.

  I look out the window at the enormous pine tree, past the houses across the street at the whitening sky. It's almost morning now, daylight is just filtering through the night. Sunrises have always been magnificent around here, full of reds and yellows, lighting up the sky. Today, I don't want sunrise to come. I don't want time to pass because I know what that means.

  "Is there any chance that she could just be at her friend's house and maybe fell asleep or something like that?"

  “No, I told you.” She shakes her head. “Nancy dropped her off already and she was supposed to come inside."

  "I know, but what if she went somewhere else? What if she had a guy meet her and they went out? What if it's not a big deal at all?" I ask, keenly aware of the desperation in my voice.

  "Yeah, I guess, but she's not you. She's your sister and we both know that she doesn't do stuff like that." My mom's voice is resigned, no longer frantic and out of control, just tired and lost in thought.

  I'm not sure what to do now. I mean, of course I do know the proper steps to take as an investigator, but at this moment, I don't know how to console her. I don't know how to make her feel better any more than I know how to make myself feel better. I just wish that I didn't know all the things that I know about what might have happened to her.

  Unfortunately, I do.

  6

  An hour later I get back in my car, this time wearing a pair of warm gloves and a hat that I haven't seen since I was ten years old and head over to Nancy Dillinger's house. That's out in Fawnskin, about twenty minutes away.

  Nancy is Kaylee's mom and Kaylee is Violet's friend, the one who supposedly dropped her off. My mom talked to her already and she doesn't want to come with me.

  I don't blame her, but I have to. This is why I'm here. This is what I need to do. It's barely seven o'clock in the morning as I make my way around the lake. Snow has been plowed and piled up high along the pine trees. The streets are relatively empty, just a few commuters here and there going where they need to go.

  People come here to see the winter wonderland and that's exactly what it is, the morning after a blizzard. The flurries stopped coming just as I got to my house and they are just settling into place. It's supposed to stay relatively cool today, but by tomorrow, the sun will undoubtably melt them into slush.

  Nancy and Kaylee live past the boulders up on the other side of the lake in a small cabin that requires me to drive up an almost vertical incline. When I park, I immediately put on the emergency brake. I've heard that the internet in these parts isn't that great, but I guess this view more than makes up for it. I look out at the lake, surrounded by tall pines and partially covered fresh snow glistens below.

  When I knock on Nancy's door, it takes her a bit to answer. I texted her earlier, but I got no response and decided to come anyway.

  She appears at the door, bleary-eyed, dressed in a thick bathrobe with her hair pinned up into curlers. I haven't seen anyone sleep in curlers since I don't know when. I used to watch a lot of sitcoms from the sixties when I was a kid and I guess that's probably the last time that I've seen this kind of look. I had no idea anyone still did it.

  Nancy rubs her eyes and covers her brows with her hand to look at me more carefully.

  "I'm sorry to bother you, but I'm Kaitlyn Carr, Violet's sister. I'm a detective with the LAPD and my mom told me that she was missing. So, I came up here to try to find her."

  Nancy nods, but offers me nothing.

  I continue anyway with, "I just wanted to hear what happened from you directly. You dropped her off?"

  "Is this why you're bothering me this early in the morning?"

  "I'm sorry that I'm here, but my sister's missing and every minute is important. We need to find some leads as to where she might've gone."

  Nancy shakes her head and says, "I already told your mom everything I know."

  "I understand, but I really want to hear it from you."

  Her voice is coarse like she has been a smoker for over forty years. She tightens her belt and doesn't invite me inside. I wish I had worn a warmer coat, but this one will just have to do.

  "What do you want to know?" she asks, pulling a pack of cigarettes from her plush pocket with a coffee cup on the front and lighting it with the lighter in her other hand.

  The tips of her fingers are so white. They're practically blue and her nails are painted green but peeling in parts. She holds her cigarette with her fingertips and inhales deeply, sucking in every last drop of nicotine.

  “So, Violet was here with you last night?"

  "Yes, with Kaylee. They played all evening and then I drove her home."

  "What time was that?"

  "I don't know, 9:00? I dropped her off and I saw her walking toward the house."

  "Did you see her walk into the house?" I ask, folding my hands across my chest to stay warm.

  "No, we turned around and drove away. I mean maybe, but I don't remember the door opening or not."

  I have no idea if this is her usual demeanor, cool, defensive, and distant, or if she’s trying to hide something.

  That's the thing that you have to figure out as a detective; is this person you're interviewing naturally hostile and evasive or are they acting like this because they’ve done something wrong? It's not as easy to figure that out as television shows would have you believe.

  I peer into Nancy's house and see that it has similar shag carpeting to what my mom has at her house, only hers is green.

  I see the whole living room from the front door, as well as a small bathroom to the side and another room going up the stairs. The house can't be more than one bedroom.

  "Do you two share a room?" I ask, wondering where Kaylee sleeps.

  "The bedroom upstairs has a walk-in closet. She has her bed there. Why?” she snaps.

  "You have a really nice view from here," I say.

  "Is that why you're here? To talk about my house?"

  "No, not at all. I was just making a comment."

  "Well, I could be sleeping right now and so I would think that you would at least not waste my time."

  "Okay, I apologize," I say in my best detective voice, stern and no longer very friendly.

  If she doesn't want to chitchat, then that's absolutely fine with me. I'm not a fan in the first place.

  “So, you saw my sister walking up to the house?" I ask.

  "Yes."

  "Did she walk across the grass or did you drop her off
near the driveway?"

  She looks at me and then shakes her head. "Why does that matter?"

  "I'm just trying to get a clear picture here."

  "You're wasting time. You, yourself, said that time is of the essence and yet you're here asking me these dumb questions."

  "Okay, Mrs..."

  Suddenly I forgot her name.

  She waits for me to say something and then volunteers it, even more annoyed that she was before.

  "Would you mind if I talk to your daughter? Maybe she would have some ideas. Maybe she would know if Violet had some plans to meet up with someone else after you dropped her off."

  "Sure. Be my guest," Nancy says, surprising me.

  She puts out the cigarette on the ashtray, strategically positioned right outside the house on the deck and waves me inside. The living room is even smaller than it seemed on the outside. The kitchen is an open concept and there are probably two cabinets along with an apartment-size stove and a college style mini fridge. I wonder how long she has been living here, but I don't want to ask any extraneous questions and possibly get on her bad side. She calls her daughter by yelling up the stairs.

  "Okay, I'll be right there," Kaylee mumbles from upstairs.

  Five minutes later, while I take a seat on the small leather sofa, she comes downstairs. She's still wearing last night's makeup and her hair is lopsided and messed up as if she had slept on it wet.

  Dressed in an oversized t-shirt with a unicorn on it and loose-fitting pajama pants, she pulls a sweatshirt over her head and waves hello.

  When I introduce myself, she gives me a slight nod, taking a seat to the left of me. It's kind of a makeshift sitting area made of crates and a pillow.

  "I'm really sorry about Violet,” she says with a shrug.

  "Yes, me, too. That's why I'm here."

  "She still hasn't come home?”

  "No."

  Nancy makes some coffee behind us and I expect her to offer us some, but she doesn't. Instead, she pours herself a cup and my mouth waters as I smell the aroma.