by Molly Greene
No stone unturned and all that.
Strangely, though, when Gen checked the contact sheet Sophie provided, she found that her parents’ names and number were not on it. She was sure they were still alive.
Why wouldn’t Sophie include her mother and father on a list of people who might be able to shine some light on what had happened? It must have been an oversight. But she wasn’t available to ask.
In the end, Gen found their names and a phone number easily enough in the documents she’d obtained from Mack. She made the call. It belonged to someone new, not a surprise after so many years.
So Gen used her significant investigative skills to track them down, which meant she typed their full names into Google and searched the Internet.
The Keenes were living in a city on the Gulf Coast.
It was half past one o’clock in San Francisco, which meant four-thirty in Naples, Florida. Happy hour, if you needed an excuse to get an early start. While the phone rang, Gen wondered if Sophie’s mom was still the closet drinker she’d been when her kids were young.
A man answered. “Hello?”
“Is this Mr. Keene?”
“Yes, it is. We’re on that do-not-call list, Miss, so you’re not supposed to be dialing this number. That’s how it works.”
Why did everybody take her for a salesperson?
“I’m not a telemarketer, sir. My name is Genevieve Delacourt. Has Sophie mentioned me?”
“Sophie? No. We just talked to her last week. What’s this about?”
“Your daughter hired me to look into Shannon’s disappearance.”
Gen got nothing but silence on the other end of the phone. She gave him another two seconds before she interrupted whatever he was thinking. “Mr. Keene? Are you there?”
“I’ll get my wife.” His tone was distant, but it had nothing to do with miles.
Sophie’s mother took his place thirty seconds later. Her voice dripped with feigned cheeriness, like icing on a cupcake that was so sweet it made your teeth hurt. Still trying to put on a brave face after all these years. Gen wondered if she cried in the bathroom at night now, instead of drinking. Or had she been able to forget?
“This is Kathy Keene speaking.”
“Hi, Mrs. Keene. My name is Gen Delacourt, I’m a private investigator. I was hired by your daughter to look into Shannon’s disappearance.”
“Yes, dear, that’s what my husband said. Why would she dredge all that up again? It’s been so long.”
“She found a painting in a thrift shop. There was a girl in it that looked like Shannon. It made Sophie wonder if her sister was alive out there somewhere.”
“A painting? How odd. She hasn’t mentioned it.”
“I’m sorry if this comes as a shock, I assumed you’d know. What I was actually calling about was to ask if you remembered anything about an artist named Patrick Noonan. I know it’s been a long time, but it could be helpful. I think Shannon dated him or did some work for the guy. Did she ever discuss him or what he looked like?”
“Who was the person again?”
“Patrick Noonan.”
“No. I don’t recall anyone by that name.”
“How about Patrick Prentiss. Does that sound familiar?”
“Prentiss, Prentiss. Let me think. It’s all so hazy, and I’ve tried to put it out of my mind. Now that I think about it, Prentiss was the name of one of her teachers. One of the professors at Columbia.”
“Well, yes, but it was Gregory Prentiss who was at Columbia at that time. How would you know that?”
“Because of Sophie. Sophie should be able to tell you more about him.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Keene, but I’m confused. Why should Sophie be able to tell me about Prentiss?”
“Are you sure you’re working for my daughter?” Kathy Keene’s perky tone fell about five notches to guarded.
“Yes, Sophie hired me.”
“Well, something has fallen through the cracks here. Sophie was a student at Columbia when Shannon disappeared. Art. She was studying art. I have no idea why she would tell you to call us to ask about that. She would know more that we do.”
Gen adjusted as nimbly as she could. “Now I see what happened. We haven’t had a chance to talk about all of it yet, and Sophie is away for a few days. I didn’t want to wait, so I called you. I apologize for worrying you, Mrs. Keene. It was thoughtless.”
“Oh, well, that makes sense, I suppose.” Kathy’s voice raced back up to cheery. “I wonder where she went? She didn’t mention anything about planning a trip, either.”
“Mrs. Keene, what kind of a girl was Shannon?”
Mrs. Keene took in some air on the other end of the phone. Gen gave her space. She’d wondered if Shannon and Sophie’s mother had trouble maintaining the veneer, and here was proof she did.
“She was an angel. She was my baby.”
“Did she get in trouble? Did she have a hard time with men?”
“I don’t know what you mean. Are you asking if she made bad choices?”
“Yes, that’s what I’m asking.”
“She was young. But the boys she brought home in high school were good boys. Nice boys. She didn’t seem to get attached to any of them, though. She hadn’t found the right one yet. I was always so sorry about that. She didn’t have the chance to have a life.” Mrs. Keene was fighting tears.
Gen had stirred the pot enough.
“Listen,” Gen said. “I’d better let you get back to whatever you were doing. I’d be really grateful if you wouldn’t tell Sophie I called. I’m embarrassed that I jumped the gun and tracked you down, and I’d rather she didn’t think less of me for it.”
Mrs. Keene recovered enough to give a weak laugh. “Oh, don’t worry, Miss Delacourt. You were just being, what’s the word they use now? Proactive. You were being proactive. No one will hold that against you, least of all Sophie. But this will be our secret.”
They chatted a bit longer before they said good-bye. When Gen hung up the phone, she wondered if Mrs. Keene would be able to keep a confidence.
Then she wondered why Sophie hadn’t mentioned this ultra-important fact: that she was an art student at Columbia at the same time Corey Uribe was studying there, and while Gregory Prentiss was on campus teaching. Sophie had conveniently left out that detail. And according to her mother, Shannon Keene did not have a problem with men.
Or was Kathy Keene such an ostrich she’d missed it?
* * *
Gen was riding up from the underground garage when the elevator doors opened to reveal Oliver waiting in the lobby of their complex.
“Have you been out?” he said. “I’m shocked you’re willing to be seen in society with your face looking like that.”
“How supportive of you,” Gen replied. “I drove over to the Marina for a walk. And this is a badge of honor. It says ‘I am a survivor.’”
“I think it says ‘I am a street brawler.’ Did people cross the road when they saw you coming?”
“Hardy har.”
Oliver leaned against the wall of the car and patted her wrist. “How are you doing?”
“Better every day, actually. And boy oh boy, do I have a lot to tell you.”
“Uh-oh. That doesn’t sound good. Want to come up for brunch and fill me in?”
“Sure.”
They rode up to the seventh floor and walked to the end of the hall, through Livvie’s fuchsia door, and back to the kitchen.
Gen made coffee while Oliver sliced mango and papaya, then they warmed blueberry scones and doled out the fruit with a healthy measure of cottage cheese.
Words were sparse during food prep, but when they sat down to eat Gen told him about the stun gun outing with Mack.
“Oh my,” Oliver said. “I don’t know whether to be ecstatic or bummed at the thought of you with a weapon. I might be terrified to tease you ever again. In fact, I’m reconsidering the crack I made about your face coming up in the elevator.”
“Good. The
n it was double worth it.”
“So how does it make you feel?”
“I found the experience empowering,” Gen replied. “I never wanted to own anything like it before. And that self-defense studio, Livvie. It’s so cool. Do you want to go with me to a class sometime?”
“Heck yes. I learned to fight in high school, you know, back when I was butch. But I wouldn’t mind a few pointers. Criminals always expect the gays to scream and cower. It’s gratifying to be an exception.”
“There’s more, Liv.”
“Is this the bad part?”
“I know you’ve gotten close to Sophie.”
“What happened?”
“I spoke to her parents. Sophie was an art student at Columbia.”
“Oh.”
Gen could tell by the disappointment in Oliver’s voice that he understood the implication.
“Why do you think she withheld that?” he asked.
“No telling, but it must be significant. I have to ask her.”
“You haven’t already?”
“Her machine says she’s out of the office. I’ve tried her cell at least five times and it goes straight to voice mail. So far, she hasn’t returned my calls. And there’s something else. I got the painting back from the authenticator. There’s the image of a child underneath Shannon in the picture. It was painted over.”
Oliver looked baffled. “What does it mean?”
“Maybe nothing. A better subject came along, the artist changed his mind.”
“But it could be something.”
“Anything could be something when it comes to this case,” Gen said. “Right now it’s a tangle of unrelated facts and suppositions. Whoever painted the damn thing could clear it up, but who that is remains to be seen. I sure wish I could ask Mr. Prentiss what he knows.”
“Genny, that reminds me. I didn’t tell you in all the excitement, what with you getting pushed off the cliff and all.”
Gen chuckled. “What?”
“Justin Allenby’s mother owns a cleaning service in Carmel. Apparently they cater to high-end homes, and Prentiss’s housekeeper is about to do their annual ‘cleaning of the drapes.’ They hire temps because they need extra muscle for the project. I told him you were trying to get to Prentiss, and why.”
“Are you sure you should have? Do you think he’ll keep quiet?”
“I trust him. He won’t open his mouth. He loathes Jacovich, and he adored the idea of helping us.”
“Why does he work for him, then?”
“Justin’s learning the business. Meeting the clientele and the customers, putting in his time. He wants to open his own place someday. Anyway, he suggested he could arrange for you to get into the estate with the cleaning crew.”
Gen grinned at the prospect. “If we go back, I can’t show my face in Carmel. Not in the village, and definitely not at the Prentiss estate. Not after what happened. It wouldn’t do to have the guy who caught me snooping see my face again. Not to mention whoever shoved me onto the rocks.”
“No kidding,” Oliver said. “If you went back as yourself, I’d fret the whole time that you’d end up as road kill. But I have an idea, we can go in disguise. Because it just so happens that we took the time to outfit you at the thrift shop last month. Isn’t that fantastic? We can pick up more stuff before we go. As for me, I’m prepared in that department.”
“You didn’t give away all your feminine gear?”
“Of course not. But like you said before, I’ll need to tone down my former female persona.”
“I have a good feeling about this, Liv. We can get rooms outside town at the Tickle Pink. If we stay in our get-ups and keep a low profile, it could work.”
“You have a good feeling.” Oliver rose and took their dishes to the sink. “Are you nuts? If you were smart you’d be shaking in your boots. Somebody tried to make you sleep with the fishes.”
“I was too far from the water for the fish to get me,” Gen replied.
“You know what I mean.”
“I still think it might have been random. If it wasn’t, somebody was trying to scare me off. I don’t believe there’s a contract out for my life or anything like that. Even so, I’d love a chance to get a line on who did it. And talk to Prentiss. If we can pull that off, the risk will be worth it.”
“Well, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t looking forward to slipping into a dress. But I think I’m over wearing heels. I’ll stick with a few tasteful pairs of flats, in case I need to run away.” He turned to her. “Genny.”
“Yeah?”
“Who do you think it was?”
“Who do I think pitched me off the trail?”
Oliver nodded.
“Someone I annoyed, or someone they paid. The prime suspects would be Laura Ingburg, Jacovich, the guy who caught me at Prentiss’s place, or Prentiss himself.”
“Do you really suspect Laura? She seems so sad. I didn’t get anger from her.”
“Maybe she decided she was furious after we left.”
“Maybe.” Oliver turned back to load the rinsed plates into the dishwasher. “But I always find it difficult to imagine a woman hurting somebody.”
“Tell that to Lizzie Borden’s folks.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Gen dug out her thrift shop librarian camo clothing. The peasant skirt and baby doll blouse would do, but the fisherman’s cardigan was overkill for the season, and she needed a better way to bulk up her waistline. The scarves would have to go.
The answer was waiting at Out Of The Closet.
The store was a gold mine of matronly shin-length dresses. She tried on several sleeveless plus-sized numbers that would easily fit both her and Livvie in their folds. They bought three, plus a dorky sunhat and a length of quilt batting to thicken her middle.
Shoes were easy. Heavy-soled canvas Keds did the trick. Oliver jazzed them up by cutting out the fronts to achieve a homemade peep-toe style only a nerd could appreciate.
Back home, they dolled her up in a long brunette wig with thick bangs. She ruined the look by dragging back the front and sides of the hairpiece and fastening it, straggly and unappealing, with a barrette.
Oliver gave her eyes a baggy effect with a wash of bronzer beneath them, and the sleepless look was enhanced by the huge spectacles she’d purchased with the original costume.
Nobody would look at her twice in these duds.
It pained him greatly, but Oliver bought a similar type of clothing and modeled an assortment of pieces with her before they packed. They looked like bookends, standing before the mirror in full geek regalia.
“I am exactly like my sister,” he said.
“That’s mean.”
“It’s the truth, Genny. I’ll show you a picture. Never mind that now, though. Where are you going to keep your stun gun?”
“You think I need to wear it?”
“Yes, I think you should wear it. Wasn’t that the idea? Strap it somewhere on your body.”
“You really think someone is going to recognize me in this rig and have a go at me again.”
“No, but they might try to put you out of your misery, and you may have to protect yourself.”
Gen laughed and swatted at him, but Livvie was prepared for retaliation and ducked away. She caught nothing but air.
“I’m serious,” Oliver continued. “Why don’t you get a holster you can wear above your knee? No one will see it under those cutie-pie skirts. And you’d have it right there with you. Just in case.”
“I hate to admit it, but that’s a useful idea.”
“I’m often right,” Oliver said, “whether you choose to concede or not. By the way, Justin confirmed this morning. You’re on the crew. You have to meet the Melanie’s Maids team at the Prentiss estate gates at eight o’clock in the morning the day after tomorrow. When do you want to leave?”
“Tomorrow afternoon. I made a reservation at Tickle and I rented us a beige Toyota Camry.”
Oliver chuckled. “T
hat will complete our makeover. Miss and Mrs. Nondescript.”
“Well, sure. No sense spoiling your carefully constructed sham by driving my BMW or, even worse, having someone remember your Rover. The car rental people will send a driver to pick us up about one o’clock. Work for you?”
* * *
Two days later, Gen parked the Toyota on the shoulder outside the gates at seven fifty-five in the morning. Hers had been the only vehicle on the road the entire way, and no one had arrived before her. This was one of those times when being prompt wasn’t an asset.
She pushed the glasses hard against the bridge of her nose and checked her eyes in the rearview mirror. She’d have to take care not to rub the dusted-on bag effect or she’d end up with lopsided makeup.
The roll of cotton at her waist was already damp and scratchy, and she stuck a finger beneath it and pulled, trying to let her skin dry. No relief. It was gearing up to be hot today, and the wig and padding made the idea of physical labor in the heat distasteful.
At least her custom Keds were comfy. If she was forced to, she could haul buns wearing them; she’d tried. Allenby had warned her on the phone that his mother had no idea what her intentions were. And they’d decided it would be best if Oliver was not part of the caper. His disguise was less dependable, and the women might get suspicious.
So Gen was on her own. There was no one to run interference if circumstances turned rough.
Her plan was to steal away and find Prentiss while she was there. If successful, she would pull out the pictures of Shannon and the painting and ask what he knew. She patted the deep pockets in the front of her skirt to be sure they were safe.
On a whim, she dug in her bag for her cell and tried Sophie’s numbers. Her home and office phones were still going to voice mail, still reporting that she was out of town. There’d been no message from her. She had not returned any of Gen’s increasingly strident calls. Whatever the hell was going on there, Gen didn’t like it.
She was adjusting her glasses for the thirty-fifth time when a white van rumbled down the road from the highway. As it passed, she read the magnetic sign on the passenger door: melanie’s maids. The vehicle parked on the shoulder a dozen feet beyond her.