It was the same one I’d read when I started the investigation, but I reread it, noting that there were no quotes from Jeanine or Michael Westlake. Jeanine made sense given she was only twelve at the time. It was interesting, however, that Michael hadn’t been quoted. I hadn’t picked up on that before.
I flipped past the newspaper clippings until I found Gloria Grace’s original notes. As expected, she’d accumulated background information not in the article: Lorna’s place of work—an insurance brokerage—Michael’s business, the name of Jeanine’s school. She’d taken the time to call upon the couple’s co-workers and neighbors, as well as Brandon’s teachers and fellow students.
I scanned the list of names, and found Raj Bhardwaj—that must be Kavya’s older brother. I didn’t see Ben’s name, nor had I expected to, as he would have started his new job. No Sam Sanchez either, not surprising given her reluctance to talk even now. But it was interesting that no one remembered Brandon hanging out with a girl with long black hair and a tattoo. Ben remembered and he’d known Brandon for only a few weeks.
No one could shed light on why Brandon had left, or where he’d gone, though she was left with the impression that Michael Westlake was more humiliated than upset by his stepson’s disappearance.
I flipped to Gloria Grace’s notes relating to the 2015 article. There was virtually nothing there that differed from the original article, though this time she’d jotted down that everyone in the family, with the exception of Eleanor Colbeck, seemed to be hiding something. “Find their secrets, Callie, and you’ll find out the truth,” she’d told me when I’d first called her. Well, I was finding them out, but I was still no closer to finding out what happened to Brandon.
The final article addressed the grandparent scam, prompted by the telephone call to Eleanor Colbeck. Here, again, the notes revealed little that wasn’t in the paper, though I finally remembered where I knew the name Detective Aaron Beecham. Arabella had dated him for about five minutes a couple of years ago after he’d given her a speeding ticket near Miakoda Falls. It was one more thing to cross off my “don’t know or remember” list, but it was hardly helpful to the case at hand.
I closed the folder and put it with the rest of my “Find Brandon Colbeck” material. Rifled through my To Be Read pile and selected A Hole In One, the mystery I’d picked up at the used bookstore on Poplar. Then into the kitchen, where I poured myself a glass of wine in a plastic tumbler. It was time for a bubble bath.
34
I slept in Thursday morning, desperately needing a break after days of setting an early alarm. A light, if late, breakfast of peanut butter on toast and a cup of tea, and I was headed over to the Cedar County Retirement Residence for arrival by twelve thirty.
Platinum Blonde was at her station. She gave me a frosty smile and handed me a thin, brown box, “For Callie Barnstable” written across the front in aquamarine ink.
“Thank you, Stephanie,” I said, handing her a ten-dollar bill for lunch. I could tell she was trying to sort out how I knew her name. It wouldn’t be long before she connected the dots to Kavya.
“Here’s your lunch ticket,” she said. Was there warmth to her tone that hadn’t existed before? Had I been too harsh in my judgement of her? Perhaps Stephanie’s only crime was she’d tired of being the invisible receptionist. And then she spoke. Staccato sentences punctuated with a hint of derision masked by a polite veneer.
“Please wait in the lobby. A PCW will take you to Mrs. Colbeck at one o’clock. Unfortunately, you won’t be able to visit with her after lunch. Dental checkup.”
I suspected Eleanor’s dental checkup was the reason Stephanie had insisted on Thursday lunch versus any other day of the week. I forced a wide smile. “Thank you for the information.” At least one of us could be congenial. I made my way to the seating area, anxious to look at Sanchez’s artwork before I sat down with Eleanor. I had about ten minutes.
As Kavya had told me, the sketch depicted a winged angel in a long, flowing gown, standing in shallow water, pouring liquid from one gold cup into another. It was devoid of background, no fields or sky, elements I knew were often important messages in tarot. Had Sanchez simplified his drawing because it was meant to be a tattoo? Or was there a hidden meaning? I snapped a couple of photos with my phone before putting the sketch back in the box, then emailed them to Misty with a quick note.
Misty, investigation into Brandon Colbeck continues. Need you to compare this drawing with the tarot card, Temperance. What elements are missing? Could the exclusions be meaningful? Thanks as always for your help. Callie
PS Don’t post on website or social media.
I’d no sooner hit send when Kavya stood before me. “I see you got the sketch.”
“Yes, thanks again for that. I should be able to return it later today. Just want to show it to the person at Frame Up, take a few photos of it.”
“Whenever, seriously, no rush. Now off we go to the dining room. Stephanie’s giving us the evil eye and Eleanor’s waiting. By the way, you got lucky. Eleanor’s having one of her good days.”
Table seven was once again set for two, with cutlery, white china cups, cloth napkins, and a glass vase, this time sporting a single pink carnation.
Eleanor Colbeck was already seated, the oxygen tank strapped to the back of her wheelchair, the plastic tubing inserted in her nose, but her blue eyes looked brighter today, and there was a smile on her face that hadn’t been there on my last visit. I hoped the good day would last.
“Callie, how nice to see you again. Olivia would be pleased to know you’ve come round. Do you have an update on Brandon?”
The anticipation on her face broke my heart. What could I tell her? That her son-in-law had planted keylogger software on his stepson’s laptop a few days before he left? That her daughter had recently filed for divorce, and her granddaughter was still trying to come to terms with being the family favorite. Or that I’d come to think of this investigation as a fool’s journey, in more ways than one. I reminded myself the sole purpose of my visit was to find out if Eleanor knew or remembered Dave Samuels.
“The investigation is starting to take shape, but my team and I are still piecing together all the bits and bytes.”
I was saved from having to expand on that by the arrival of our lunch. I’d been right about the grilled cheese. One thin slice of processed cheese between two slices of crustless white bread, over-buttered and barely browned. The mixed greens resembled wilting dandelion leaves and an unidentifiable substance that might have been shredded cabbage, a drizzle of balsamic dressing barely visible. Thankfully the tomato soup, while a tad on the watery side, wasn’t bad. Then again, you’d be hard pressed to screw up canned tomato soup, and if this were made from scratch, I’d be looking for a new cook.
Despite the meal’s many shortcomings, we ate in companionable silence, Eleanor adding my four-pack of saltines to her already cracker-filled bowl of tomato soup mush, her face lighting up as she stirred her spoon around the bowl. It’s the little things in life that keep us going.
Dessert was lime gelatin or vanilla pudding. “The pudding tends to be lumpy,” Eleanor had whispered loudly, thinking no one else could hear her. We both asked for the gelatin and I got to the point. We had fifteen minutes to talk before Eleanor would be taken to her dental checkup.
“I came here to show you something,” I began.
“I thought so.” Eleanor seemed pleased with herself for figuring that out. I gave her an encouraging smile and pulled out a copy of the photograph included in the obituary for David Alexander Samuels. I’d blown it up as much as I could without getting excessive granulation, and cut out the actual notice. I didn’t need Eleanor to get fixated on another death.
“Do you recognize this man? I’m sorry the photo quality isn’t as sharp as I’d like.”
Eleanor took the photograph with trembling hands, studying it from every angle. For a moment I was hopeful.
“He looks a bit like the sketches the poli
ce made of Brandon, the way he’s supposed to look now.” She peered up at me, hopeful, a tremble in her reed-thin voice. “Is it Brandon?”
I shook my head, wishing now that I hadn’t come. Did I really think this memory-addled old woman might have an epiphany, despite her earlier assurances that she’d never been told the name of Brandon’s biological father?
“It’s a man by the name of David Alexander Samuels.”
“David Alexander Samuels. I’m sorry, I’ve never heard of him.” I watched as the brightness faded from her pale blue eyes, replaced by the blank, rheumy look of our first meeting.
Well done, Calamity. You’ve just managed to re-break this old woman’s heart.
35
I left Eleanor and the Cedar County Retirement Residence feeling contrite. My purpose was to bring some measure of peace, or at the very least, answers, to Eleanor. I’d just done the opposite. I made my way to Frame Up, hoping to redeem myself.
Frame Up might have been on Poplar—the same street as Trust Few—but it was several blocks south, a somewhat more desirable location, though still far from upmarket. There was ample parking at the back of the store, shared with other businesses. Most spots were empty, which didn’t bode well for the success of the local shops, but it made my life a whole lot easier. I really hate street parking.
Frame Up was a small space, every wall filled; I could barely see the paint behind the displays. There were multiple examples of frames in every shape, size, material, and color imaginable, as well as a selection of laminated, poster board, and plaque options.
One wall had works by local and regional artists for sale: pen and ink, oil, acrylic on canvas, watercolors, and what could best be described as experimental paintings. There was a small selection of flash art, and though none were by Nestor Sanchez, there were two that had been signed by “Samantha S.” One had an astrological theme, filled with the twelve symbols of the zodiac, the other a large sketch of Sagittarius.
The proprietor was a thin, middle-aged man with ice-gray eyes, silver wire-frame glasses, a pallid complexion, and a prominent Adam’s apple. An embroidered patch on his denim shirt pocket told me his name was Dan. He smiled, revealing a row of semi-crooked teeth yellowed by time. “Are you interested in flash?”
“These two, the ones signed by Samantha S. Are they by Sam Sanchez?”
Dan nodded. “I take it you’ve been to Trust Few. Yes, they are. Sam signs them that way because she doesn’t want to trade on her grandfather’s name.” Dan gave a hollow laugh. “Far be it for me to tell her hardly anyone has heard of him, despite his talent.”
“Actually, that’s why I’m here.” I rested the box on top of the counter, opened it, and carefully removed the artwork. “The woman who owns this brought it here for framing. She said you told her it was ‘Temperance’ from the Rider-Waite tarot deck.”
Dan regarded me with a hint of suspicion. “I remember this. What exactly is your interest?”
I handed him a business card. “I’m investigating a missing person case.”
“If Sanchez is missing, it’s intentional. He’s a nomad. Always has been, always will be.”
It always amazed me when a simple inquiry could lead to an unexpected outcome. I’d never considered that the owner of Frame Up might actually know Nestor Sanchez. “How well did you know him?”
“As well as anyone except Sam. Your classic loner, first drifted into town in the late nineties with his granddaughter in tow. They popped in, hoping to sell some of his flash. I thought they could stand up on their own as works of art, and I’ve always had a fascination with tarot. I purchased a few for ten bucks apiece. I do remember feeling sorry for the girl. Teenagers need stability and Nestor was anything but. I was glad when Dave offered her the apprentice gig after Nestor beat the streets.”
“Dave?” I knew who he was referring to, but wondered what Dan might say.
“Dave Samuels. He owned Such & Such Tattoo in the Nature’s Way plaza. Died a few years back. Pancreatic cancer. Sam ended up starting Trust Few on her own, and she managed to make a go of it. Of course, it helps that tattoos exploded in popularity, but she’s also a smart businesswoman. But I’m guessing you already knew all of this.”
I didn’t answer directly. Instead I drew his attention to the art that had brought me here. “Kavya, the woman who owns this, tells me it was a gift from Nestor Sanchez. Have you seen him recently?”
“I haven’t seen him in a dog’s age. Sam might have, though. You’d have to ask her.”
I intended to do just that. But, I had one more question to ask. “I assume you sold the flash you’d purchased from Nestor. Do you remember who might have purchased them?”
“It was a long time ago. I do remember that I gave one of them to a woman who read tarot cards, but which one it was, that I can’t tell you.” A faint flush spread across his pale face. “As I recall, she rented a basement apartment on Trillium Way.”
The flush made me think Dan had been a client, almost certainly more than once. “Do you remember her name?”
“Something like Stormy? Rainy?”
Rainy? “Could it have been Misty?”
“Misty. You know, come to think of it, Misty sounds right.”
Misty Rivers. And now we’d come full circle. At least I knew where to find her.
36
Questions swirled inside my mind as I drove home from Frame Up. Had Misty returned my email? Did the Temperance drawing remind her of the flash Dan had sold her, and if so, did she still own it? Lastly, I wondered why she hadn’t mentioned any of this when we first started talking about Brandon’s tattoo. I sighed. It was tough enough wading through everyone’s secrets without a member of my team keeping them. I decided to call Misty and ask her to come over to deal with this face to face.
I slipped into a parking spot behind a row of shops on Poplar and walked around to Triple P Pizza, Pasta & Panzerotti. The woman behind the counter recognized me and smiled. “Back for the chicken lasagna?” she asked.
“Takeout pizza today. I just need to make a quick call.”
“Take your time.”
Misty answered on the first ring. “Great minds think alike. I was just about to call you. We need to meet.”
“I’m just about to order a pizza. Care to join me for dinner?”
“I’d like that.”
“Any favorite toppings?”
“I love a good Hawaiian.”
Ham and pineapple were not my idea of proper pizza toppings, but I could live with it. “Consider it done. Come by in forty-five?”
“See you then.”
Misty arrived forty-five minutes later to the minute, making me wonder if she’d been circling the block. I welcomed her in, poured her a glass of Merlot, then placed plates, napkins, and the pizza on the table.
“First we eat, then we talk,” I said, ushering Misty to her seat. She nodded, her silver-tipped, midnight blue manicured fingernails reaching for a slice, then another.
The pizza finished—I wrapped the remaining slices for Misty to take home with her—and we were ready to get down to business. I slid the Temperance flash in front of her.
Misty studied it carefully, murmuring to herself as she did so, nodding as though bringing back a long ago past. After what seemed like an eternity she spoke.
“I used to do tarot readings in my home. Tea leaves, too, though only if a client wanted it as an add-on to the tarot. Sort of like, ‘Do you want fries with that?’ you know?”
I nodded, hoping she’d get to the point before my body was covered in blue mold.
“I was living in a basement apartment on Trillium Way, damp and dingy, but the rent was cheap. I had a steady clientele—at least I did until my landlord threatened to turf me out. One of my regulars was a guy named Dan, and I never did get a last name. He’d come around once a month or so for a reading. One day he offered me a trade—a tarot reading in exchange for a tattoo design. I liked him, and it, enough to take him up on the offer
.”
Misty reached into a purse the size of a duffel bag and placed her drawing adjacent to Temperance. “Mine is signed with the initials, NS, rather than a full name. There are similarities that lead me to believe they were drawn by the same artist, for instance the overall stylization, and the absence of some of the elements on the card.”
As someone without an expertise in tarot or tattoos, I wouldn’t have known which cards these were meant to represent. I said as much to Misty.
“Right, well, mine with the orange wheel and the mysterious symbols represents the Wheel of Fortune, card number ten in the Major Arcana—not the TV show with Vanna White and Pat Sajak,” Misty said, with a smile. She pulled a tarot deck from her bag and flipped through it, pulling out Temperance and Wheel of Fortune.
“Notice the symbolism in Wheel of Fortune, each corner with a winged image resting in clouds. These represent the four fixed signs, or seasons, of the zodiac, as well as the elements of the Minor Arcana. The angel represents Aquarius or air, the eagle for Scorpio or water, the lion for Leo or fire, and the bull for Taurus or earth. As the wheel turns around and around, so too does the year.”
Misty took a sip of her wine. “Notice that none of these elements appear on the artwork, though Nestor Sanchez has included the snake, sphinx, and the Egyptian god of tombs, Anubis, that surround the wheel. With card number fourteen, Temperance, the angel is depicted standing in a river while pouring water from one cup to another, but there is no evidence of the path behind him leading to the mountains and sun, nor has Sanchez incorporated the daffodils on the right. My assumption is that the designs were modified for a tattoo. Sanchez wanted to capture the main message from each card, but was willing to let go of the more subliminal ones. He’s actually created a perfect blend of simplicity and intricacy.”
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