Pushing Up Bluebonnets: A Yellow Rose Mystery

by Leann Sweeney

  Some of the databases allowed me to narrow my search; some of them didn't. I checked all the bigger sites in Texas first, but I couldn't exclude any state in the Union. Though JoLynn sounded like she was from Texas, according to Adele, that didn't mean JoLynn hadn't moved around and been reported missing from someplace other than here.

  I took a Snickers from my desk drawer stash, opened the wrapper and enjoyed a taste of comfort as I pulled up what had to be my hundredth missing-persons site, an obscure one put together by a Houston group called ''Friends of the Lost.'' Sounds like a cult, I thought. No wonder it didn't come up right away. Thank goodness the site was blessedly easy to navigate and allowed me to narrow the search by entering fields like age, ethnicity and hair color.

  I'd just loaded JoLynn's data when the phone rang. I picked up and said hello, my eyes on the newest rows of faces.

  ''It's Penny. Sorry it took me so long, but it was a struggle finding out who takes care of our archived pictures. I'm sending you an e-mail now with a zip file. All the Web photos of adoptable foster kids from 1995 to 2005.''

  But I didn't reply, instead focusing hard on the current photo display.

  ''Abby? You there?''

  My heart quickened as I honed in on one grainy picture. I blinked a few times and found my voice. ''Sorry, Penny. Thank you so much. Anytime you need my help, you know where to find me.''

  ''Damn right I do. Good luck.'' She hung up.

  I fumbled to find the recharging stand for the receiver, unwilling to take my eyes off the screen. I held the photo Elliott Richter had given me next to the unfocused face on the monitor.

  The computer copy was poor quality and another woman had obviously been cropped out of the picture. I could see a shoulder and a dark-skinned feminine hand holding fast to the blonde's upper arm. The blonde had to be JoLynn. Same jawline, same tilt of the head. But though I believed I had finally found her, the caption under the picture did not say ''JoLynn Richter.''

  This young woman's name was Elizabeth Dugan. She disappeared from Houston over a year ago and was listed as ''missing from home.'' Her height, weight and gender matched what I knew, but there was little else. Maybe I was wrong—maybe this wasn't JoLynn.

  I sat back and squinted at the photo and still found the similarities too close to be ignored. Though some of the pictures had case numbers and police contacts listed beneath them, this particular picture gave only an email address.

  I jotted it down but decided to try something else first. I typed ''Elizabeth Dugan'' into Google and the only promising hit led me to a missing-persons message board. The same e-mail address was attached to a message that read,

  No one seems to think Elizabeth is really missing, especially since her husband reported to the police that she left on her own after an argument. She wouldn't do that without talking to me. She is 5 feet 4 inches, 105 pounds, blond hair and blue eyes, twenty years old. You can see her picture on the Friends of the Lost Web site. E-mail me if you have any information. My name is Roberta Messing.

  A husband? A different name? A friend or relative who was worried about her? Would this be a break in the case that might also break Elliott Richter's heart? I sent out an e-mail to Roberta Messing with trembling fingers.

  15

  I waited at my desk fifteen minutes for a return e-mail from Roberta Messing, but like my daddy always told me, I was never burdened with patience. When I started in on my fingernails rather than adding more chocolate calories, I knew I couldn't sit around hoping to see a pop-up on the monitor informing me of new mail.

  I plugged Messing's name into Switchboard.com and found not only her phone number but her business and personal information as well. If people only knew what the Internet had on them.

  Roberta was a veterinarian in a practice with two others at Oakdale Veterinary Hospital. I snatched up the phone and punched in the numbers.

  But Fran, the energetic receptionist, said the doctor was with one of her favorite furry friends and couldn't be disturbed.

  ''Listen, Fran,'' I said, ''I think Dr. Messing would want to talk to me. Just say the name Elizabeth Dugan.''

  ''But—''

  ''You have an intercom or something, I'm sure. Whisper the name if you're afraid of freaking out a Great Dane in the middle of a rabies shot. You'll get your boss's attention.''

  I heard a big sigh before she reluctantly put me on hold. I looked at my watch, wondering how long it would take Roberta Messing to pick up the phone.

  Thirty seconds later I heard a click and a breathless, ''Elizabeth? Is that you?'' Her low, soft voice was filled with urgency.

  ''Sorry, Dr. Messing, no. My name is Abby Rose and I'm a private investigator. I think I may have found Elizabeth, however.''

  ''Where is she? Why isn't she calling me instead of a—a private investigator? Is that because something's wrong? Please don't tell me she's—''

  ''She's injured. In a coma,'' I said quickly.

  ''A coma? Is that where she's been? In a coma for the last year?''

  ''It's been less than a week,'' I said. ''She was in a serious wreck.''

  ''Oh, no. God, no. Wh-who was driving?''

  ''She was. No passengers,'' I said.

  ''Will she be okay . . . or does she have some kind of brain damage?''

  ''The doctors are optimistic. They're keeping her in a medical coma because of the head injury.''

  ''Did she go through the windshield or—''

  ''All I know is her car hit a tree,'' I said.

  ''This is unbelievable. Thank goodness you found me. Who hired you? Did that jerk of a husband finally decide to do something about her disappearance?''

  Jerk of a husband? Uh-oh. ''I think we need to talk in person.''

  A short silence, then Messing said, ''I'm totally booked all afternoon. This is our late office-hours day. But you could come here. I have a little time between patients. Would that work?''

  ''Works fine for me.''

  The feline-entrance waiting room at Oakdale Veterinary Hospital was filled with cats growling, howling or cowering in pet carriers. Cats know what they like and what they don't. I'm sure they believe thermometers up their butts are unnecessary intrusions that cannot be assuaged by the stale, dried-out cat treat offered at the conclusion of this particular humiliation. Yup, all of them knew what was coming.

  The receptionist sat in a circular office that could access both waiting rooms—the dogs were on the other side of the building. I introduced myself and this time I didn't get put off.

  ''Dr. Messing wants you to go right back, Ms. Rose. I'll show you the way.'' She hit a button and a door opened to my right.

  I went through and a young woman met me in a hallway. She wore scrubs covered with brightly colored cats and dogs playfully chasing one another. My Diva would consider this place anything but playful.

  I was led to a small and very messy office. At least the doc had the perfect name.

  ''I'll go get Dr. Messing.'' The girl hurried off.

  The only chair not piled with documents or boxes was behind the vet's desk, so I stood and looked at the framed graduation certificate hanging crookedly on the wall—she'd gone to A&M—and took in the computer with its jungle-birds screen saver and the complete and utter disarray emphasized by scattered papers on the desk, granola bar wrappers everywhere and the wilting jumbo-size paper cup of some soft drink from a convenience store. It had completely dampened and smeared whatever document it sat on.

  I smiled. Here was a woman after my own heart. But then I started when I felt something brush my leg. I looked down and saw what had to be the oldest, mangiest dog in the universe. He or she had one lower tooth that no longer fit in its mouth and was looking up at me expectantly with round cloudy eyes mostly obscured by floppy hair.

  I knelt and the small gray dog's tail began to thump against the wastebasket. I held out my hand for sniffing and a warm pink tongue greeted me instead. Maybe the sniffer didn't work anymore.

  ''I see Buttons has
introduced himself,'' a woman behind me said.

  I stood and wiped my hand on my shorts before offering it out. ''Abby Rose. I take it you're Dr. Messing?'' She was thirtyish, black and makeup free, her long hair braided and beaded. I wondered if she was the woman who'd been cut out of the picture on the Web site.

  We shook and then Messing said, ''Let's make it 'Abby' and 'Roberta,' okay? Can I see Elizabeth tonight? She needs to know I'm with her, supporting her.''

  ''Like I said on the phone, she's in a coma, so I don't think—''

  ''Never underestimate the unconscious mind, Abby. She'll know I'm there, coma or not.''

  ''I think it would be wise to wait. I was only allowed in her room to see if I could identify her. The staff is pretty stingy about any time with visitors. They want to keep her calm.''

  ''Okay, I get that. But why would you be able to identify her? Did you know Elizabeth?''

  ''It's kind of a long story. But I promise you, when she's able to have people in, I'll call you myself.''

  Roberta glanced at her watch. ''I have to examine a litter of kittens someone abandoned at our back door and you can come with me.'' She looked down at Buttons. ''You, too, baby. I know how you love kittens.''

  ''Wait a sec, okay?'' I said. ''Let's make sure we're talking about the same person. The Web site photo wasn't the best.'' I pulled Richter's family picture from my purse and handed it to her. ''Do you see your friend?''

  She pointed immediately to JoLynn. ''That's Elizabeth right there. My God, she—she looks so . . . scared and small.''

  For some reason I'd hoped she'd say that JoLynn wasn't her lost friend, that this was all a big mistake. On top of that, I felt immediate sympathy for Elliott Richter. The fact that JoLynn apparently had another name and a past she'd failed to share wouldn't be news he wanted to hear. ''You're sure that's her?'' I said.

  Roberta took the photo and examined it more closely. ''Of course I'm sure, but who are these other people?''

  ''The family she's been with,'' I said, thinking I didn't want to tell her much before I heard what she had to say. ''I know you're busy and I'm hoping you can tell me everything you know about your friend so I can continue my investigation.''

  ''Certainly, but those kittens can't wait. Come on.'' She passed the picture back to me, turned and left the room.

  I took my cue from Buttons and followed. He was pretty spry for a snaggletoothed old dog. We didn't go far and I heard the kittens mewing before we even reached the treatment room. Buttons was on Roberta's heels, his wiggling nose in the air.

  A heavyset woman who had the sense to wear plain green rather than animal-print scrubs was holding up one squalling kitten and rubbing its belly with a cloth.

  ''Someone had to pee really bad,'' said the woman. Then she put the tiny tabby to her nose and smiled. The cloth she now held in her free hand bore a telltale yellow stain.

  ''Good. That means they're probably not dehydrated yet,'' said Messing. ''We'll take over here, Mary. I need a fecal on the dog in room five. Can you handle that?''

  The woman nodded and left the room like she'd been asked to count the day's receipts and take half the money home. Note to self: No matter how much you love animals, your next job will not be at a vet clinic.

  Roberta was already busy examining the kittens, Buttons resting at her feet, when she said, ''Did Kent hire you to find Elizabeth? If he did, I might have to revisit my opinion of that bastard.''

  ''I assume Kent is the jerk of a husband?'' I said.

  ''Yes. Pretty-boy Kent Dugan, not even concerned enough to file a missing-person report when Elizabeth disappeared. And brother, did he get pissed off when I called the cops.'' She picked up the kitten squealing the loudest and rested a finger near the tiny calico's heart.

  Diva was a calico like this little baby and immediately I wanted to take her home. I should have known this would happen once I walked into this place. ''You said her husband got upset when you called HPD?'' I asked, trying to stay focused.

  ''He said it was none of my business.'' The doc reached behind her to a cabinet and removed several small packaged syringes. ''When the policeman called me, I figured Kent must have shown him his charming side because he convinced the cop she left on her own. When I checked with the police a week later, I was told an officer had gone out to the house and found no evidence of foul play, but that they'd keep Elizabeth's information on file.''

  ''Sounds like you did what you could,'' I said.

  ''I suppose, but I'm certain something went very wrong to make her disappear without a word. That's why I put her picture up on that Web site. Excuse me a second.'' She took a phone from her lab jacket and used the intercom feature. ''I need someone to feed kittens in treatment one.'' Then Messing closed the phone and looked at me. ''I really want to see Elizabeth for myself. I don't care if—''

  ''As I said, she's heavily sedated and—''

  ''Where is she?''

  ''In the neuro ICU at Ben Taub,'' I said.

  ''Thank you. I'll be there tonight and I don't give a damn what they say about visitors.'' Messing continued examining the other kittens.

  ''The best way to help her is by talking to me. I need to know how long you knew her, where she came from, things like that.''

  A teenage boy charged into the room holding a measuring cup filled with creamy liquid. He was a taller, masculine version of the dark-haired Dr. Messing. She was too young to have a son this age. Brother, maybe?

  ''You heated that to ninety degrees, right?'' she asked, nodding at the measuring cup.

  ''Yes,'' he answered.

  ''Cute litter, huh?'' she said to him.

  The doc held up another blind kitten and he grinned, revealing a mouthful of braces. Then he stroked the tiny head with one long, thin finger. Roberta put the animal back in the box and instructed the teenager to feed— but not overfeed—the litter using the needle-free syringes she provided. He carefully left with the box of kittens and the milk.

  Messing looked at her watch. ''You were asking how I knew her. I owned a condo next door to theirs. Elizabeth and I met when we were both getting our mail one day, about a year before she disappeared. I was drawn to her at once. She reminded me of those kittens, of the hundreds of kittens and puppies people abandon at our clinic door. She looked like she needed to be rescued.''

  ''She was sad? Scared? Worried?''

  ''All of the above. I invited her into my home and

  from then on we had coffee together on my days off. She was the sweetest thing. Polite, quiet, always asking about the animals.''

  ''Did she ever say anything about extended family or other friends?''

  ''She said her parents were dead, but that's the most I ever got out of her. She never went into detail about her past—avoided answering me when I asked. The only clue I ever got was when she said she'd had a difficult childhood and Kent promised to fix all that and take care of her.''

  ''But she regretted her decision?''

  Roberta hesitated. ''I think so, but she never uttered a bad word about him. I could see what he was like, though. Controlling, demanding, calling her cell phone every five minutes. I swear the only time she ever left the house was when she came to see me.''

  This fits the pattern of someone being abused, I thought. ''Was she afraid to leave home?''

  ''That was my guess. My practice has brought me in touch with every kind of human behavior—it's not only animals we deal with here, but their owners. I've come to know Kent Dugan's type.''

  ''And you're absolutely positive she didn't leave on her own?'' I said.

  ''Not absolutely sure. Maybe she got brave one day and made a break for it. Maybe I was wrong to think she'd confide in me if she planned on running off. Or at least say good-bye. God knows I would have helped her get away.''

  Time to ask the obvious. ''Any sign of physical abuse?''

  ''No. I think his abuse was all emotional or mental or whatever the right word is. I dubbed him 'the snake'— to myself, of cours
e. I usually pick an animal counterpart for everyone I get to know. And Elizabeth was no mongoose, unfortunately. More like a pet mouse whose days were limited.''

  I wondered what my animal counterpart was—and immediately decided not to ask. ''Has Dugan said anything about his wife since Elizabeth disappeared?''