Vanished

by Karen E. Olson

  Spencer is a fugitive. So I rather doubt that he has an active credit card.

  But then I have another thought: is this the reason he warned me off? Told me to forget I ever saw anything? Does he know?

  It didn’t seem as though he knew anything when I called him, but something came up during our conversation, and maybe this was it. Maybe he knew his credit card was being used by someone, but what if he didn’t know by whom – at least not until I called him and alerted him to the story? That could explain the abrupt end to our conversation.

  Or maybe it’s not this Spencer Cross. Maybe it’s another Spencer Cross. There have to be dozens of Spencer Crosses in the world, if not more.

  No. It has to be the same one. While my curiosity about Ryan Whittier was piqued only because he used the ATM with Zeke’s skimmer, now I’m more suspicious about what might have been going on in Paris four months ago.

  I check the hotel records again. Nothing has changed. The reservations were made online in Ryan Whittier’s name, but charged to the credit card issued to Spencer Cross. Since I don’t have a credit card, I’ve never made reservations this way. It seems easy enough.

  Maybe I can get more information about this card and its owner. While I don’t have the name of the bank that the card was issued on, I do have all the other information at my fingertips. There are websites that can tell me which bank issued the card just by inputting the first six numbers on it, which is the bank identification number. You don’t have to have any special skills to do this. I call up one of the webpages, type in the number and wait for the result.

  When it pops up on the screen, I make my way to the bank website. Online banking makes it easy to hack without actually hacking – especially if the person who holds the card hasn’t signed up online for access to the account. Spencer Cross is one of those people. He has not set up a log-in or password. I need an email account, so I quickly create one on a free site, then go back to the bank. I input the credit card number, create a log-in and password, and the bank sends me a link to my email.

  Granted, most people have done this, and it’s pure luck that Spencer Cross hasn’t. I glance at the backpack, thinking about the cellphone. I have more questions than answers. I certainly can’t ask Zeke what’s going on, but I do have a direct line to Spencer. Maybe there’s a logical explanation. I reach down and fumble in the front pocket of the backpack until I’m holding the phone. I only hesitate a second before hitting the speed-dial number.

  It rings and rings, but Spencer never picks up, just like when I tried to call him back before. He’s avoiding me. Or at least avoiding my questions. I picture him sitting in front of a bank of computers somewhere, curtains shrouding the windows, as he smokes his weed and listens to the phone ring.

  My anger and frustration rise as I think about him – and Zeke. What if they’re into something together? If I hadn’t stumbled upon that picture, I’d have no idea about any of it, but I did and I do.

  Maybe the answer as to why is under my fingertips.

  I look back at the screen and Spencer’s account.

  I’ve had no idea where Spencer is these past months, but the charges on this card show that whoever’s been using it has been everywhere. Besides the Hotel Adele, he’s also racked up bills at hotels in Vienna, Berlin, Lisbon and Barcelona. The only charges I see are for hotels, though, which is odd. None for food or transportation. What’s even odder is that the charge for each hotel is only for one night. The nights in the hotels are also not consecutive, with days in between unaccounted for. The charges only go back four months, to when the card was used at the Hotel Adele. Before that, there’s nothing. No statements, no charges.

  It strikes me that if the mysterious Ryan Whittier has been using this card, he’s been using it ever since he vanished. The last charge is a hotel in London. Whoever used the card stayed there two nights ago.

  Even though Ryan Whittier is not a college student from Charleston, that card can’t travel by itself.

  The thought makes me take pause. If someone is using this card to make reservations online, he doesn’t actually have to be traveling anywhere. He could merely be online – and in one place. That could explain why there are no transportation or food charges, because ‘Ryan Whittier’ lives in the Internet and could be using Spencer Cross’s credit card to create what looks like a false trail.

  The credit card. I toggle back to the article. I reread it again, the claim that Ryan Whittier last used his card at the ATM – not a credit card with someone else’s name on it – and that he’s been reported as missing. If he had a card, why not use that at the hotel? Why use Spencer Cross’s?

  I click on ‘my info’ in the dropdown menu. The email address I’ve created is recorded, along with the name Spencer Cross, but everything else is blank. There is no address or phone number.

  I go back to the account information, noting now that payments have been made. Since there was no online account set up, I can only assume that the payments weren’t made through this site, but from another one. I doubt that someone’s writing checks, but I can’t rule it out completely.

  No matter how much I try to get inside, I can’t crack this. The payment source eludes me, and I am concentrating so closely that I barely notice the waitress has put my check on the table next to the empty wine glass. I blink a few times, focusing on it, but my head is elsewhere.

  The more I try to work all this out, the more I don’t understand.

  I go back to the idea that Spencer Cross – my Spencer Cross – does not have a credit card because he wouldn’t. It would be too much of a minefield for someone who’s in hiding. Just as I wouldn’t have a credit card in my real name.

  But as much as I circle around this, someone has been using a credit card with Spencer’s name on it.

  Footsteps come up behind me, startling me. I look up to see the waitress hovering. A glance at my watch tells me I’ve been here almost two hours. I pull out some cash and leave a very generous tip, apologizing as I reluctantly close the laptop and stuff it in the backpack, slinging it over my shoulder and making my way back out into the heat.

  I don’t have much time before I have to meet with Madeline and I have to get dressed, but I missed my chance to change in the restroom at the restaurant. It’s probably not a good idea to go back and ask to use it.

  Randy’s gallery isn’t too far, and I have to go that way anyway, so I head up Broad toward King Street.

  I notice the car out of the corner of my eye as I’m waiting at the corner to cross. It’s come up from behind and pulls into a parking spot, idling next to the curb. It’s a white Cadillac, and its windows are tinted. Is it the same one I saw earlier? I wish I’d taken note of the license plate number, but I hadn’t. I can’t see the plate from this angle, either, to find out whether it’s from South Carolina or somewhere else. It could be a rental; rental cars no longer advertise their status. If I had the plate number, I could get into the DMV to find out whom it’s registered to.

  My imagination begins to spin out of control. What if it’s one of Tony DeMarco’s men? What if he’s watching me like this, lying in wait until I’m no longer out in public so he can execute the hit on me?

  The crossing sign changes and, as I walk, I force myself not to walk faster or look back. I don’t want him to know that I’ve noticed him. I have to figure out how I’m going to handle this. How I’m going to get out of town without him noticing.

  When I reach the other side of the street, the car has turned, and I let out the breath that I’ve been holding.

  I don’t know how much longer I can live like this.

  SEVEN

  Randy is picking at a salad at his desk in the back office of the gallery when I arrive. He looks up and grins. ‘I didn’t expect you,’ he says. ‘I thought you were having tea with Madeline.’

  ‘In about half an hour,’ I say. I hold up the backpack. ‘I need to change first. Late lunch?’ I ask, indicating the salad.

  R
andy sighs. ‘I got hung up hanging some new work.’ He pauses, then adds, ‘Madeline’s considering another one of your watercolors. She said I should give you a show of your own.’ He’s nodding, as though he agrees with her, expecting me to share in his enthusiasm.

  I muster up a smile. ‘That would be great,’ I lie.

  ‘Maybe in the fall. What do you think?’

  ‘Sounds great,’ I say.

  Randy frowns. He’s finally noticed that I’m not completely paying attention. I am still too distracted by the Cadillac. ‘Are you OK, Tina?’

  ‘I have to get ready,’ I say.

  Randy glances at the clock on the wall and nods. ‘You shouldn’t be late. She hates that.’

  I don’t have to do this. I’m going to leave town anyway. Madeline Whittier will never see me again. The watercolors she buys will be the last. I’ll have to change it up, though, in the next place. I can’t keep doing watercolors. Maybe I can start with acrylics. They dry faster than oils. Or maybe pen and ink. Maybe I’ll go up to Maine for the summer. I could really go to Portland. I picture it being a more bustling Block Island, with rocky beaches and spectacular sunsets. I might be able to get comfortable there.

  Who am I kidding?

  I excuse myself and head into the lavatory next to the office. I shimmy out of my shorts and tank top and slip the dress over my head. It’s a sleeveless shift with a blue and white pattern, made from a soft cotton with a little stretch that hugs my curves. I take off my sneakers and slip on the sandals that have a small heel. My clothes go into the pack, on top of the sneakers. There’s a full-length mirror on the back of the door, and I assess my appearance from different angles. The dress is nice enough, but it makes me look my age, and I’m not sure I’m ready for that. I’m over forty, although not by much, but it’s still a bit of a surprise when I look in the mirror and see the crow’s feet that have nestled in the corners of my eyes and the gray in my hair. The salt and pepper curls didn’t bother me when I was living on Block Island, but I’ve found myself wondering what Zeke sees when he looks at me. I’m certainly not the young woman he was in love with all those years ago. The biking has given me a leaner look, though, and I’m in better shape than I was back then, which is a bit of a consolation.

  I run my hands under the faucet and comb my fingers through my hair, which I’ve cut shorter again while I’ve been here. I adjust my glasses and pick up the backpack, which doesn’t go with the dress but I don’t have a choice, so I’ll have to own it. It’s all about attitude.

  The woman who walks out of the restroom is a different one than the woman who walked in. I like that other woman – she is more like Nicole Jones, who I was when I was on Block Island – and I am uncertain about this one. But fortunately I only have to play this role intermittently, even though the idea of having tea with anyone terrifies me.

  Randy grins approvingly when I emerge.

  ‘Perfect,’ he says. ‘Now you have to charm the hell out of her.’

  I give him a small smile, as though I’m agreeing with him. Escape again crosses my mind. Wherever I go next, I shouldn’t make friends. It’s too hard to leave them, and I hate knowing that I’ve disappointed anyone. When I had to leave Steve on Block Island six months ago after my long absence, it was as though I was leaving him again for the first time – for both of us. Maybe the better rule is to never go back.

  The thought of that makes me so sad.

  I force a bright smile for Randy. ‘Is there anything else I need to know about her?’

  ‘Besides the fact that she thinks you’re an amazing artist?’ He grins. ‘Not at all. That’s the only thing.’

  I tend to doubt that. I shift the backpack over my shoulder and start for the door.

  ‘Oh, but there might be one thing.’

  I stop and pivot, waiting for Randy, whose expression has grown dark. I immediately get a bad feeling.

  ‘Madeline likes you, Tina. But it doesn’t take much to get on her bad side. Be friendly, smile a lot, let her talk. If she likes you, you’re golden. But if she doesn’t, then you’re done in Charleston.’

  I study his face and see that he’s serious. Since I’ll soon be gone anyway, his warning doesn’t resonate, but I humor him. I put my hand on his forearm and give him a smile. ‘Don’t worry, Randy. I’ll be on my best behavior.’

  I see it then, in his face. It’s not so much about me but his relationship with Madeline that could be on the line, depending on how this goes. I don’t want to be the cause of a rift between him and Madeline. Not to mention that I owe him.

  ‘You’re going to be late,’ he teases, glancing at the clock.

  I can use this to my advantage, as I’ve been a little concerned about seeing that Cadillac again. ‘I need to call a cab.’

  Randy gives me a curious look, then nods. ‘It’s not that far, but it’s hot out and you really should be on time. An Uber is faster.’ He knows I don’t have the app on my phone, so he uses his.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, squeezing his arm. I really am going to miss him, and I feel terrible about not telling him that this will be the last he’ll see of me.

  When we see the Uber car pull up out front, I start to leave, but he says, ‘Oh, wait.’ Randy pulls open the side desk drawer and takes out an envelope. ‘I forgot to give this to you last night.’ He hands it to me. ‘This is from the watercolor Madeline bought, but I also sold a couple of others, so you’ve got a little windfall this week.’

  The envelope is thick, and I can’t help but think it’s good to replace the money I’ve spent on the laptop. I unzip the backpack and shove the envelope inside, then zip it back up again. ‘Thanks, Randy.’ This time, I take another step toward him and lean in, giving him a kiss on the cheek. ‘It’s nice to know you’re always looking out for me.’

  And then I really do go.

  Meeting Street, down where Madeline Whittier lives, is lined with elegant homes that reflect this charming Southern city. Madeline Whittier’s house is painted an eggshell white, the ceiling of the long side porch a robin’s egg blue, common throughout the city. I’ve been told that this is so bees and hornets think it’s the sky and won’t build nests.

  I climb out of the car, glancing around, but the Cadillac is nowhere to be seen. I don’t approach the porch door that faces the street, as it’s merely to protect the family’s privacy, and instead climb the steps to the main door, which is ornately carved. As I ring the bell to the right of it, I try to devise a way to get out of here sooner rather than later without getting on Madeline’s bad side.

  The door swings open, startling me out of my thoughts. There’s a girl on the other side. She’s maybe sixteen, with thick dark hair and red cheeks.

  ‘Miss Jones?’ she asks before I can say anything.

  I nod, and she indicates I should come in, so I do so. The foyer stretches into a long hallway with a gigantic mirror at the far end and long tables covered with antique vases on either side. I look up to see a chandelier overhead that reminds me of the one in the foyer of the house I grew up in. Instead of being a comfort, though, it feels ominous somehow. I can’t explain it, but something is off here. Maybe Randy’s warning has spooked me a little too much.

  ‘Tina, dear.’

  I turn to see Madeline Whittier come out of virtually nowhere. She’s wearing a long white tunic and flowing, black silk pants. Her feet are clad in small red Chinese slippers. Her silver hair is piled high on her head; diamond earrings dangle from her earlobes.

  I am definitely underdressed, but I don’t know that I can be blamed for that. Being invited for tea is not something that happens in my world. Madeline doesn’t seem to notice that I’m uncomfortable. She is suddenly next to me, her hands on my arms, pulling me close so she can kiss me on each cheek, European style.

  ‘My dear. You look lovely.’

  She’s lying, but I forgive her because she’s such a natural at it.

  ‘Come in, come in.’ She takes my hand and pulls me alongside her. W
e go into a side room that’s full of plush sofas and armchairs and teak coffee tables, but we don’t stop here. She leads me through French doors onto the porch that’s surrounded by ornately carved railings. Gleaming silver utensils and a china tea set decorated with small blue flowers sit on a table covered by a crisp white cloth.

  She indicates I should sit across from her, and I look out over the meticulously manicured gardens that are bright with flowers I don’t recognize. ‘Isn’t this the most delightful porch,’ she declares as she pours tea into my cup.

  Her hand is steady and when my cup is full, she pours herself one. I am out of my element, despite the fact that I, too, grew up with money. My family’s money wasn’t old money, like Madeline’s, but new money – stolen money. Vulgar, Madeline would probably call it.

  The girl moves swiftly toward us, holding a silver platter. She puts it on the table. Small, dainty finger sandwiches sit on white paper doilies. Madeline moves her head slightly, indicating I should take one. I take two, placing them on my plate. They look too delicate to actually eat, and when I pick one up and put it in my mouth, the bread melts immediately like cotton candy, the crunch of the cucumber reminding me that I still have to work for my food.

  ‘Delicious,’ I say, taking a sip of the tea, which is too hot and scalds my tongue.

  I consider the best way to segue into the question about Ryan Whittier, but while I’m thinking about it, Madeline says casually, ‘I have friends in Portland.’

  I try not to show that unnerves me and take another sip of tea.

  ‘They’ve never heard of you.’

  ‘It’s a big place,’ I say, surprised that my tone is steady.

  ‘Not so big.’ Madeline smiles at me, but again, it doesn’t reach her eyes. ‘And you’d think someone with your talent would not go unnoticed. Those beautiful watercolors.’

  I remember that she’d mentioned how she loved Seattle more than Portland, so I assume she’s talking about the one in Oregon. I can tell her that she’s made a mistake, that I’m really from Maine. But it might raise red flags with her, since I didn’t say anything last night. It’s also possible that she’s already checked me out in both cities. She seems the type who’d be thorough in her inquiries. I wait for more but she doesn’t elaborate, just drinks her tea and watches me.