“Any boyfriends?”
“No. Not for a while now.” Was that even true?
“Any history of alcohol or drug abuse?”
“No. None.” Of that she was confident.
“Has she ever done anything like this before? Just gone off without telling you?”
“No. We’re very close. She’d tell me if she was going to be away for a long time.”
“But you don’t recognize the people who left messages.”
“No.”
“So maybe not that close, after all.”
Maddie didn’t bother to respond. What did he know about her and Kat?
“Does she have a job?”
“She’s a journalist.”
“Have you tried her employer?”
“She’s freelance. She writes articles. Travel pieces. Celebrity profiles. Other assignments.”
“I take it that her job involves some travel.”
“Yes.”
“Is it possible that she’s just off on an assignment? Out of the country?”
“I suppose it’s possible. But it isn’t like her to be out of touch for such a length of time.”
“Listen, Ms. DiMarco. There’s nothing here to suggest foul play. No signs of struggle. Your sister is an adult. As you said yourself, she travels for her work. Chances are that’s where she is now. Or perhaps a new boyfriend.”
“So that’s it?”
“I don’t know what else we can do.”
The hope she had allowed herself earlier faded.
“I can put in a routine report, and after twenty-four hours they might assign a detective to check in with you. Put out an ATL.”
“ATL?” She hated acronyms.
“Attempt to locate.”
Maddie fought to keep the panic out of her voice. “Listen, I really think something’s wrong. I know there aren’t any signs of a struggle, but there are signs. The dishes in the sink. And her orchids needed watering.”
Officer Segerman smiled. “Ms. DiMarco, if we had to check on dried-out plants, we’d be too busy to catch the bad guys.”
She clenched her jaw to contain her anger, to keep from yelling at him.
MADISON
It was intolerable to think of waiting twenty-four hours. There had to be something she could do, someone she could call who might have some knowledge.
Izzy.
From the front stoop, Maddie saw that the shades of the two street-level windows were drawn closed. She pressed the buzzer. Waited. Pressed again. Although it was nearing ten o’clock, she supposed Izzy could still be in bed. She knocked on the door, then gave one last try with the bell, heard the five-note chime ringing on the other side of the door. Finally, she gave up and returned to Kat’s.
Maybe Izzy wouldn’t answer the door, but perhaps she would respond to a phone call. She searched for a phone directory in Kat’s office desk. The contents were in neat order, the tidiness a sharp contrast to the perpetual clutter of Maddie’s own desk. She opened the top drawer and found several pens and pencils, some paper clips in a small rosewood box, a book of stamps, a folder of paid invoices—mostly utilities and Bank of America credit card statements—a short stack of stationery in an elegant cream stock with Kat’s address embossed on the envelopes in a sable brown. Even in an age where communication was predominately by email and text, Kat still liked to correspond by letter. The drawer contained the usual paraphernalia but no directory for Georgetown. Nothing private beyond the file of invoices. No letters or personal papers. No checkbook.
Disappointed, Maddie shoved the drawer in, encountered resistance. She pushed harder, but again the drawer stopped short of closing completely. She slid it free of the desk, bent to look in the opening, and saw a dark object in the shadowy recess. She felt a catch of excitement that faded quickly when she retrieved only an address book. She leafed through and found nothing but a handful of listings entered, as if Kat had begun putting in names but had lost the book before she could finish or had given up on the book and entered contact info in her iPhone instead. She flipped through the pages, found her own name, numbers for a nail salon, a gym, and one other listing: Picasso’s. There was a number and street address for the last but no further notation. It could be an art gallery or restaurant or one of those trendy cafés that were always popping up in Georgetown. Not much to go on, but it was a start, and better than sitting around imagining the worst while waiting for the twenty-four hours to pass before she could follow up with the police. The address for Picasso’s was on Thirty-Fifth Street, not more than a ten-minute walk. She’d start there.
She headed west on P. It felt good to be outside and walking. She had forgotten how much she liked this part of the city. She had stayed with Kat for one entire summer, and they had explored the rest of the capital, done all the tourist things—all the Smithsonian buildings, the national monuments, the art galleries, crossing the river to Arlington and the cemetery—but her favorite times had been spent in Georgetown. She had filled nearly an entire sketchbook with drawings of the picturesque row houses along the towpath of the Chesapeake and Ohio Canal. Unbidden, catching her completely off guard, she thought of Jack, imagined sharing with him the city Kat loved.
She nearly missed Picasso’s. The entrance was stark, offering no clue to what lay inside. A curved black awning sheltered the door. The front windows were tinted. On one was written PICASSO’S in elegant script in the same funereal shade as the awning. She pushed open the etched-glass door and entered. Immediately, Maddie recognized it as the kind of beauty salon where the cost of a haircut started north of three hundred. The place smelled of hair spray and the scent of vanilla that wafted from a mister near the front desk. Maddie preferred the smell of paint, epoxy, and turpentine any day of the week. The decor was chrome and black with pale gray carpeting. Adele was blasting from ceiling speakers. No one sat at the receptionist’s counter. A thin black woman clad in leopard-print tights and a pale, smoke-gray smock brushed by. She carried a silver tray holding bottled water and porcelain coffee cups. “Be right with you,” she chirped. Kat sneezed in response. The fake vanilla mist was making her eyes water.
There was a small bank of shampoo stations on the far wall, and four women lay back with heads arched into the basins. Another wall held four styling chairs. Three stylists dressed in the signature gray smocks cut locks or wielded dryers or applied thick, paste-like product to clients’ hair with brushes.
“May I help you?” A tall man, dark hair streaked at the temples with egg-yolk yellow, approached. He held a pair of scissors in his left hand and absently opened and closed them as he neared.
“Are you the owner?”
“Lordy, no, darling.” He laughed. “I’m just one of the lowly laborers. Malcolm,” he added by way of introduction. He scrutinized her face, scars, hair. She recognized the look. Kat’s voice echoed. You’ve got to do something with that hair of yours.
“If you are here to see Phillipe, you’re out of luck, honey,” he said. “It’s his day off. Besides, he only takes referrals. The rest of us are booked for the day.” His gaze again took in her scars. The shears flicked open and shut. “But if you are not in a hurry, one of us might be able to fit you in.”
“I’m not here for an appointment.” She took a deep breath. “My name is Maddie DiMarco. My sister is Katherine Clayton. I think she’s a client here.”
“Clayton?” He thought. “I’m coming up dry, honey. Blonde or brunette?”
The girl in the leopard tights, still carrying the tray, sashayed over. “You want to know who does Ms. Clayton?”
“Yes.”
“You know her,” she said to Malcolm. “The tall ash blonde with green eyes. She’s one of Lucille’s standing appointments. Every Thursday.”
Lucille. The name left on Kat’s machine.
Malcolm turned toward the rear of the shop and pointed to a bony woman with hair the red of mahogany. “That’s Lucille.”
“Thanks.”
“
No problem, love.” He withdrew a card from a small saucer on the counter. “Here’s my card. If you reconsider the cut, call.” He tilted his head and narrowed his eyes. “I see you with something whimsical. Layered. Something feathered around your face. A cut that would define your features.”
She took the card and shoved it in her bag, knowing she would toss it as soon as she left. Malcolm would have to live with the disappointment. Lucille looked like she should be in high school, but as Maddie drew closer she saw she was older. Her forehead was broad, her chin pointed, her ears triple pierced. Maddie felt the first real surge of optimism. Weren’t hairdressers supposed to be the recipient of confidences, privy to their clients’ innermost lives? What had Kat shared with Lucille?
“Lucille? My name is Maddie DiMarco, Katherine Clayton’s sister. Do you have a minute?”
“Sure. Give me five.”
“Okay.”
She was painting strands of hair with a brush, then wrapping the strands with foil. Just watching, Maddie felt her scalp itch. “But we’ve got to make it quick. My next cut is waiting.”
“Thanks.” Maddie tried to curtain her impatience. Finally, she was going to speak to someone Kat had seen recently, a link to her sister’s current life.
“Do you want water or coffee or something while I finish up?”
“No. I’m fine. Thanks.” It was closer to ten minutes before Lucille finished with the foiling, and each minute felt like an hour.
“Be right back,” the stylist said. “Just going to tell my next cut that I’ll be right with her.”
“Sure,” Maddie said.
“So what’s up?” Lucille said when she returned. “Is Katherine okay? I mean, is she sick or something?”
“What makes you ask?”
“Well, I haven’t seen her since her last appointment in April. To tell you the truth, she didn’t look too great the last time I saw her. Real tired. I told her it was all right to burn the candle at both ends when you’re twenty, but you can’t get away with doing it once you’re on the north side of forty. When she didn’t return my calls, I thought maybe she had switched to another salon.”
“Why?” Maddie was still processing the disturbing idea that Kat had looked ill.
Lucille shrugged. “It happens. I was kind of surprised, though.”
“Why?”
“She seemed happy here. Recommended me to some people. Tipped well. Usually when a client is unhappy, the first thing you notice is that the tips fall off.” She tilted her head, leaned in closer. “So what happened? Is she sick?”
Maddie lowered her voice. “I don’t know.” It occurred to her that she really didn’t know. Was it possible that Kat was ill? But why wouldn’t she have told her? Why would she keep something like that secret? The shapeless possibilities that had shadowed Maddie for the past days took a more concrete form. Cancer.
“You don’t know?”
“I can’t find her. She—she’s disappeared.” As soon as the words were spoken, she wanted to recall them. So dramatic. So frightening.
“Disappeared?” Lucille’s yelp attracted the attention of the stylists at the shampoo sinks.
“I’m sure it’s nothing. A vacation, or off on assignment or something.” Now she sounded like the cop. Segerman. In truth, she wasn’t certain of anything. “Do you remember the last time she came in?”
“You want the exact date?”
“That might help.”
“Sure. No problem.” Lucille crossed to the appointment book and paged through the register. “Kat has disappeared,” she confided to the receptionist. “This is her sister.”
“Disappeared? You’re kidding.”
“I’m not sure,” Maddie interrupted. “I think she could be on assignment. I’ve been away, and we’ve not been in touch for a while. I’m trying to track her down.” Kat would be horrified to learn she had been telling people she had disappeared.
“April fifteenth,” Lucille said. “Color and cut.” She flipped ahead several more pages. “Yeah. That was her last time. On Thursday. Her standing appointment.”
“She had her hair cut every week?”
“Shampoo and blow-dry every week. Color and cut every month.”
“The last time she was here, did she say anything about a trip, or that she would be away?”
“No. She just blew off her appointments. No call. No cancellation or explanation. Nothing. Just didn’t show. That’s why I thought she must have changed salons. Look, I’m sorry, but I’ve got someone waiting.”
Maddie considered asking the girl at the desk if Kat had said anything to her about a trip, but that seemed improbable. If she hadn’t said anything to Lucille, she wouldn’t have confided to the receptionist. Another fit of sneezing hit her. She had to get out of there before she developed hives.
Outside, she paused a moment to let what she had learned in the salon sink in. Kat had missed appointments without explanation. She had appeared unwell. What had happened to her? If Kat was really ill, why had she kept this information from her? Her sense of urgency increased. She was determined to pursue every lead, no matter what it led to. Naomi’s Nails was next on the list. Maddie rechecked the address. Two blocks south. The sky was darkening. She hadn’t brought an umbrella and stepped up her pace. Students from the university, Georgetown matrons, and tourists in T-shirts and shorts crowded around her. Out of habit she noticed faces, the shapes and bones and lines. A couple walked by arm in arm, laughing. The man had narrow shoulders. Jack. The burden of sorrow—the knife of loss—washed over her. How physical a pain heartache was. She stopped in midstride, gave it a moment, and then pressed on. One lesson life had taught her was that pain was tolerable, and eventually the worst would pass. Eventually, thoughts of Jack wouldn’t overwhelm her. Eventually, she would be numb.
At the nail salon, the story was the same. Kat had missed her biweekly appointment in April. No cancellation. No notice. She just hadn’t shown up and hadn’t been in since. There was nothing more the staff could tell her. When Maddie went outside, the rain had already begun. Other pedestrians, as unprepared as she, hurried along, folding into the rain and wind. Maddie checked the last address from Kat’s book. The gym was five blocks away. Her leg began to ache, as it did whenever she overexerted or when it rained. She flagged down a cab. The driver, an Algerian, judging from his cabdriver ID, wanted to talk. She stifled a groan. The entire morning of racing around from one stop to the next in search of answers was beginning to feel like an idiot’s pursuit. Whatever had been going on with Kat, she clearly hadn’t wanted to confide in anyone.
The gym was a surprise. She had envisioned a fashionable place with free weights in bright colors and high-tech machines, one of those clubs heavy on special features like saunas, steam rooms, and women’s dressing areas stocked with thick towels, hair dryers, and shower gels, where Lycra-clad housewives and professionals struggled to keep their butts high and their thighs firm.
This place was a throwback to the days before Pilates and step classes. Grimy brick walls were exposed, and bare pipes hung from the ceiling. The synthetic commercial carpet was years overdue for replacing, and the smell of sweat was not camouflaged by any floral deodorizer or misting machines. There were several apparatuses, but the majority of equipment consisted of free weights, bars, and incline benches. The coverings on one or two of the benches had been mended with silver duct tape. Black-and-white photos of bodybuilders, several of them autographed, hung on the wall behind the counter. Judging by the style, Maddie guessed they dated from the ’40s and ’50s. She could not imagine Kat working out here. How had her sister even discovered the place?
A half dozen men were lifting, but they did not break their concentration when she entered. There was no pause in the rhythm of the weights clanging. In one corner she saw a well-built older man jabbing a punching bag. Even from a distance of several yards, she could see the jolt pass up his arms each time a fist hit the bag. He looked faintly familiar, and it took her a
moment or two to make the connection. He was the national political correspondent for one of the networks. Much shorter than he appeared on TV.
“Help you?” The man behind the desk was young, blond, and tan. He wore a T-shirt with the logo of a sports drink on the front. Even through the fabric, Maddie could make out the planes of sharply defined muscles.
“Hi. I’m hoping you can give me some information.” She couldn’t shake the sense that she knew him. His voice, if not his face, was vaguely familiar. Another reporter moonlighting here?
“Tom.” He held out a hand and she offered hers, praying he’d curb any macho need to crush it. He was assessing her: not in a sexual way, she realized, but clinically. Checking out muscle tone, body fat. Again, as she had in the salon, she knew she fell short of the place’s standard. “I’m looking for someone.”
“Name?”
What was it with this guy? Didn’t he know how to form complete sentences?
“Katherine. Katherine Clayton.”
A flicker of recognition crossed his face, followed immediately by one of caution. “Yeah, sure. I know her.” The caution was still there, as well as something else that she couldn’t identify.
“You do?”
“Sure. Tightest abs I’ve ever seen on a woman over thirty.” He smiled. “Let me tell you, she puts women half her age to shame. Can toss off fifty sit-ups like she’s dealing cards.” His voice shifted, less cautious, more caring. “Is she okay?”
Maddie was more prepared now that she’d told the story at Picasso’s and Naomi’s Nails, but it still was awkward. How did you tell people that your sister was missing? “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“I was hoping you might know something.”
He hesitated. “Then you haven’t talked to her. Kat didn’t say anything to you about me?”
“No.” She caught his eyes. He reddened and looked away and she got it. He had slept with her sister. “When was the last time you saw her?”
He didn’t need to check any appointment book. “April.”
The Orchid Sister Page 9
