by P J Parrish
But he knew who he was looking at.
It was Amelia. Bright primary yellow streaks for the hair, pool-blue for the eyes, a magenta slash for a mouth. And just like in her photographs, that strange feeling of emptiness behind it all.
He turned to the fireplace, topped with a big plasma TV, and flanked by shelves of books. The books were, Buchanan thought, the first evidence that normal human beings, with likes and dislikes, interests and pastimes, dwelled here.
He did a quick scan of the left side. The titles were variations on a theme: The Story of My Life by Clarence Darrow. In the Shadow of the Law by Kermit Roosevelt. Emotional Intelligence: Why It Can Matter More Than IQ by Daniel Goleman. The Legal Analyst: A Toolkit for Thinking about the Law by Ward Farnsworth. One L by Scott Turow.
He turned to the right shelf. It held hardcover fiction bestsellers, stuff by Jodi Picoult, Wally Lamb, Mitch Albom, Nicholas Sparks. Another shelf held travel books, mainly slick coffee-table editions about Tuscany, Paris, the Greek isles. On the bottom shelf was a collection on fitness: French Women Don’t Get Fat. Perfection Through Pilates. The Happy Book: 30 Fun-Filled Exercises for Greater Joy.
It was all pap. Nothing that was evidence of the kind of mind that Joanna McCall described as “so much more than what you saw on the surface.” And, oddly, no books about dance.
Buchanan turned, looking for something, anything, in the vast white bedroom that could tell him what kind of woman he was looking for.
There was a frosted glass door across the room that he suspected to be a closet. He didn’t know much about art, but he was up to speed on clothes and labels because what people chose to hang on their bodies or put on their feet spoke volumes about their personalities. Plumage . . . it was all part of the jizz.
He opened the door. It was Alex’s closet. Walls of white lacquer and glass cabinets and long shelves. Racks of dark suits on wood hangers at perfectly spaced intervals. Rows of gleaming shoes, drawers filled with folded dress shirts still bearing their paper laundry bands, pullout metal racks filled with a rainbow of silk ties. And behind one glass panel, pastel cashmere sweaters stacked like mints in a candy box.
He left the closet and turned to a second frosted glass door. It opened onto a closet even larger than the first one. The same walls of white cabinets and long shelves but transformed into a mini-Versailles of gilt, chandeliers, and mirrors. And in the middle of it all, sitting like the Queen of Hearts’ throne, was a tufted blood-red satin chair and a small matching ottoman.
Alex’s closet had given off a faint smell of newly polished shoes. But Amelia’s was heavy with perfume.
The scent was oddly familiar, and Buchanan closed his eyes, trying to place it. He was certain he had smelled it before, somewhere and sometime deep in his past.
Finally he opened his eyes and began to explore the closet. Behind one door was a pyramid of matched Vuitton luggage, ranging in size from a trunk on the bottom up to a large purse on top. So where had that odd suitcase down in the garage come from? He tried one of the cases but it was locked. He turned over a white airline tag on one of the suitcase handles—MSP, FLIGHT 86, 8-23-14.
He recognized the airport code: Minneapolis–St. Paul. He made a mental note to call the New York City Ballet office again about Carol Fairfield.
Buchanan turned his attention to the racks of clothes. Amelia’s taste ran to classic styles and neutrals, lots of gray Armani, beige Burberry, and black and white Chanel. Her taste in accessories was just as bland—low-heeled Chanel slingbacks and Prada pumps, black Fendi clutches and tan Gucci totes. There was a drawer of beige and black sweaters, and another drawer holding scarves and shawls, Hermès mainly, in muted colors. He opened a third drawer but stopped halfway when he saw the neatly folded lingerie in white, beige, and black. Expensive, sure, but nothing to stir any man’s juices. When he tried to close the drawer, it stuck on something in the back.
He pulled out a small shopping bag. The writing on the front said “La Perla, Bal Harbour.” When he opened it, he saw a tangle of color, and he pulled out a delicate web of lace—a turquoise bra. The bag also held a sheer red camisole and a tiny triangle of panties the color of a ripe peach.
He had a hunch these weren’t for old Alex. A sudden snippet of music floated into Buchanan’s head, some old disco song about a guy named Tommy who “lost his lady two months ago, maybe he’ll find her, maybe he won’t.”
“Cherchez La Femme.” That was the name of it.
Buchanan put the lingerie back in the bag and the bag back in its hiding place. Then he stood, hands on hips, and exhaled a deep breath of frustration. This was nuts. On the surface, Amelia Tobias was a cipher. But experience had taught him that no one really was, at heart. Especially a woman who kept peach-colored panties hidden in her closet.
And that damn perfume, her perfume, was there, swirling about him.
What was he missing?
His eyes traveled over the cabinets. In the far corner, one cabinet door stood ajar, and he spotted the corner of a box on the floor inside. Not a nice box that matched the white cabinets either; this was plain old cardboard. He went to the closet and pulled it out.
The old box, big enough to hold a microwave oven, was crushed down to half its original size. Someone had written Amelia’s name and address in Magic Marker on one flap. And in smaller type, a return address in Morning Sun, Iowa.
Buchanan slipped a finger under the yellowed packing tape and opened the box.
On top was a pilled purple cardigan sweater, a stuffed bear missing one ear, a pair of beat-up pink ballet shoes, and a small faded blue T-shirt with lettering on the front: UNIVERSITY OF OKOBOJI.
Buchanan dragged the box across the carpet and sat down in the red silk chair. He set the top items aside, revealing a layer of books. A “Tiger” yearbook from Crusade High School, Childcraft volume five Life in Many Lands. A stained yellow cloth book called Dance for a Diamond Star by Rosemary Sprague. A children’s book by Neil Gaiman called The Graveyard Book. And a worn picture book by Eleanor Estes called The Hundred Dresses.
Buchanan turned the book over and read the back copy.
Wanda Petronsky wore the same faded-blue dress to school every day. It was always clean but it looked as though it had never been ironed properly. One day when a classmate showed up wearing a bright new dress that was much admired, Wanda said, “I have a hundred dresses at home.” That had started the teasing . . .
Buchanan set the books on the little red ottoman and returned to the cardboard box. More old clothes, a small blue plastic jewelry box, a plastic flamingo, and some letters bound in ribbon, the top one with a return address of a military base in Kandahar, Afghanistan. He set those aside, along with a red Capezio ballet slipper box filled with snapshots. One thing left in the box. He pulled out a large green scrapbook.
From the first page, he knew what he was looking at: Amelia’s history as a dancer. It was all there, from the faded program of Amelia Bloodworth’s first ballet recital at age seven at Graham’s Dance Center in Burlington, Iowa, right through to her last review as Melia Worth with the Miami City Ballet. Page after yellowed page of her touchstone moments: a letter of acceptance from the School of American Ballet in New York; her first review in Dance Magazine from a student concert; a copy of her corps member contract with the New York City Ballet.
Outside of the one student concert review, there were no others from Amelia’s time in New York, and Buchanan knew it was because as a corps member, her only job was to blend in. But the reviews from the Miami years, when she was a soloist, were glowing, all mentioning Melia Worth’s “intelligence,” “sensuality,” and “joy in movement.”
And the photographs . . .
Heart-shaped face and big dark eyes, framed by the severe ballerina-bun hairstyle in a dark shade. And always a dazzling smile of pure joy, whether it was a candid moment caught in performance or a formal portrait
headshot. Melia Worth was lit from within.
He thought of the blank face of Amelia Tobias in the society rags. It was like he was looking at two different women.
Buchanan slumped back in the red silk chair. The sweet perfume was heavy in his nostrils, teasing his brain.
Magnolias . . . it was magnolias.
I’m here, Bucky.
Buchanan shut his eyes. The smell was all around him and suddenly, so was she. Coming in from the backyard in their little house in Berry Hill carrying the flowers just cut from the tree. Arranging them in a blue vase, pouring in Sprite to make them last because magnolias never lasted long enough.
When you coming back?
Around eight maybe.
It’s going to rain. The tires are bad on your car. You should take my truck.
I’ll be fine. I’ll be back before you can miss me, Bucky.
Buchanan opened his eyes. The perfume was still there, but she was gone.
He sat there for a long time, his hands light on the scrapbook open in his lap. Enough . . . he had to get his mind back to the task. He had to find something to unlock Amelia Tobias’s life because he knew from experience that the longer a runner was missing, the harder it was to find her.
He looked down at the things he had set on the ottoman. Maybe it was there in her brother’s letters or in the box of old photos. He’d have to take it all back to the hotel and go through it carefully. He set the scrapbook back in the box and repacked all the other things. As he closed the flaps, his eyes caught the return address in Morning Sun. Amelia’s family were all dead, and his instincts were telling him that if her memory returned she might go to Carol Fairfield—or maybe a lover. Still, he’d have to check out the Morning Sun connection to be sure.
He rose and picked up the box. He started to walk away but then stopped, staring at the ottoman.
There was something lodged in the side of the cushion. He bent down and pulled it out. It was a tiny rubber bone.
Damn. It wasn’t an ottoman. And that Vuitton purse . . .
He went back to the first closet of luggage and pulled down the purse. It had mesh on both ends. It was a dog carrier. He looked at the airline tag. Someone had inked in: “Brody Tobias.”
But where was the dog? He hadn’t seen any other evidence of an animal, not even a water dish in the kitchen.
He put the dog carrier back in its place, and hoisting up the box of memories, he retraced his steps to the foyer. He left the cardboard box there and went to the kitchen. Esperanza was just coming in from the French door leading out to the patio.
“You are finished now?” she asked.
“Yeah, I’m just leaving,” Buchanan said. His eyes did a quick sweep of the kitchen. No sign of the dog. Maybe it had died. But that airline tag had been for a trip to Minneapolis just three months ago.
“Mrs. Diaz, does Mrs. Tobias have a dog?” he asked.
She smiled. “Yes. Brody the dog.”
“Where is he?”
“At dog place.”
“What, the vet?”
“No, place where they clean him. Mrs. Tobias take Brody there the day she left. But then she didn’t come home and things go crazy around here.” She said something else in Spanish, shaking her head.
Buchanan was trying to remember what was in Amelia’s Day Runner. The Friday of the car accident there had been a notation about an appointment at a place called Fancy . . . no, Fantasia Spa. He had assumed it was her own spa.
“I better call Mr. Tobias,” Esperanza said. “He go get Brody at dog place.”
“No, you’re very busy,” Buchanan said quickly. “I’ll tell Mr. Tobias about the dog.”
Esperanza gave him a small smile and thanked him. Buchanan said a quick good-bye, grabbed the cardboard box from the foyer, and left. He had no intention of telling Alex Tobias about the dog. Because there was a good chance that Amelia might remember the dog and go back to get it. If she hadn’t already.
He pulled out his cell as he walked toward his rental car. He summoned Siri and asked for Fantasia Dog Spa. Her nasal voice came back immediately with the number and dialed it for him.
“Hi. You’ve reached Fantasia Dog Spa. We’re closed for the day and your fur baby is tucked in for the night. But if you’d like to leave a message . . .”
Damn it. He clicked off and looked back at the Tobias mansion, glowing deep pink in the waning sunlight. He’d call again first thing in the morning.
But for now, there was nothing to do but go back to the hotel. There was a minibar stocked with good scotch and a Kindle that might be unlocked with a dog’s name.
CHAPTER TWELVE
When Amelia woke, the room was cold. It took a few disorienting moments for her to remember she was in the boardinghouse in Brunswick, Georgia. She heard a flapping sound and looked to the window. The shade, pulled down against the wan morning light, was moving in the stiff breeze.
She started to pull the chenille bedspread up over her but then remembered the small white dog that had nestled in the crook of her knees. She was gone. Yet in her mind, she was still there, as real and as warm as . . .
“Brody,” she said.
She bolted upright. Brody was a dog. Her dog. She could see him and feel him as clearly as if he was there in the room with her—a tiny terrier-Chihuahua mutt.
She could suddenly remember everything about him. He was black, one of his ears was broken, and the tip of his tail looked like a paintbrush dipped in white. A kid had found him under a freeway bridge, tied to a chain-link fence, probably abandoned by a homeless person. He was sick with pneumonia, infested with fleas, and starving. The kid had the good sense to drop the dog off at Animal Control nearby. It was there that Amelia had found him, curled up in a cat cage because the dog cages were all filled with howling pit bulls. He was twenty-four hours away from being put down.
Why had she been at Animal Control that day? She couldn’t remember. All she could remember was that she knew she had to have that dog. And she knew she had to have him here with her now.
She sat still in bed as a flood of emotion washed through her chest like warm water. It was relief. Relief that things were coming back, just like the doctor had said they would.
Another memory pushed forward. Alex. And what his face had looked like when she walked in the door cradling the sick dog.
What the hell is that?
I found him at Animal Control.
Animal Control? I don’t want a dog in the house, Mel.
Why not? I want—
They’re dirty. And who’s going to take care of it?
I will.
Mel . . .
I’m keeping him, Alex.
Amelia swung her legs over the side of the bed. She had to find out if Brody was okay because she couldn’t be sure that Alex wouldn’t get rid of him.
Pulling the spread off the bed, she wrapped it around her and went downstairs to the black rotary phone on the hall table.
Details were starting to come into focus fast now, and she could see herself handing Brody across a counter to a smiling plump-faced woman and she could hear muted barking in the background just discernible below the murmur of Muzak.
We’ll take good care of him, Mrs. Tobias.
She had left Brody somewhere. The vet?
You can pick him up tomorrow after nine.
He hadn’t been sick, she remembered. She had taken him in for a teeth cleaning and grooming and they had to keep him overnight. But where? What was the name of the place? She shut her eyes, trying to summon a name, but all she could see in her mind were hippos dancing in tutus. Like that old Walt Disney movie . . .
Fantasia.
Her eyes shot open and she grabbed the receiver. She dialed information and they connected her.
“Good morning, Fantasia Dog Spa.”
&nbs
p; “Yes, hello, this is Mrs. Tobias and—”
“Oh, hi, Mrs. Tobias. This is Kristin.”
Kristin. The young groomer with the lizard tattoo. “Yes, yes, hello Kristin,” she said. “I’m calling to check on Brody.”
“Well, we just opened like five minutes ago and I haven’t had time to check in on him yet.”
“But he’s still there?”
“Oh yeah. I saw him last night. He was fine, just a little mopey because he wants to go home. Weren’t you supposed to pick him up yesterday?”
Yesterday? She had dropped Brody off and then gone home. She remembered that later she had showered and put on the Chanel dress. Everything after that was still a black blur.
“Mrs. Tobias?”
“Yes, I’m here,” Amelia said. “I’ve . . . I’ve had a change in plans and had to go out of town suddenly. Something has come up, a family emergency, and I have to be away from home for a couple weeks.”
“No problem. I’ll call Mr. Tobias so he can come get—”
“No! No, don’t call my husband.”
Silence on the other end. Amelia took a deep calming breath. “I’d like to arrange for Brody to be sent to me.”
“Sent? Sent where?”
“Georgia,” Amelia said.
“Geez, Mrs. Tobias, I don’t know if we could send Brody—”
“Of course you can. We can arrange it all with the airline and you could have him flown up here. You can just charge it to my account, right?”
“Wouldn’t it be easier if I just called Mr. Tobias and—”
“No, don’t do that.” Amelia interrupted. “My husband is out of town on business for the next two weeks. I need you to send Brody to me.”
