I did another quick tour, which turned out to be as unenlightening as the first. I pulled the door shut behind me and struck out across the yard to the wide rear porch. The backdoor was half glass and I could see an old woman in a housedress fussing with a coven of cats. There were seven by my count: two calicoes, a black, two gray tabbies, an orange tabby, and a white long-haired Persian the size of a pug. I tapped on the window. The old woman looked up, giving me a scowl to indicate she was aware of my presence.
She was tall and gaunt, her white hair arranged in thin braids wrapped around her head. She was apparently in the process of feeding her brood because they circled her attentively, rubbing against her legs, their mouths opening in cries I couldn’t hear through the glass. I could see her talking back, probably some long-winded comment about how spoiled they were. She put their bowls on the floor. All of the cats set to work, seven heads bowing as though in prayer. The woman crossed to the backdoor and opened it. The odor of cat litter wafted out through the gap.
“Not for rent,” she said, loudly. “I saw you go through the place, but it’s not available. Next time you might ask first before you intrude.” Her dentures were loose and she settled them in place with a kind of chewing motion between sentences.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize anyone was here.”
“That’s clear enough,” she said. “Past sixteen years I rented it out for two hundred dollars a month. Nothing but riffraff moved in. Turnover was constant and some of ’em was no better than bums. It was Paulie pointed out that’s all I’d get at those prices. Now I’m asking eight fifty and the place stays empty. Big improvement.”
“I’m looking for Lloyd Muscoe. Wasn’t he living out there?”
“Did at one time. Twice he was late on his rent and once he didn’t pay at all, so I kicked him out.”
“Good for you.” Where had I heard the name Paulie before? Crystal’s battle with Leila at the beach house the first time we met. “Paul’s your grandson?”
“Granddaughter and the name’s Pauline. I raised her since the day her drunken mother dropped her on my doorstep when she was six years old.”
“Isn’t she a friend of Leila’s?”
“Who?”
“Lloyd’s daughter, Leila.”
“Not anymore. Leila’s mother put a stop to it. Said Paulie was too wild. Ask me, that Lloyd’s the wild one. Thought he’d get around me because I’m old and deaf, but I surprised him. Evicted him proper and had a marshall show up, make sure he went without a fuss. Fellow like that might decide to trash the place if he doesn’t get his way.”
“Any idea where he went?”
“No, and I don’t care. You a bill collector?”
“I’m a private detective.”
“What kind of trouble is he in?”
“None as far as I know. I need to talk to him.”
“Can’t help. I think he’s somewhere in town, but that’s as much as I know. Can’t even forward his bills, so I have to throw ’em in the trash. Nice-looking man, but shiftless as they come.”
“So I’ve heard. Thanks, anyway.”
“You’re entirely welcome,” she said, and closed the door.
I sat in the car and considered my options. The simplest course of action would be to ask Crystal where Lloyd had gone. Since the two shared custody, I assumed she’d know. I fired up the engine and headed for Horton Ravine again.
Dr. Purcell’s house was built on a lush, wooded knoll with a narrow view of the ocean if you raised up on tiptoe. The residence itself wasn’t impressive, despite Fiona’s boasting about her talent for design. In typical fashion, she’d piled box on box in tiers up to a flat concrete roof. A reflecting pool extended from the front, providing a mirror image of the house in case you happened to miss it the first time around. The style, though futuristic, was oddly dated, imitative of architects more talented than she. It was clearly not Crystal’s taste and I could see where she’d chafe at having to live there. Given her love of the glass-and-frame Cape Cod beach house, this must have felt like a prison. The white Volvo and the Audi convertible were parked in the drive, along with a snappy little black Jaguar I hadn’t seen before.
When I rang the bell, I heard nothing, but within a minute, Crystal appeared at the door. She was wearing boots, black wool slacks, and a heavy black wool sweater. Her hair was feathered away from her face, the layered blond strands carelessly disarranged. “Good. Thank God. Maybe you can help. Nica, it’s Kinsey! Come on in,” she said to me, harried.
I stepped through the door. “What’s going on?”
“Anica’s just driven up from Fitch,” she said. “Leila left campus without permission and we’re trying to track her down before she blows it. She’ll be kicked out of school as soon as they realize she’s gone. Don’t worry about me. I’m only going out of my mind. Rand took Griff to the zoo.”
Anica appeared from the kitchen, wearing navy blue slacks and a red blazer with a gold-stitched Fitch Academy patch on the breast pocket. Her shirt was tailored, crisp white, and she wore a pair of low-heeled navy blue pumps. Her manner was straightforward, and she managed a wide smile despite Crystal’s distress. “Always walking into uproar. Hello, Kinsey. Nice to see you again. How are you?” She reached forward and we shook hands.
“Fine. I’m sorry about Leila. You think she’s heading this way?”
“Let’s hope,” Crystal said. She passed us on her way into the kitchen, talking over her shoulder. “I’m making coffee while we try to decide what to do. She knows she’s not allowed to hitchhike. I’ve expressly forbidden it. . . .”
“That’s probably why she’s done it,” Anica said. “I’d be sick with worry if I wasn’t so mad at her. How do you take yours, Kinsey?”
“Black’s fine with me.”
While Anica and I followed her into the kitchen, I made a quick eyeball assessment of the living room to my right. The interior of the house was curious: stone floors, stark white walls, no window covering, all angles and cold light-clearly Fiona’s imprint. Over it Crystal had asserted her own taste: assorted shabby Oriental carpets laid together like pieces of a puzzle, sagging upholstered furniture slipcovered with faded chintz. The wood tables and padded chairs were an antique white with green-and-white checkered seats. Some of the stray pieces were made of bentwood; big rounded chairs that had been woven from twigs. There was a white-painted wrought-iron day-bed piled with oversized pillows in mismatched fabrics. Books were stacked on the coffee table and there were vases of flowers carelessly arranged. The effect was comfortable and slouchy, a place where kids could roam without ruining much since everything looked ruined to begin with.
The kitchen showed the same sort of changes. I could see Fiona’s bare-bones approach: cold, streamlined surfaces and the rounded art deco corners. Crystal had introduced glass-fronted cabinets and a hutch where her collection of assorted china plates was displayed. The room looked old-fashioned, a place grandma would have loved for putting up peaches and tomatoes. The appliances were obviously up-to-date. The stove was a six-burner Viking. I spotted two dishwashers, four ovens, and an island topped with speckled gray granite. Dried herbs hung from the rafters along with a rack for copper pots and pans. At the far end of the room, there was a red-brick fireplace that looked like it was added after Fiona’s departure. Too folksy for her taste.
Nica perched on one of the stools lined up in a row along the length of the island while Crystal took cups and saucers from the nearest cabinet, saying, “She’s going to get her butt kicked. I swear she’s going to be grounded for months. What time did she take off?”
“Had to be nine-fifteen,” Nica said. “She reported to PE at nine o’clock, but she claimed she had cramps and was going to the nurse’s office. She had an appointment with me at ten. When she didn’t show for that, I tracked down her roommate, Amy, who told me she’d seen Leila leaving campus with her backpack.”
Crystal looked at her watch. “Where the hell could she be?”
“I just hope Amy has the good grace to keep quiet to the school authorities,” Nica said, exempting herself.
“Mind if I look in Leila’s room? Maybe I can pick up some clue about where she might be.”
Crystal said, “Go right ahead. It’s the second door to the right at the head of the stairs.”
I went up. Leila’s door was closed but unlocked, so I let myself in. I stood for a moment, surveying the space. The room was done in frilly pastels. Talk about wishful thinking. She was at that stage of maturity (or lack of it) where the half-nudie rock star posters ran neck and neck with the stuffed animals of her youth. Every surface was covered with knickknacks. Most looked like the sorts of items teenaged girls give each other: mugs with cute sayings, figurines, jewelry, bottles of cologne. Her bulletin board was a collage of ticket stubs, concert programs, and color snapshots: kids at pep rallies, girls acting goofy, guys engaged in drinking beer, smoking pot, and other wholesome pursuits. For someone who claimed to have no friends, she had an amazing collection of memorabilia. The floor was carpeted in discarded clothes, which were also draped over chairs, garments hanging on the closet door, the window seat, and two small upholstered chairs.