interest to Detective Dixon.
“I don’t suppose you’d have a photo?”
“I’m sorry, no. Actually, I don’t even have a camera anymore. I used one of those little disc cameras for several years, but then it got to where you couldn’t buy disc film anymore. Anyway, I just never bothered to get another camera.” I gave myself a mental kick, realizing this LOL rambling was not helping the credibility of my report.
“You went to church together often?”
“No, but she’d said she wanted to go that Sunday. At the time, when she didn’t show up, I assumed it was because she’d decided to do something with her friend instead—”
“Friend?”
“A man friend. Someone she was . . . seeing. I don’t know his name. Thea and I called him Kendra’s ‘young man,’ but he was actually somewhat older, I think.”
“Have you tried to contact Kendra?”
“Oh, yes. I went to her apartment. Actually, I went inside.” Hastily I explained my responsibility with the house.
“And it looked as if she hadn’t been there for several days?”
“The apartment is empty. Everything, except the furniture that belonged to Thea, is gone.” I squinted into the distance, picturing the apartment again and seeing a peculiarity. “Though now that I think about it, all the lamps are gone too, and I’m sure they belonged to Thea.”
“So what you’re saying is, it appeared as if this young woman had moved out.”
“Yes . . .” Although I had difficulty imagining Kendra stealing lamps. And she wouldn’t have had much room in the little car to put such bulky items.
“Was this woman employed?”
“She worked in the office at a used-car lot over on Sylvester Street. Bottom-Buck Barney’s. They told me there that she’d quit her job.”
“Did she have a car?” the officer asked.
“Yes. A red Corolla. I don’t know what year.”
“You wouldn’t happen to know the license number?”
“No. But I’m sure it was a Missouri plate. So she must’ve bought it here instead of bringing it with her from California.”
“She was from California?” he asked.
“That’s what she said.”
“And you haven’t seen the car since she moved out?”
“No.”
He politely asked more questions. Did I know where Kendra had lived before renting the apartment? What about family? Friends? Yet even as he wrote down my skimpy answers, I suspected the interview was basically over. Detective Dixon didn’t see Kendra as a missing person, simply a young woman who’d quit her job and moved on. People did that all the time. He closed the notebook.
“Well, thank you, Mrs. Malone. We appreciate your help. If we need anything more, we’ll be in touch.”
That old line: Don’t call us; we’ll call you.
He stood up and glanced around the room. Suddenly I saw it through his eyes. Clean. Furniture out of date but dusted and polished. Everything turned toward the TV, as if it were a magnetic center of the universe. I saw myself through his eyes too. Nice little old lady trying to be helpful but making the proverbial mountain out of a molehill. I felt a flare of resentment at the polite dismissal.
“I know it looks as if she just moved away. But I don’t think Kendra would leave without saying good-bye. Or without checking on her security deposit refund. And she wouldn’t steal Thea’s lamps! Maybe everything was set up to make it look as if she moved away. And she’s really . . . dead. Because someone killed her.”
Matt Dixon’s head and shoulders reared back in surprise at the passion in my outburst. He studied me as if making a reassessment. “That’s possible.” His tone said unlikely, but possible.
“I’m really . . . very concerned.”
“We’ll run her name through the files and also check out her car and see if we come up with anything.”
“Thank you.”
The officer looked out the window. “My grandparents used to live here on Madison Street,” he offered, as if he felt apologetic about his dismissal
“I don’t suppose you’d have a photo?”
“I’m sorry, no. Actually, I don’t even have a camera anymore. I used one of those little disc cameras for several years, but then it got to where you couldn’t buy disc film anymore. Anyway, I just never bothered to get another camera.” I gave myself a mental kick, realizing this LOL rambling was not helping the credibility of my report.
“You went to church together often?”
“No, but she’d said she wanted to go that Sunday. At the time, when she didn’t show up, I assumed it was because she’d decided to do something with her friend instead—”
“Friend?”
“A man friend. Someone she was . . . seeing. I don’t know his name. Thea and I called him Kendra’s ‘young man,’ but he was actually somewhat older, I think.”
“Have you tried to contact Kendra?”
“Oh, yes. I went to her apartment. Actually, I went inside.” Hastily I explained my responsibility with the house.
“And it looked as if she hadn’t been there for several days?”
“The apartment is empty. Everything, except the furniture that belonged to Thea, is gone.” I squinted into the distance, picturing the apartment again and seeing a peculiarity. “Though now that I think about it, all the lamps are gone too, and I’m sure they belonged to Thea.”
“So what you’re saying is, it appeared as if this young woman had moved out.”
“Yes . . .” Although I had difficulty imagining Kendra stealing lamps. And she wouldn’t have had much room in the little car to put such bulky items.
“Was this woman employed?”
“She worked in the office at a used-car lot over on Sylvester Street. Bottom-Buck Barney’s. They told me there that she’d quit her job.”
“Did she have a car?” the officer asked.
“Yes. A red Corolla. I don’t know what year.”
“You wouldn’t happen to know the license number?”
“No. But I’m sure it was a Missouri plate. So she must’ve bought it here instead of bringing it with her from California.”
“She was from California?” he asked.
“That’s what she said.”
“And you haven’t seen the car since she moved out?”
“No.”
He politely asked more questions. Did I know where Kendra had lived before renting the apartment? What about family? Friends? Yet even as he wrote down my skimpy answers, I suspected the interview was basically over. Detective Dixon didn’t see Kendra as a missing person, simply a young woman who’d quit her job and moved on. People did that all the time. He closed the notebook.
“Well, thank you, Mrs. Malone. We appreciate your help. If we need anything more, we’ll be in touch.”
That old line: Don’t call us; we’ll call you.
He stood up and glanced around the room. Suddenly I saw it through his eyes. Clean. Furniture out of date but dusted and polished. Everything turned toward the TV, as if it were a magnetic center of the universe. I saw myself through his eyes too. Nice little old lady trying to be helpful but making the proverbial mountain out of a molehill. I felt a flare of resentment at the polite dismissal.
“I know it looks as if she just moved away. But I don’t think Kendra would leave without saying good-bye. Or without checking on her security deposit refund. And she wouldn’t steal Thea’s lamps! Maybe everything was set up to make it look as if she moved away. And she’s really . . . dead. Because someone killed her.”
Matt Dixon’s head and shoulders reared back in surprise at the passion in my outburst. He studied me as if making a reassessment. “That’s possible.” His tone said unlikely, but possible.
“I’m really . . . very concerned.”
“We’ll run her name through the files and also check out her car and see if we come up with anything.”
“Thank you.”
The officer looked out the window. “My grandparents used to live here on Madison Street,” he offered, as if he felt apologetic about his dismissal
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