Absolutely, Positively by Heather Webber

surprise.
    Rufus charged toward us, jumping. He dropped a squeaky rubber chicken at Sean’s feet.
    “Chicken toss is his favorite game,” Christa said. She was tucked into a hunter green leather armchair. She pulled an iPod bud from her ear and stretched out her long legs. I guessed her to be sixteen or seventeen—more woman than little girl.
    Sean picked up the chicken and tossed it across the room. Rufus thundered after it, tail slashing.
    It was quite spacious down here. Wooden bookcases lined chocolate walls that were bare of any artwork, but there were family photos on the mantel. I was drawn to them. All looked recent and most were of Christa and Rufus.
    “All the older pictures were lost in the fire.” Christa stood behind me.
    Sean threw the chicken again and headed toward an L-shaped desk built into the corner of the room.
    “It must have been a horrible time.”
    “Did you know my grandma?”
    “Not really. Just to say hello. My grandmother was good friends with her.”
    “Would she have any pictures?”
    Why hadn’t I thought of that? “I’m sure she would. Do you want me to get you some copies?”
    She nodded.
    I glanced around. There was a small kitchen, a bathroom, and a bedroom. Near double doors leading outside, an easel sat empty. Open-faced cabinets held hundreds of tubes of color, dozens of paintbrushes, and canvases of every size imaginable. “Your granddad was still working?”
    “He’d just finished a project when he went missing.”
    “Had anything else been going on around that time?” I asked, hoping I wasn’t pressing too hard. She was old enough to know what was going on, but that didn’t make it any easier to understand.
    Sean went through files, pausing every few moments to throw the rubber chicken.
    “Not really,” she said.
    “Did Mac have many friends?” Two dog bowls had been placed at the end of the kitchen peninsula. One bowl was filled to the brim with water; the other had kibble spilling over its edges, chunky brown blobs littering the floor as if Rufus played with his food more than he ate it. On hooks near the double doors hung a small silver dog whistle and two leashes—a plain blue one and a red retractable leash imprinted with rubber chickens.
    “To hang out with?” she asked. “He had his weekly poker game at Mr. Ross’s house. Every Wednesday night. He never missed it.”
    Fred Ross lived right across the street and had been a friend of Dovie’s for close to three decades. I made a mental note to talk to him.
    Sean walked over, holding a sheet of paper. “Christa, how was your grandfather’s health?”
    She shrugged. “Good. He was hardly ever sick.”
    Sean tucked the paper into his coat pocket and gave me a look that said he might have found something.
    “What do you think happened to Mac?” I asked her.
    She bit her lip. Her eyebrows dipped. “I don’t know, but the night before he went missing, I heard him on the phone. He was angry.”
    I glanced at Sean. He said, “Do you know who he was talking to?”
    “No.” Her cheeks turned pink. “Granddad didn’t know I was listening.”
    That girl could sneak up on a flea.
    I had a feeling Christa knew everything that went on in this house.
    “Do you remember what he said?” Sean asked.
    “Something like, ‘My life is my concern. My decisions are my own. Mind your own business.’ ”
    “This was right before he disappeared?” I asked.
    “The night before,” she said. “I told the police.”
    “That’s good,” I said. Maybe they had checked phone records and knew who he’d been talking to.
    “Do you know if anything he was wearing the day he went missing was a gift from someone else? Your mom mentioned an ugly sweater—had someone knitted that for him?”
    “Granddad bought it to drive Mom crazy. She was always trying to get him to change his look. She buys him leather pants for Christmas every year. She told him he dresses like a geezer. He told me that he’d show her geezer.