the paper into my bag. “Mandy, there’s an architectural pedestal in Gretchen’s living room, in the corner by the fireplace. Do you remember it?”
She scrunched her eyes a bit, thinking. “Yeah. Sure. That’s where she keeps her vase.”
I exhaled. Someone who had seen it! I felt a thrill of excitement shoot through me. “Can you describe it?”
“How come?”
“It’s missing.”
Her eyes opened wider. “Really? Did someone steal it?”
“I don’t know. What can you remember about it?”
She shrugged and flipped her palms up. “It’s Asian, I guess,” she said.
“Kind of fat and squat? Or tall and elegant?”
She shook her head, the picture not clear in her mind. “Medium, I guess.”
“How tall?” I asked, moving my hands up and down, approximating a height range of six inches up to more than two feet. She watched, then nodded and touched my hand at about eighteen inches.
“There, I guess. It’s about that high.”
“Did Gretchen keep flowers in it?”
“No.” She considered, then added, “It has a top. I don’t know how to describe it. It has a cover on it, so I guess it’s not really a vase.”
I nodded. “I know the kind of object you’re describing—it’s still called a vase. Can you remember anything about the design? Did it show flowers? Birds? People?”
She bit a corner of her lip, concentrating. “Not really.”
“No problem—how about its color? Do you remember that? Was it mostly pinks? Blues? Oranges?”
“Blue, I think. I don’t know—it looks Asian.”
I nodded. Some people could recall every detail of an object; others couldn’t remember the most obvious attributes—proving nothing except that people are different. Even artists like Mandy. I’d bet that if I showed her a Renoir, she could later detail the composition, color palette, and subject matter. But a vase? She barely noticed.
I drove straight to Lina’s.
Parking in front of the well-maintained three-story house, I climbed a few steps and stood on a small, unadorned porch in front of a heavy, windowless oak door and stared at three unmarked buzzers. Shrugging, I pressed the buzzer on the far left and heard a tinny buzz echoing from somewhere inside. I looked around. There was a detached three-stall garage and a fenced backyard. A crackly voice asked, “Who is it?”
“Josie Prescott for Lina.”
There was a flicker of static, then silence, and then the oak door opened about three inches. A petite woman peeked out, then stepped onto the porch, shutting the door behind her. I could hear a dog barking inside. She was of average height but small-framed. She wore a blue sweater and gray slacks, cool colors for a sunny spring day.
“Lina?”
“Yes, I’m Lina.”
“I’m Josie Prescott.”
“Oh, hi! That stupid intercom. I couldn’t really hear what you said. You’re Gretchen’s boss. She’s told me so much about you.”
“Oh, no!” I joked.
She smiled a little. “All good, I promise.”
“Have you heard from her?”
She shook her head. “Nothing. You?”
“No.” I saw only worry in her eyes. “I spoke to Mandy. She told me you’re Gretchen’s best friend, so I was really hoping you’d know something—anything.”
She shook her head. “That’s very sweet, but I don’t know why Mandy would say that. Maybe because I’ve known Gretchen for a long time.”
“If you’re not her best friend, who is?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. Gretchen’s pretty private.”
A recurring theme. “Have you talked to the police?” I asked.
“Yesterday. Why?”
“I was wondering if you had any news.”
She shook her head again. “Nothing. It’s all so strange and frightening.”
I couldn’t think of anything else to ask. I wished she’d invite me in. “If she contacts you, please ask her to call me, okay? I want her to know that no matter what happened, I’ll help.”
“Sure. Except I doubt I’ll hear from her.”
I gave her my business card and left,
She scrunched her eyes a bit, thinking. “Yeah. Sure. That’s where she keeps her vase.”
I exhaled. Someone who had seen it! I felt a thrill of excitement shoot through me. “Can you describe it?”
“How come?”
“It’s missing.”
Her eyes opened wider. “Really? Did someone steal it?”
“I don’t know. What can you remember about it?”
She shrugged and flipped her palms up. “It’s Asian, I guess,” she said.
“Kind of fat and squat? Or tall and elegant?”
She shook her head, the picture not clear in her mind. “Medium, I guess.”
“How tall?” I asked, moving my hands up and down, approximating a height range of six inches up to more than two feet. She watched, then nodded and touched my hand at about eighteen inches.
“There, I guess. It’s about that high.”
“Did Gretchen keep flowers in it?”
“No.” She considered, then added, “It has a top. I don’t know how to describe it. It has a cover on it, so I guess it’s not really a vase.”
I nodded. “I know the kind of object you’re describing—it’s still called a vase. Can you remember anything about the design? Did it show flowers? Birds? People?”
She bit a corner of her lip, concentrating. “Not really.”
“No problem—how about its color? Do you remember that? Was it mostly pinks? Blues? Oranges?”
“Blue, I think. I don’t know—it looks Asian.”
I nodded. Some people could recall every detail of an object; others couldn’t remember the most obvious attributes—proving nothing except that people are different. Even artists like Mandy. I’d bet that if I showed her a Renoir, she could later detail the composition, color palette, and subject matter. But a vase? She barely noticed.
I drove straight to Lina’s.
Parking in front of the well-maintained three-story house, I climbed a few steps and stood on a small, unadorned porch in front of a heavy, windowless oak door and stared at three unmarked buzzers. Shrugging, I pressed the buzzer on the far left and heard a tinny buzz echoing from somewhere inside. I looked around. There was a detached three-stall garage and a fenced backyard. A crackly voice asked, “Who is it?”
“Josie Prescott for Lina.”
There was a flicker of static, then silence, and then the oak door opened about three inches. A petite woman peeked out, then stepped onto the porch, shutting the door behind her. I could hear a dog barking inside. She was of average height but small-framed. She wore a blue sweater and gray slacks, cool colors for a sunny spring day.
“Lina?”
“Yes, I’m Lina.”
“I’m Josie Prescott.”
“Oh, hi! That stupid intercom. I couldn’t really hear what you said. You’re Gretchen’s boss. She’s told me so much about you.”
“Oh, no!” I joked.
She smiled a little. “All good, I promise.”
“Have you heard from her?”
She shook her head. “Nothing. You?”
“No.” I saw only worry in her eyes. “I spoke to Mandy. She told me you’re Gretchen’s best friend, so I was really hoping you’d know something—anything.”
She shook her head. “That’s very sweet, but I don’t know why Mandy would say that. Maybe because I’ve known Gretchen for a long time.”
“If you’re not her best friend, who is?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. Gretchen’s pretty private.”
A recurring theme. “Have you talked to the police?” I asked.
“Yesterday. Why?”
“I was wondering if you had any news.”
She shook her head again. “Nothing. It’s all so strange and frightening.”
I couldn’t think of anything else to ask. I wished she’d invite me in. “If she contacts you, please ask her to call me, okay? I want her to know that no matter what happened, I’ll help.”
“Sure. Except I doubt I’ll hear from her.”
I gave her my business card and left,
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