My Lost and Found Life (13 page)

He turned and walked away without another word. I was dumbfounded, but what could I do? Tell him that I'd talk to
her? I didn't know where she was, and he obviously wasn't going to believe me.

• • •

Afterward, I couldn't wait to tell Nicole all about the lunch. We sat outside on my deck, discussing the details as thoroughly as we had ever dished the dirt on Mara or the love life of some movie star—and just as pointlessly.

Obviously he and Diane had a falling-out of some sort, since she hadn't been in touch with him. And his worry that Diane might do something crazy must mean he didn't want her to spill the beans. Maybe she even had some evidence with her that implicated him.

But his insistence that I must be in touch with her worried me. He thought she wouldn't go away without taking me or at the very least letting me know where she was. But with every passing day, it appeared she had.

Nicole thought I should turn Mr. Big-Shot Davidson in to the police, but I pointed out that I had no proof. I was sure he was in this mess up to his neck and had probably persuaded my mother to do all sorts of illegal stuff. But it was just my word against his. No one would take the word of a teenager, especially an embezzler's daughter, over a pillar ofthe community.

What was I supposed to do—break into his office and look for incriminating evidence? Playing girl detective hadn't worked for me so far. This wasn't a game, with me proclaiming Colonel Mustard did it in the library with the candlestick. If there were evidence, Charming Curtis would have already destroyed it or else it would have turned up by now.

He was smug and self-centered, but he didn't strike me as a complete idiot.

“What would be the point anyway?” I asked Nicole. “I'm not a financial whiz or accountant. I can't make heads or tails out of ledgers or figure out if he's cooking the books, even if I found the right ones.”

“In the movies, there's always something incriminating on a computer,” suggested Nicole. “Where's your mother's computer?”

“She took it with her the day she disappeared. My mother and that laptop were inseparable. Ifyou find it, you'll find her.”

She shook her head in befuddlement.

“Why is everything so easy on TV and so hard in real life?”

“Because real life sucks. I don't have any clues to work with. No secret envelope or safety-deposit box to look in. I haven't found any mysterious keys that would lead me to a stockpile of evidence. Nothing.”

We looked at each other in dejection.

“There must be
something
we can do,” she said weakly. “Someone we can tell.”

“Mmmm.” I thought about it and sighed. “I suppose I could be a real pain in the ass by calling up his wife and making a lot of insinuations about his being a cheating dickhead. But all that would accomplish is making my mother look like some home-wrecking slut. He would persuade wifey I was a deranged liar or even a criminal. They would either ignore me or, worse yet, tell the cops I was stalking them. Plus, I would totally piss him off, and I didn't like the way he said, ‘Tell her not to do anything crazy. Because I might do something crazy.' ”

Nicole shivered at that thought, and I didn't feel too great about it myself.

Then I had a stupendous idea. I leaped up and paced across the deck.

“I just thought of something. I could send an anonymous letter to Arthur Warren, the company president, you know, the guy who was quoted in that newspaper article. I could write something like, ‘Looking for an embezzler? Maybe you ought to take a close look at Curtis Davidson.' Nothing else, no signature, just a little something to plant a seed and make them think twice about his involvement in all this.”

“That's fabulous!” shrieked Nicole. “And you can write
Personal and Confidential
on the outside of the envelope so you can be sure that he gets it.”

She jumped up and we started to dance around the deck in glee.

Then, suddenly, Nicole stopped dancing and turned to me with gleaming eyes. “I've just had a
really
fiendish idea. There is something else you can do. I saw it in a TV movie once. This rich guy, a tycoon or something, anyway, he dumps his mistress in a really cruel way. To get even, she
turns him in to the IRS.
For a
huge
reward. You know, hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.”

It was my turn to shriek. The idea was so diabolical that I couldn't believe the suggestion had come from Nicole.

“Why not?” I screamed. “Why the hell not? You're a genius. I can't sign the letter, so forget the reward part, but there's no earthly reason why I can't send an anonymous letter to the IRS, hinting that Mr. Curtis Davidson has been a very bad boy.”

It made me giggle just to think of the bloodhounds from the IRS pursuing that prick and getting their teeth into his well-groomed hide. Phil had gone through an audit a few years ago, and he had complained about it for weeks. He whined to my mother about the IRS investigators being completely heartless, without a drop of human compassion, just because his bookkeeping was a little sloppy. If Phil, who was Mr. Straight Arrow, had been terrified, I could only imagine what old Curtis would feel, because he obviously had a lot to hide.

I was still smiling the next day when I dropped two anonymous letters into the mailbox.

The next two weeks were hell. Finding a job turned out to be even more humiliating than looking for a place to live. No one told me that I was going to have to fill out long applications, answer all sorts of personal (and rude) questions, and be treated as if I weren't quite adequate to sweep the floors. I thought I would be doing someone a favor—that someone would smile and say, “Great. You're just the person we need. When can you start?”

No one did. Instead, they acted as if I should be grateful they were even talking to me.

“Leave your resume and we'll call you,” they'd say in a brisk, self-important way.

A resume! What was I supposed to put on it? I had only graduated from high school five minutes ago. I could see it now,
Previous experience: Head Cheerleader, Homecoming Queen, Prom Princess.
Hmm, I had a lot of experience as royalty, come to think of it. Oh, and what about my new skill—Garage Sale Expert?

I didn't see why I needed a resume to be a waitress or sales clerk. When I said as much to Little Miss Priss, who interviewed me at the Gap, she looked as if I had just farted in her face.

“We're not looking for just anyone, you know. We need reliable people who are enthusiastic and have good attitudes,” she sneered.

“Wow, it must have been really hard for
you
to get a job here,” I said sweetly.

So much for working at the Gap.

References were another problem. Where was I supposed to get job references if I'd never had a job? In the end, I listed Gloria and Phil.

The most annoying thing was remembering how my mother had discouraged me when I said I wanted to be an actress. I even asked her to let me enroll in San Mateo High School, which has a first-rate drama program. But for once Diane wouldn't give in. She said I was too young to face the rejection actors go through. I guess that's what old Jimmy moaned about all the time to my softhearted mother. But I'm tough, a whole lot tougher than my father ever was. While I didn't seem to have the necessary skills for these jobs, I was sure I could act, probably better than half the actresses you see in the movies. When was the last time you saw Drew Barrymore play anyone except herself? I can even cry on cue and without getting all puffy and red-eyed.

All in all, I was beginning to regret having pursued the college prep and honors track in high school. Nothing I knew was the least bit practical. Try getting a job because you're good in French or trig.

The simplest job seemed to require a college degree or special training. I saw a job listing for
Art gallery assistant,
and I imagined myself sashaying around a chic gallery. “Oh, yes, that's one of our newest artists,” I'd confide. “You should snap up his work while it's still affordable. That one is only ten thousand dollars.”

But they wanted a college graduate knowledgeable about art. That left me out.

Bookstore clerk
—now that was more like it; I loved books and reading. As I looked further, though, I saw they wanted someone with a retail background or bookselling experience.

Receptionist—knowledge of Word, Access, and Excel essential.
OK, I could use Word, but Access and Excel? No way.

And so it went. I didn't even know what a sous chef was. I'd die before I became a nanny or child-care provider, and I would never demean myself by becoming a burrito delivery driver.

At this point, I just wanted to get a job, any job, so I could get some of the experience that seemed so damned important—so I wouldn't get any more smirks when I admitted that I'd never had a job before.

• • •

Soon I was going to be all alone, everyone was going away in a few weeks. I, the girl voted “Most Likely to Set the World on Fire,” was being left behind while everyone else went on to new lives.

Even Nicole had begun shutting me out, though she didn't mean to. For weeks she and Cindy had been racing all over San Francisco, buying the things that every college freshman needs,
including a wardrobe fit for New England winters. She had invited me along on their shopping excursions, but I begged off, knowing it would be too painful.

Since junior high I had looked forward to decorating my dorm room, going through sorority rush, and being the center of attention at a series of fabulous college parties. I had poured through and dog-eared back issues of
InStyle
and
Vogue
, imagining the pleated skirts, cashmere sweaters, and cocktail dresses I would buy. None of that would ever happen now. I felt cheated and angry.

Camping in a house without furniture, sleeping on the floor in a pile of blankets, and eating at fast-food places or heating frozen dinners was so depressing that I didn't feel like socializing. Admittedly, I wasn't completely without amenities since I still had the stereo and a small portable TV. But the atmosphere was strange and I felt detached from everyone and everything. For the first time in my life, I would sit alone and listen to all the sounds around me. The whole place had a vacant, transient feel to it, as if the house were waiting for someone or something and I was an outsider who didn't belong. The rooms seemed as lonely and deserted as I felt.

Poor Stella suffered the most. She jumped at shadows and meowed plaintively, as if she were blaming me for all the changes. She didn't know it yet, but bigger changes were in the offing for both of us.

It was just a matter of time before the electricity and water would be shut off. Those bills had mounted to a wince-inducing total since my mother vanished. Gloria advised me to forget about the bills, since they'd eat up all my cash and
weren't my responsibility anyway. She called them “uncollectable.” I didn't like the idea of turning us into a family ofdead-beats, but I was determined not to blow the money I had left.

My cell phone bill was another matter. I used two hundred bucks to bring that account up to date so I could reestablish my communication line. No way could I be without a phone. Putting gas in my tank also required cash now. I discovered the hard way that my car registration and insurance were must-pay items. Of course it was dear old Officer Strobel who brought it to my attention. I was zipping along one morning on my way to get a fruit smoothie for breakfast, when he flashed his red light at me. I pulled over to the curb, rolled down my window, and let out a long sigh as Strobel walked up.

“What now? I know I wasn't speeding. Aren't there any skateboarders or other dangerous criminals you can arrest?”

“Your license and registration please.”

Wearily, I reached into the glove compartment and handed them over.

“Your registration expired two weeks ago.”

“What?” I grabbed them back and looked. “Well, you've got me. I surrender. Another outlaw apprehended. Congratulations.”

“You know, your life might go a lot easier if you knocked off the sarcasm,” he said matter-of-factly as he began writing on his pad.

I slumped in my seat, trying not to show how upset I was.

“This is what is known as a fix-it ticket. If you correct this within thirty days, the charge will be dismissed. Do you understand that?”

“Yes,” I said, feigning indifference by checking my face in the mirror. “Tell me, Officer. Am I public enemy number one around here? Do you have nothing else to do except wait for me to screw up?”

“That's about it,” he said. “All day long, I have nothing to think about except Ashley Mitchell. You know, I could probably manage to have some sympathy for you if you didn't act like a smug little smart aleck all the time.”

“I don't need your sympathy,” I said angrily.

“Then keep it up, because you're on the right track. Sign here.”

I signed and started my car. Then, I just couldn't help tossing off, “Don't ever change, Officer. Stay as sweet as you are.”

He just shook his head and walked back to his squad car.

• • •

Ultimately, I did get the ticket dismissed, but only after running around in circles for several days. The DMV was happy to accept my money plus late fees, but then informed me that I had to smog-test the Jetta and provide proof of insurance, costing another $300. All these stupid bills were eating away at my garage-sale profit. It had been so much easier when my mother took care of all this.

Despite my dwindling funds, I decided to pay our health club membership dues. For the past few weeks, I had been working out almost every day. Exercising gave me something to do and a way to release my pent-up frustration. Each day as I pounded away on the bike or treadmill, my mind spun
around the same worn grooves without any new ideas. I worried and agonized and accomplished nothing.