Damaged Goods - Page 11
“With Melissa?” I pressed on.
He shrugged. “Not that I recall.”
“Can you remember where he was or what he was doing?”
Steve’s brow creased with thought. “I just know the face is familiar.”
“Do either of you know any of Melissa’s close friends? Anyone she hangs with?”
Steve shrugged again, but Elle nodded. “She and Jen Gardiner hang out together. Jen also attends MICA. We all do here, pretty much. The school is, like, the cheap labor camp for the stores in this area.” She smiled and gave me a wry look.
“Hmm. Great.” I jotted the name. “You wouldn’t know how to contact Jen, would you?”
“No. Sorry.”
“No problem.” I fished two cards from my shoulder bag and handed one to each of them. “Could you let me know if you hear from Melissa or Jen? Or think of anything else that might help me find Melissa?”
“Sure,” Elle said.
“Absolutely,” Steve added.
“Oh, and a medium latte. To go, please.”
The espresso machine roared into action as I considered the new information. Stuart Blaine could have come here to see his daughter. As for Kandinsky . . . there could be any number of reasons. My best bet was to start by exploring that connection.
Who knows, I thought. Maybe I could kill two birds with one stone here.
Chapter Six
Before I looked for Kandinsky, I figured I’d visit MICA while I was in the neighborhood. So before I left Java Joe’s, I asked if there was an instructor at the school who might be helpful.
“Now that you mention it,” Steve said, “there is one that everyone likes. Marie Solomon. She mentors a lot of students. Melissa might be one. You could see if she knows anything.”
“Thanks, I will.” I lifted my latte cup in farewell.
The art school is spread over several blocks of the Bolton Hill area, and the logical place to start seemed like the administration building, a solid, white block of classical architecture. The high-ceilinged, columned foyer surrounded a marble stairway built to impress. One staircase led down from each side of the second floor, they met in the middle and then descended as a single staircase that widened right before it reached the first floor. If I squinted, the steps seemed to create illusory ripples, as if the stairway had managed to liquefy.
Students milled about, artwork or portfolios tucked under their arms. Chatter bounced off the granite walls, creating a constant thrum.
Finding the main office was easy enough. A young woman with Rit-dyed red hair was happy to point me toward it. Even the clerk behind the counter seemed cheerful. She directed me to Marie Solomon’s office with a smile and a twinkle in her eyes. Maybe I should get a job at MICA. Then I could be perky all the time, too.
I climbed the stairs, turned left at the top, and walked to the second door on the right. The door was open, and I heard quiet conversation, so I decided to peek inside. A tall, thin woman in her thirties stood with a younger woman—probably a student. I hung back and waited. Eventually, the instructor and student came to the door, and when the younger one left, the woman I assumed was Marie Solomon beamed at me. “How can I help you?”
After exchanging introductions, I gave her the spiel and asked if she’d seen Melissa recently.
Marie Solomon’s smile faded. “The last time I saw her was two weeks ago, as of last Friday.”
“You seem sure of the date.”
The instructor nodded. “I’m sure of it, but I?
??ll double-check my calendar, if you like.”
As she spoke, Solomon walked to her desk calendar and flipped the pages back. Ooh, paper instead of pixels. Call me old-fashioned, but I have a genuine love for all things paper, not to mention a huge distrust of technology.
“There,” she said, pointing to the page. “I saw her at 1:30, exactly two weeks ago Friday.”
“Can you tell me what you discussed, without violating any privacy rules?”
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