keeping my business card, she simply handed it back to me. Not only was the message rude, it was also painfully clear. Whatever I was doing about Petey had nothing whatsoever to do with her, and she wasn’t the least bit interested.
“If my nephew’s gone missing, why is a private investigator looking for him rather than the police?”
“That’s actually why I’m here,” I explained. “In order to involve law enforcement, someone needs to file a missing-persons report. According to a neighbor, Hilda Tanner, you’re Petey’s nearest blood relation.”
“Hilda Tanner,” Lenora sniffed. “That old battle-ax? Why can’t she ever mind her own business? As for Petey? He’s just like his dad—never settled down, never had a decent job. How can he be missing from home when, as far as I know, once he left my mom’s house he’s never had a real home? As for my filing a missing-persons report? It’s not gonna happen, so why don’t you get back in your car, drive on out of here, and go back to wherever you came from?”
In other words, Here’s your hat, buddy, what’s your hurry? And don’t let the door slam you on the butt on your way out. Make that the gate rather than the door. And when it comes to the critical issue of making a good first impression? Lenora Harrison had flunked that test fair and square. She was the kind of woman that Mel might well refer to as a “ringtailed bitch.”
“Thanks for your help,” I told her. “You’ve got a lovely place here.”
“We like it,” she allowed.
That was what she told me, but I couldn’t help wondering. If this lavish and very upscale spot was Lenora’s home base right now, what the hell was she doing buying up a not-yet-built place in West Seattle? The McMansions at Mayfield Glen would be a big step up from the place across the street where Lenora had grown up, but compared to this? Moving to Suzanne Nishikawa’s West Seattle development would be a huge step down.
So what was the deal here? And what was my next move?
The imposing corten gate rolled open as I approached it from the inside. As it rumbled shut behind me, I had no idea where I was going to go or what I was going to do as a follow-up. Years of experience told me that missing-persons reports filed by nodding acquaintances are generally nonstarters. A report filed by me or by Alan Dale or even by Hilda Tanner would most likely produce a bored yawn followed by a raised-eyebrow question of, “What business is it of yours?”
There was certainly no love lost between Lenora Harrison or Hilda Tanner in either direction, but as I merged back onto I-5 from 520, I remembered something Hilda had said about an upcoming estate sale scheduled to take place at Agnes Mayfield’s former residence. And then there was that other thing Hilda had mentioned—about when Agnes was beginning to have dementia issues, Hilda and some of the other neighbors had taken turns looking in on the ailing woman. Did that mean there was a chance Hilda Tanner might still have a key that would let me inside Agnes’s abandoned house to have a look around? As a sworn police officer, I wouldn’t have been allowed to enter a residence and search for evidence without having enough probable cause to obtain a search warrant. But when I became a private eye, those constraints went right out the window.
Over time I’ve learned a lot about the workings of DNA. Mitochondrial DNA flows from mother to child. Having a DNA profile of Agnes Mayfield would help us build a familial DNA connection to her grandson, Petey. That might not help us if Petey was still alive and kicking, but what if he wasn’t? What if Petey was deceased and his unidentified remains were sitting unclaimed, filed away in the locked storage unit in some M.E.’s office? In that case a DNA profile from Agnes might be the key to discovering what had become of him.
By the time Lucy and I were traveling southbound on I-5, I had reached the conclusion that we were headed for West Seattle. As for Lucy? She was headed for West Seattle, too, but she clearly wasn’t happy about it. Rather than sitting with her chin resting on my shoulder, she was curled up and moping in the backseat, most likely missing her morning Frisbee chase.
Working as a private investigator might be fine for human beings,