Leann Sweeney - Pushing Up Bluebonnets

Some of the databases allowed me to narrow my search; some of them didn't. I checked all the bigger sites in Texas first, but I couldn't exclude any state in the Union. Though JoLynn sounded like she was from Texas, according to Adele, that didn't mean JoLynn hadn't moved around and been reported missing from someplace other than here.

I took a Snickers from my desk drawer stash, opened the wrapper and enjoyed a taste of comfort as I pulled up what had to be my hundredth missing-persons site, an obscure one put together by a Houston group called "Friends of the Lost." Sounds like a cult, I thought. No wonder it didn't come up right away. Thank goodness the site was blessedly easy to navigate and allowed me to narrow the search by entering fields like age, ethnicity and hair color.

I'd just loaded JoLynn's data when the phone rang. I picked up and said hello, my eyes on the newest rows of faces.

"It's Penny. Sorry it took me so long, but it was a struggle finding out who takes care of our archived pictures. I'm sending you an e-mail now with a zip file. All the Web photos of adoptable foster kids from 1995 to 2005."

But I didn't reply, instead focusing hard on the current photo display.

"Abby? You there?"

My heart quickened as I honed in on one grainy picture. I blinked a few times and found my voice. "Sorry, Penny. Thank you so much. Anytime you need my help, you know where to find me."

"Damn right I do. Good luck." She hung up.

I fumbled to find the recharging stand for the receiver, unwilling to take my eyes off the screen. I held the photo Elliott Richter had given me next to the unfocused face on the monitor.

The computer copy was poor quality and another woman had obviously been cropped out of the picture. I could see a shoulder and a dark-skinned feminine hand holding fast to the blonde's upper arm. The blonde had to be JoLynn. Same jawline, same tilt of the head. But though I believed I had finally found her, the caption under the picture did not say "JoLynn Richter."

This young woman's name was Elizabeth Dugan. She disappeared from Houston over a year ago and was listed as "missing from home." Her height, weight and gender matched what I knew, but there was little else. Maybe I was wrong—maybe this wasn't JoLynn.

I sat back and squinted at the photo and still found the similarities too close to be ignored. Though some of the pictures had case numbers and police contacts listed beneath them, this particular picture gave only an email address.

I jotted it down but decided to try something else first. I typed "Elizabeth Dugan" into Google and the only promising hit led me to a missing-persons message board. The same e-mail address was attached to a message that read,

No one seems to think Elizabeth is really missing, especially since her husband reported to the police that she left on her own after an argument. She wouldn't do that without talking to me. She is 5 feet 4 inches, 105 pounds, blond hair and blue eyes, twenty years old. You can see her picture on the Friends of the Lost Web site. E-mail me if you have any information. My name is Roberta Messing.

A husband? A different name? A friend or relative who was worried about her? Would this be a break in the case that might also break Elliott Richter's heart? I sent out an e-mail to Roberta Messing with trembling fingers.

I waited at my desk fifteen minutes for a return e-mail from Roberta Messing, but like my daddy always told me, I was never burdened with patience. When I started in on my fingernails rather than adding more chocolate calories, I knew I couldn't sit around hoping to see a pop-up on the monitor informing me of new mail.

I plugged Messing's name into Switchboard.com and found not only her phone number but her business and personal information as well. If people only knew what the Internet had on them.

Roberta was a veterinarian in a practice with two others at Oakdale Veterinary Hospital. I snatched up the phone and punched in the numbers.

But Fran, the energetic receptionist, said the doctor was with one of her favorite furry friends and couldn't be disturbed.

"Listen, Fran," I said, "I think Dr. Messing would want to talk to me. Just say the name Elizabeth Dugan."

"But—"

"You have an intercom or something, I'm sure. Whisper the name if you're afraid of freaking out a Great Dane in the middle of a rabies shot. You'll get your boss's attention."

I heard a big sigh before she reluctantly put me on hold. I looked at my watch, wondering how long it would take Roberta Messing to pick up the phone.

Thirty seconds later I heard a click and a breathless, "Elizabeth? Is that you?" Her low, soft voice was filled with urgency.

"Sorry, Dr. Messing, no. My name is Abby Rose and I'm a private investigator. I think I may have found Elizabeth, however."

"Where is she? Why isn't she calling me instead of a—a private investigator? Is that because something's wrong? Please don't tell me she's—"

"She's injured. In a coma," I said quickly.

"A coma? Is that where she's been? In a coma for the last year?"

"It's been less than a week," I said. "She was in a serious wreck."

"Oh, no. God, no. Wh-who was driving?"

"She was. No passengers," I said.

"Will she be okay . . . or does she have some kind of brain damage?"

"The doctors are optimistic. They're keeping her in a medical coma because of the head injury."

"Did she go through the windshield or—"

"All I know is her car hit a tree," I said.

"This is unbelievable. Thank goodness you found me. Who hired you? Did that jerk of a husband finally decide to do something about her disappearance?"

Jerk of a husband? Uh-oh. "I think we need to talk in person."

A short silence, then Messing said, "I'm totally booked all afternoon. This is our late office-hours day. But you could come here. I have a little time between patients. Would that work?"

"Works fine for me."

The feline-entrance waiting room at Oakdale Veterinary Hospital was filled with cats growling, howling or cowering in pet carriers. Cats know what they like and what they don't. I'm sure they believe thermometers up their butts are unnecessary intrusions that cannot be assuaged by the stale, dried-out cat treat offered at the conclusion of this particular humiliation. Yup, all of them knew what was coming.

The receptionist sat in a circular office that could access both waiting rooms—the dogs were on the other side of the building. I introduced myself and this time I didn't get put off.

"Dr. Messing wants you to go right back, Ms. Rose. I'll show you the way." She hit a button and a door opened to my right.

I went through and a young woman met me in a hallway. She wore scrubs covered with brightly colored cats and dogs playfully chasing one another. My Diva would consider this place anything but playful.

I was led to a small and very messy office. At least the doc had the perfect name.

"I'll go get Dr. Messing." The girl hurried off.

The only chair not piled with documents or boxes was behind the vet's desk, so I stood and looked at the framed graduation certificate hanging crookedly on the wall—she'd gone to A&M—and took in the computer with its jungle-birds screen saver and the complete and utter disarray emphasized by scattered papers on the desk, granola bar wrappers everywhere and the wilting jumbo-size paper cup of some soft drink from a convenience store. It had completely dampened and smeared whatever document it sat on.

I smiled. Here was a woman after my own heart. But then I started when I felt something brush my leg. I looked down and saw what had to be the oldest, mangiest dog in the universe. He or she had one lower tooth that no longer fit in its mouth and was looking up at me expectantly with round cloudy eyes mostly obscured by floppy hair.