Marcia Talley - Through the Darkness

“I was hoping to bring the photographs over for Emily to look at,” I continued. “Is she up to it, do you think?”

“Oh, she’s up to it, all right, Hannah, but she’s not here. Emily’s gone off with her new best friend, that Erika Rose.”

I could picture Georgina’s lip curling with distaste.

“They printed up a pile of handbills warning the residents of West Annapolis about Roger Haberman, the pedophile living in their midst. They used one of Roger’s self-portraits, too. They downloaded it from the PredatorBeware website.” Georgina paused. “At least you can see his face in this one.”

On my end of the telephone, I cringed just thinking about it.

“They’re putting up posters?” I could understand why Emily would want to do this, but so soon after our effort to put posters all over town asking for the public’s help in finding Timmy, this new effort left a bad taste in my mouth.

“You bet. She went off with a fistful of them, a roll of cellophane tape, a box of tacks, and a hammer. I suspect they’re plastering West Annapolis. Erika’s been whipping her acolytes into a frenzy because the Habermans live just two blocks from West Annapolis Elementary School, you know.”

I did know. The school dominated the small residential neighborhood, taking up an entire city block.

“I tried to talk Emily out of it,” Georgina continued. “Dennis was here earlier, and he tried to talk some sense into her, too.”

I could just picture it. Dennis pacing, wearing a path in Emily’s carpet, lecturing his niece and thinking: it’s hopeless. Like mother, like daughter.

“Dennis warned Emily that Roger could charge her with harassment,” Georgina continued, “but it was no good. Emily’s one hundred percent convinced that Roger Haberman had a role in Timmy’s disappearance, and she’s not going to let it drop.”

“Emily can’t help it. It’s genetic,” I said, thinking about what I, her mother, had been up to that morning.

Georgina snorted. “So I’ve noticed.”

After Georgina promised to have Emily call me the minute she got home, I tucked the photographs under my arm and drove out to Paradiso. I planned to show the photos to Dante first, and then to other spa employees, to see if anyone recognized Joanna Barnhorst, or had seen her hanging around the spa.

For Dante’s sake, I was glad to see that the Spa Closed notice had been taken down from the gates. Two cars trailed behind me as I drove up the drive, and with the parking lot three-quarters full, the spa appeared to be in full operation.

I found a parking spot under a large tulip poplar and made my way quickly inside. Clients stood two deep at the reception desk where Heather and another girl I didn’t recognize signed people in. I waited until Heather returned to the desk after launching a blonde with a generous derriere off on her spa journey, before taking her aside.

“Is Dante in?” I asked.

Heather shook her head. “Not right now. He’s off somewhere, meeting with the security people to see if they can’t get the system up and running ASAP.”

I showed her the photographs of Joanna Barnhorst. “The police are looking for this woman in connection with my grandson’s disappearance,” I said, stretching the truth just a tad. “Do you recognize her?”

Heather squinted at the picture, wrinkling up her smooth German brow. “Sorry, Hannah. I’ve never seen this woman before. I’m quite sure of it.”

I tried not to let the disappointment show on my face. “Well, thanks, anyway.”

The other receptionist didn’t recognize Joanna, either.

Alison Dutton was a better bet. I found her in the gift shop, assisting a customer who was trying on a track suit. “Not many women could carry off a shade of yellow like that,” she was assuring the woman as I walked in, “but on you, with your coloring, it’s perfect!”

Alison turned to me for corroboration. “What do you think, Hannah?”

The track suit was a bilious yellow, reflecting its color onto the woman’s face and making her look terminally ill. “I’m stunned,” I said, truthfully.

“Well, okay then,” the woman chirped. “I’ll take it.”

After she had made her purchase, leaving with the track suit artfully wrapped in tissue paper, lovingly placed in a signature green spa shopping bag, its handles tied together with curled gold ribbon, I showed Joanna’s pictures to Alison. “I don’t know her,” she said, “but she does look kind of familiar. Maybe she came here for an interview or something?”

“Interview?” I stared past Alison to a stacked display of forest green spa mugs, my brain churning.

Interview.

Had Joanna Barnhorst been the owner of that head that popped around the office door looking for Dante last Monday, the day I was reviewing résumés? I was certain I’d not seen her name among the applications I had examined, but perhaps her application and been among an earlier batch.

If that woman had been Joanna, after I’d informed her that Dante was in the conference room, had she actually been able to see him that day?

And what would compel a woman who had simply come to the spa for a job interview suddenly to decide to snatch Timmy? It wasn’t making a whole lot of sense.

Unless. The needle on my suspicionometer was pegging the meter again.

Unless Dante knew more about Timmy’s disappearance than he had been prepared to admit.

Suddenly I realized that Alison was talking to me. “Did I say something helpful?”

My mind snapped back. “Thank you, Alison. You may have just made my day.”

I had been thinking that if someone, anyone , could place Joanna Barnhorst at Spa Paradiso on Monday with some degree of certainty, perhaps the FBI would be willing to move in on her.

Alison smiled. “Anything I can do to help, just ask.”

I thanked Alison again, then trotted down to the gym, where I found Norman Salterelli bench pressing two hundred pounds without breaking a sweat. I waited semipatiently while he completed twenty reps, slid off the bench, and began dabbing at his face with the towel he kept perpetually draped around his neck. “Hey, Hannah. Haven’t seen you around for a couple of days. No surprise, that. Any news?”

“Nothing good, I’m afraid, but I’ve got a couple of pictures to show you that might help.” I eased them out of the envelope. “I’m wondering if you saw this woman hanging around the spa anywhere.”

Norman flicked his towel over a Bowflex machine and let it hang there. “Let me see.” He studied the pictures for a long time, looking puzzled, as if they were written in a foreign language. He tapped Joanna Barnhorst’s image with a sausage index finger. “Nice looking woman, but no, never seen her.”

“Like leaving the spa on the day Timmy disappeared?” I prodded.

“No. I would have remembered her .”

“Well, thanks, anyway.” I flashed him a grateful smile and tried to hide my disappointment.

My next stop was Bellissima, where Wally Jessop was shuttling between one beauty shop customer whose head was encased in an aluminum foil cap, and another, a brunette, who was apparently considering a new hairstyle. After dabbing highlights with a paintbrush at bits of hair sticking out of holes in the older woman’s foil cap, Wally turned to the brunette, running his fingers through her hair, playing with it, fluffing it up, teasing at it with his fingers.

Standing behind the woman, Wally bent at the waist, stared at her reflection in the mirror, and spoke directly into her ear. “You have natcherwy curwy hair, Mrs. Bwown, and you should never, never bwow it dwy.” Wally turned to shine his pearly whites on me. “I’m twying to talk Mrs. Bwown into a henna winse,” he lisped, “and a cut that’s short and sassy.”