J. Jance: Failure to appear

One sagging corner of the porch had been propped back up and was being held in place by a strategically positioned hydraulic scissors jack. Several uncut lengths of eight-by-twelve lumber lay nearby and were probably intended for permanently shoring up the porch. Another neat stack of two-by-twelves and two-by-fours testified to someone's intention of framing a new set of steps from ground level up to the spacious front deck.

Obviously, someone was hard at work refurbishing the old place. That should have made me feel better, but somehow I couldn't see how Kelly could abandon her comfortable, upscale California nest with her mother and stepfather for this aging Gothic kind of work-in-progress. But still, taking on a complicated renovation project shows a certain amount of initiative, organization, and skill. For the first time, I wondered if maybe the people Kelly was staying with were reasonably okay after all.

I stopped the car, got out, and then found myself stymied. The lumber to rebuild the steps was there, but in the meantime, the stairs themselves were missing altogether. I wondered how visitors were supposed to get close enough to the front door to knock or ring the bell.

Standing only a foot or so away from the porch, I was busy contemplating my predicament when an ugly, gangly yellow dog of indeterminate line-age rose stiff-legged from behind a wooden porch swing. Barking hoarsely, he hobbled toward me. I worried momentarily that the dog might leap off the porch and come after me, but when he got close enough, I could see he was far too old and frail. He stared at me blindly through eyes clouded with cataracts. It seemed to take all the strength he could muster to keep up his croaking but ineffectual bark.

Eventually, the screen door slammed open behind the dog, and a woman marched out onto the porch. "What is it, Sunshine?"

At first I thought the woman was being sarcastic and talking to me, but then I realized she was actually speaking to the dog. She strode over to the edge of the porch, leaned down, and patted the dog soothingly. "It's okay, Sunshine girl," she crooned. "I'm right here."

So Sunshine was a girl. With a strange dog, it's hard to tell that kind of thing from a distance. The woman caught sight of me and frowned, first at me and then at my shiny red Porsche. Since she was so much higher than I was, she appeared to be a giant. Not necessarily a friendly one, either.

"Who are you?" she demanded coldly. "What do you want?"

"My name's Beaumont," I said. "I understand my daughter lives here."

I'm not a particularly good judge of women's ages. She could have been anywhere from her late forties to her early sixties. Her hair, mostly gray, was parted in the middle, braided, and then pulled into some kind of knot at the back of her neck. Wearing boots, jeans, and a man's old dress shirt rolled up to the elbows, she stood on the porch with her arms crossed, staring down at me with the afternoon sun playing off the even planes of her spare, angular features.

I'm not a weight lifter, but I recognize muscle definition when I see it. Since the woman's forearms had plenty of muscle definition, it was safe to assume the rest of her did, too.

"Really. Kelly didn't mention she was expecting visitors," the woman remarked with a coldness that was only one step short of sending me packing.

I wondered what I'd done to merit such open hostility. Before saying anything more, I studied the woman closely. Her face was tan, but without the leathery look that comes from too many years of unrelenting sun. Everything about her was plain except for her eyes. They were a startling shade of violet that hardened to a flinty gray while she gazed down at me.

"It's a surprise," I answered, trying to keep things light. "I was in the neighborhood and thought I'd stop by."

"I'll just bet," the woman returned, not bothering to mute her biting sarcasm.

It wasn't going at all well. If this woman was the designated keeper of the co-op's gate, then I would have to find some way around her if I wanted to speak to Kelly.

"Look," I said, drawing myself up to a full-attention stance. "If you'd just tell my daughter I'm here…"

Eyeball-to-eyeball confrontations are just that. The first person to blink loses. My damn car phone rang just then. I lost the glare-down fair and square.

"You'd better go answer your high-priced toy," she jeered.

Trying to maintain my somewhat damaged dignity, I turned and stalked back to the car. Naturally, my caller was Alex. "Did you find Kelly?" she asked.

"I think so."

"You're not sure?"

"Not exactly. I haven't seen her yet. Give me a break, Alex. I just now got here. What gives?"

"Denver found us a room at a place called the Oak Hill Bed-and-Breakfast. We've got tickets to Romeo and Juliet in the Bowmer Theatre tonight and to the opening of Taming of the Shrew in the Elizabethan tomorrow. Denver's going to try to get us in to see The Majestic Kid at the Black Swan tomorrow afternoon, and she's invited us to dinner tonight. Meet us in the dining room at the Mark Anthony at six."

"The Mark Anthony?" I repeated. "Where's that?"

"It's a hotel owned by one of Denver's friends. It's back on the main street, near where you dropped me off. You can't miss it. It's the tallest building in town."

When someone giving me out-of-town directions says the words "You can't miss it," I know I can and will. Miss it, that is. "Right," I said. "See you there."

I put down the phone and turned back to where the woman stood watching me from the porch, her lips curled in grim amusement. The dog, exhausted with the effort of barking, had flopped down at her feet and was snoring noisily. From inside the house came the inviting smells of something cooking, soup or a roast perhaps, and the unmistakable aroma of baking bread. But baking her own bread didn't transform the woman in front of me into Homemaker of the Year or make her the least bit friendly, either. Certainly not to me.

"Well," I said, "is Kelly here or not?"

"It depends," the woman answered gravely.

"On what?"

"On what you want with her."

I was tired. My temper frayed around the edges. "Look," I said testily. "My daughter is a runaway. She doesn't even have a high school diploma. I've come to send her back home to her mother where she belongs."

"Kelly is eighteen years old," the woman pointed out. "What if she doesn't want to go?"

I was losing it. "All day long, any number of people have been quick to remind me about how old Kelly is. She happens to be my daughter. I know damn good and well she's eighteen years old. I also know she isn't old enough to be out on her own. I want her to go back home and finish growing up."

Suddenly, with the graceful agility of a cat, the woman hopped off the porch, landing effortlessly in front of me despite the four-foot drop. Her nimble leap both impressed and depressed me at the same time. My ability to jump like that has all but been eliminated by an ever-increasing assortment of middle-aged aches and pains-including incipient arthritis and heel spurs. Whatever this woman's age was, she certainly wasn't acting it.

Now that we were both on the same level, I discovered the woman wasn't that tall, only about five foot eight or so. From the way she glowered at me, though, she didn't find our relative sizes the least bit intimidating.

"Kelly may not be old enough to live on her own in your estimation, Mr. Beaumont, but in the eyes of the law she's an emancipated young woman. She holds a responsible job. Two, in fact. She pays her rent on time and causes no trouble."

"You're telling me you're her landlord?"

"Landlady," the woman corrected firmly. "So don't think you can come in here and push her around."

"I see, Miss…er…"

"My name is Connors. Marjorie Connors. Mrs. Marjorie Connors."