Perri O'Shaughnessy - Keeper of the Keys

“Where’s my daughter?”

“Not home.”

“This is no time to play games, Ray.”

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

“I’m not here because I insist on pancakes instead of eggs for breakfast!” Hubbel yelled. “I’m not here wondering why no grandkids yet!”

Ray was happy he was still dressed. He would hate to be wearing his skivvies, facing this six foot three ex-Marine-turned-policeman with eyebrows as thick as overgrown grass. Leigh loved her father, describing him as a tough guy with a good heart.

Hubbel pushed his way past Ray, more bully than heart at the moment, looking around. The living room, serene, bare, full of textured beiges, remained empty and did not speak. He went to the white granite fireplace, and pulled the LCD screen aside.

“No sign of her in there,” Ray said. He knew this was not the right thing to say to Leigh’s father, and yet he could not help himself. He felt terribly defensive.

“I’m going upstairs,” Hubbel said. He climbed the main stairway, the cantilevered concrete stairs that seemed to float upward, to the second floor. Ray heard him above, opening doors and drawers, slamming them shut. He sat down on the couch and stared dully at the fireplace. The uncurtained windows felt like black holes sucking out his insides. I’m having a breakdown, he thought, but found it hard to care.

Moments later, Hubbel marched down the stairs again, long arms swinging. “This is goddamn dangerous, this stairway. You have a problem with rails?”

“They’re ugly.”

“Aw, I hate this aesthetics over function crap.” He landed in the entryway, and stood close to Ray, who had gotten up and opened the front door.

“You satisfied?” Ray said.

“You kidding? Where is my daughter?”

“She hasn’t called you?”

“Not since Friday. Her mother’s upset. She was supposed to go shopping with her Saturday. Aren’t you listening to your phone messages? You two have a fight?”

The unwelcome memory of Leigh’s last night at home assaulted Ray. “An argument, yes. Look, I don’t know where she is, okay? She’s gone.”

“She left? When? Did she take her car?”

Ray answered the questions. Hubbel never let him lower his eyes, look away. Yes, she took the car, took her purse, packed a bag. No, she didn’t say where she was-she was very-he thought she’d come back after clearing her head for a while-no calls. No, no calls, no e-mails, no notes.

“Why wouldn’t she call us?” Hubbel said, thinking out loud. “She knows-she knows-”

“It’s just the weekend. I’m sure we’ll hear from her tomorrow. Come on, Jim, she’s an adult and it’s really late and I have to work in the morning.”

“You should have let us know. I’ve seen some things I can’t even talk about in my business, Ray. You hear? I don’t let people I love go off the radar for days. I’m going to call some people, some hospitals.”

“If you talk to her, tell her-”

“Tell her what?”

“To get in touch.”

“I don’t like the sound of this. I don’t like the lame way you’re talking. It’s like you’ve given up on ever seeing her again. She comes back, she calls, you tell her to call her mother.” Hubbel stood very close to him at the doorway, his big hard stomach pressed against Ray. “If I find out you harmed a hair on her head-well, I’ll kill you.”

Monday morning before work, Kat listened to two messages from Jacki. Nothing from Leigh yet. Well, it was only eight-thirty. Still, she had always been an early bird.

She punched in some numbers.

“Leigh Jackson Designs,” a girlish voice chirped.

“Hello. I’m trying to reach Leigh.”

“She’s not in yet. Can I leave her a message?”

“Hmm. This is an old friend, Kat Tinsley. She might remember me. I mean, in case she’s there and just busy. She might want to talk to me.”

“She’s not here. What’s your number?”

“I need to talk to her right away.”

“Are you interested in custom furnishings?”

“No, but I do need to talk to her.”

“She’ll get back to you when she can.”

“When might that be?”

The receptionist sighed. “When she can.”

Frustrated, Kat left her number again. With no time to call Jacki, Kat rushed to her office in Santa Monica.

She had a Superior Court appearance, then two houses to evaluate, one in Topanga, the other in Long Beach. In both cases, a divorce was imminent. Distraught parties awaited her report as to value. She needed to be scrupulously fair or she would be challenged or impeached in court.

As she scurried through the traffic, feeling the heat already working to melt her windshield, she wondered what it would be like to have owned a property in Topanga for many years and to have watched that property’s value skyrocket. As a child, she had visited a friend who lived in the canyon, and what she remembered was her friend’s mom chasing a rattlesnake up the street with a rake, trying to cut off its head. The family used to drive to a roadside spring and fill their bottles with pure water every Saturday.

How times had changed. The decrepit cottages had morphed into estates. The estates had transmogrified into feudal fiefdoms. Topanga had become très chic, as close as you could get to L.A. without having to play L.A. games. And Leigh’s house was a work of art. Leigh’s mother had money, Kat recalled. She had grown up in the big house in Whittier across from Kat’s little house. It wouldn’t seem strange to her.

Tinsley Enterprises in Santa Monica wasn’t a long way from Hermosa Beach, it just felt that way because of the daily life-risking commute. Kat pulled into the small parking lot next to the office on Santa Monica Boulevard, pleased to get a spot so easily for a change, picked up her things, and ran up the two flights of stairs to the office, where the receptionist greeted her with a cup of coffee, half milk, just the way she liked it.

Kat and Jacki’s dad, Gus Tinsley, had opened this real estate appraisal firm in the seventies and muddled along for decades until he died suddenly, still young, not long after divorcing their mother. Kat had first gotten involved in the business during summers starting in high school, following her dad around and watching, with astonishment, as cheap fixer-uppers ascended into properties worth millions.

She continued to work for his successor, Micky Gowecki, finally passed the test to become an appraiser, and now felt confident in her work. She knew the market, the psychology, and the loopy, blustering desire and greed that drove people to question her judgment, and she was good on the witness stand in disputed cases. Her work had swiftly become almost unassailable, and she was earning a rep for fairness.

She spent the late morning in court wearing her credibility togs: fake diamond studs, fake diamond solitaire at her neck, black silk suit that nipped snugly at the waist, making her look thinner. Up on the chopping block today, a house in La Habra, an utterly basic, roofed dwelling.

People who didn’t have much often fought the most brutally to hold on to what they had.

The soon-to-be-ex-husband started off with some dignity. He answered his own attorney’s questions calmly. Then his soon-to-beex-wife’s attorney, a female, picked away at him. The man appeared to be choking, the way he worked the tie at his throat. His face fluctuated between pasty and blotched as the emotions ratcheted up. He had a right to that house! He grew up there! His father built it! He had happy memories galore! This greedy witch would fix it up and flip it, destroying a family legacy!

The ex-wife took the stand. She still lived in the house. He had left her, cheated on her, broken her heart, and she couldn’t see why she should have to move. Why should he be rewarded for being such an asshole? He hated the house and complained constantly about it. He’d sell it for a bundle and make a huge profit.