Riddle

By Michael Kaye

When Karen Hoffmeister suddenly and mysteriously goes missing from her home, her strange disappearance sets in motion a tangled web of intrigue, duplicity, treachery and puzzlement.

Riddle weaves a tantalizing thread through the lives of those involved with Karen, culminating in an astonishingly startling conclusion.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Oct 8, 2021
• ISBN: 9781663229397

Michael Kaye

Michael Kaye was born and educated in England where his long literary career began. He is the author of nine novels, two stage plays, several volumes of poetry and numerous children's books. He resides in northern New York State and is currently working on his latest novel.

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Copyright © 2021 Michael Kaye.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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ISBN: 978-1-6632-2938-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6632-2939-7 (e)

iUniverse rev. date:  10/04/2021

Contents

Acknowledgments

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

For Darlene Martino

Friend, Teacher and Sage

Thank you.

Acknowledgments

My sincere thanks to Christopher Dent for putting

his vast computer knowledge at my disposal and, in

doing so, made this story more authentic.

Richard Drake has my profound gratitude for his

astonishing artistry on the front cover, which not only

sets the tone but elevates the book beyond measure.

To my wife, Kristine, for her editing, technical expertise

on the cover and throughout the publishing process and,

of course, for her continued love and support.

It is a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma

Winston Churchill

Chapter One

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The metallic midnight blue Mercedes convertible screeched to a stop with all the grace of a Sumo wrestler taking a fall. The passenger-side wheels rested almost a foot from the curb and at such an illogical angle most on-coming cars might find it difficult to miss removing its highly polished back end.

The absurd display of reckless impudence was totally unnecessary. Catherine Ballard was not five minutes late for her meeting with her dear friend, Karen Hoffmeister, but five minutes early. Yet Catherine simply couldn’t help herself. Her whole life seemed geared to driving in the fast lane, both figuratively and literally.

Checking her watch and finding she was early, she relaxed in her seat while trying to clear her mind. Pulling down the visor mirror, Catherine looked at her perfectly made-up face, touched her hair in a couple of places and smiled. She was stunning and knew it. At thirty-five, Catherine had come a long way in a short time.

Briefly, she let her mind wander back to her days growing up in Los Angeles, to her time at Stanford and her marriage to Bill. The memories tingled inside her like a quick jolt of electricity, the unhappiness surfacing like a long forgotten enemy. She thought often about the man to whom she gave years of her life, where he was and what he may be doing. But these thoughts were heartbreaking for Catherine. She dismissed them almost as soon as they appeared.

Her philosophy for the way she lived her life changed forever the day she headed east. She could never go back. She just couldn’t.

After four years on her own, Catherine not only managed to start a different life, but managed to start a successful new life. Her nascent real estate company was now a money making concern, with a growing reputation in the environs just north of New York City. For Catherine, the beautiful, vivacious, fast talking, pushy, determined and self-assured Catherine, life was almost perfect. Almost.

Silently, the door swung open and Catherine stepped from the Mercedes with graceful elegance. As she crossed the front of the car to the sidewalk, she giggled to herself at the wonderful job she’d done of parking. She made a mental note to honestly try to do better next time.

As a fresh breeze swept through her hair, Catherine bent her head, glancing once more at her watch. Eleven o’clock, precisely. As she made her way along the sidewalk towards the gate Catherine, surprisingly, felt a few nerves unsettling her stomach. Taking a deep breath, she tried hard to dismiss them, but they lingered for a few seconds more. The experience seemed strange to Catherine who’d made this same trip, to this same house, many times before.

At the entrance to the gate Catherine stopped and instinctively looked behind her. Everything on the street was quiet. A perfect May morning. The elegant houses exuded wealth and good taste, status and independence. As far as the eye could see no papers littered this street, no dogs’ mess caught one unawares, and certainly no scruffy, snot-nosed children played in the road.

Pushing on the heavy iron gate, Catherine passed through the imposing, freshly painted, white pillars, and found herself in Karen Hoffmeister’s immense front yard. Even to Catherine, who never really cared about flowers and trees, Karen’s garden was an impressive and formidable sight. The sheer diversity and inventiveness of the landscaping always left her amazed that anyone could imagine such beauty and symmetry in their head. But then having the ability to transfer that image to a growing and ever changing environment really convinced her some people simply were born with a sixth sense few others possessed.

As she made her way up the winding brick path to the front door, Catherine stopped frequently to take in the sights surrounding her, drawing in deep breaths to capture the smells of freshly cut grass, blooming lilacs and an early rose or two. The sensation left her pleasantly fulfilled. She wondered how to bottle this moment and save it forever.

Approaching the front door, Catherine noticed the foliage of a huge, blue spruce to her left seemed slightly disheveled, trampled down in a couple of places. Several of the tree’s tender, new branches had snapped off and lay discarded, like empty candy wrappers, on the fresh mulch.

While waiting for her ring to be answered, Catherine glanced around the tetrastyle portico, settling her eyes on the Latin inscription above the mahogany and glass door. FORTUNA FAVET FORTIBUS was carved into the wood in large Roman letters. She remembered the day Philip had it completed by a master carver from New York City. Karen thought it pretentious and unnecessary, but Philip, with child-like excitement, was thrilled. After a few weeks, Catherine finally put her ignorance to one side and asked Philip what it meant. FORTUNE FAVORS THE BOLD, he answered, with a smile and left it at that. Now, each time Catherine saw the words, she understood exactly what he meant.

After several more impatient moments, Catherine rang the bell a second time, keeping her finger on the gold button for a full five seconds. Moving anxiously about the porch, she returned to stand directly in front of the door. It was then she noticed something odd. The huge front door, with its rich wood, shining glass and polished brass, stood slightly open.

As she gently pushed, she noticed a few, dark streaks, like dried mud, on the latch and below. Stepping into the foyer, Catherine called out to her friend but received only silence in reply. Immediately, the notion occurred to Catherine that the empty house simply meant Karen was attending to some chore around back.

Leaving the house and making her way through the trelliswork of wild roses and climbing ivy to the extensive back yard, Catherine continued calling her friend’s name. Still there was no answer. In the left hand corner of the garden, shaded by several fine maples, stood Karen’s pride and joy; her tiny, white summer house. Quickly, confidently, Catherine strode towards it.

Karen, she remembered, always liked to spend her mornings out there, playing around with various projects while listening to her beloved collection of Mozart concertos. Usually, the sound of music cascaded through the open windows, floating on the summer air, before being swept away through the trees. But on this May morning, not one sound could be heard inside or out.

The summer house had been entirely Karen’s idea. She felt she needed a place to just be herself, alone with her thoughts and isolated from the world, if only for a while. Philip failed to see the need, but after a week’s long business trip he returned to find the house completed and Karen grinning like a love sick teenager. To make matters worse, she built the hideaway behind his back and with her own money. Philip decided then and there never, ever, to set foot inside. Petulantly, he had kept his word.

Karen seemed not to mind at all Philip’s childish attitude, preferring to keep her private place private, even from her husband. But, from time to time, it continued to be a sore in their relationship that never really healed.

As soon as Catherine entered the summer house she knew Karen would not be there. The atmosphere, cold and strangely dead, hung heavily in the air, in sharp contrast to its lively aura when Karen was present. She aimlessly checked around the room with its eerie stillness, even taking a cursory glance into the tiny kitchen out back. Finding nothing, it looked to Catherine as though her friend had not been there all morning. Leaving quickly, she returned at once to the main house.

Karen? No answer. Catherine tried again. Karen, are you here? Only silence greeted her. She slowly, purposefully, moved around the foyer, looking and listening for anything.

For Catherine, one of the nicest attributes of the house was its foyer, with a floor of fine Italian black and white marble and rich textured scarlet and gold walls by Brunschwig & Fils. It held warmth for her so that every time she entered it she felt safe and welcome.

Looking down, Catherine noticed more of the dark streaks she’d first seen on the front door. Crouching close to the stains, she convinced herself they were only mud, probably days old from when the weather had turned sour from sun to rain.

From the focal point of the foyer four rooms paired off, giving the whole area a balanced, clean cut look. Catherine started with the library, a small, cozy room smelling mostly of Philip’s collection of musty first editions. All seemed normal except for a reading light on in one corner and a brandy glass lying askew on the deep-pile carpet by Philip’s chair and ottoman. A chill ran down Catherine’s back as she made her way out of the room to the refreshing air of the foyer.

She next made her way to the large dining room, with its polished oak Stickley table and chairs and antique brass chandelier. Memories of many wonderful evenings spent here crowded Catherine’s head, as she glanced around the room. Nothing seemed out of place except for two dinner plates, containing the remnants of a meal, still on the table. Looking more closely, Catherine surmised this was last night’s dinner and not this morning’s breakfast. At least, she had never eaten roast lamb for breakfast.

One of the plates was in its correct position, on a placemat directly in front of a chair. But the other one seemed to have been hurriedly pushed aside, as though the person eating suddenly got up and angrily shoved it away. The chair, too, seemed to have suffered the same fate.

Hurrying from the dining room, Catherine next checked the spacious lounge. Again, her mind returned to other times spent here, like winter afternoons after a gourmet lunch, when Karen and Philip entertained a gregarious group of close friends.

She thought wistfully of the silly games they played, the endless rounds of talk, the jokes and the good natured teasing. She remembered Philip dressing up one Halloween so well that no one was quite sure who he was for most of the evening. A wry smile crossed Catherine’s face as she recalled it all.

Now, Catherine wasn’t so sure she wanted to be in this room at all. Nothing seemed quite right. Yet nothing looked out of place. She casually walked around touching a chair here and a picture frame there. All the expensive objets d’art were in their rightful places, with not a sliver of dust besmirching any of the numerous shelves.

As she reached the far end of the lounge, Catherine noticed one of the throw pillows on the Laura Ashley couch was missing. The omission struck her immediately, since the pillows represented Karen’s one and only attempt at needlepoint. She had been astonishingly proud of the end result.

Catherine, looking earnestly about the room, failed to locate the pillow. Moving slowly amid the furniture, she almost jumped back when noticing it lying crushed and half stuffed under the bottom of the couch. With a determined tug she freed it, happy to have rescued such a pretty piece from the ignominy of the floor.

As she fluffed the pillow into a presentable state, Catherine felt a slight dampness on its back side. Turning the cushion over, she found herself staring at a dark stain the size of a plum.

Catherine seemed bemused for a few moments by her discovery, until finally coming to the conclusion the stain was probably blood. She hastily flung the pillow onto the couch and retreated from the room.

By now her heart raced and her forever cool demeanor showed the first signs of cracking. Leaning back against the foyer wall she wondered what to do next. Her mind scurried in a thousand different directions, but not one clear thought emerged.

Regaining her composure, Catherine next ventured into the kitchen to get herself a glass of water and check out that room, too. After satisfying her considerable thirst, she scoured the kitchen with sharp eyes and inquisitive stares.

The doors on all the custom made oak cabinets were shut but a bright spotlight, used for illuminating the counterspace by the sink, was on. Laying on the countertop itself was a platter with the remains of a roast leg of lamb, together with half empty dishes containing cooked asparagus and julienne parsley potatoes. A smaller dish held congealed Hollandaise sauce, while a silver gravy boat, with its equally gelled contents, completed the ensemble.

At first glance, Catherine was more puzzled by the spotlight being on than by the remnants of last evening’s dinner. She turned it off knowing that’s what Karen would have done. Next, she noticed the absence of any breakfast food or dishes and, touching the coffee pot, found it to be stone cold. A very eerie feeling engulfed her at that moment.

Moving to the French doors, which led from the kitchen into the rear garden, Catherine looked long and hard at the trees and blue sky. Thoughts of Karen popped into her head, images of her friend bustling around this kitchen as she concocted another one of her gourmet creations. How she loved to experiment with different ingredients, serving up strange dishes with curious sounding names to anyone who would eat them. Philip often grew tired of her culinary masterpieces, preferring, more and more, cold chicken and a decent glass of Chablis.

As Catherine stared out the window she again noticed the same brown streaks she had seen in other parts of the house. This time they surrounded the lock mechanism on the French doors, with a few overlapping onto the glass itself. Without a moment’s hesitation she turned on her heels and left the kitchen.

Catherine felt no fear as she boldly set foot on the sweeping staircase leading to the second floor. Marching determinedly upwards, she hardly noticed the fine collection of Impressionists’ prints and the one, tiny, genuine Wyeth that decorated the walls with their muted colors and class. For her, at this moment, a complete search of the house was the only thing on her mind.

The dove white, thickly piled Stark carpet gave way effortlessly under her feet. Its plushness made walking difficult for Catherine in her high heels, so she discarded them, letting her toes luxuriate in the softness. She almost danced down the hallway.

Popping her head into the guest bathroom, the only thing she noticed was that nothing appeared to be amiss. Outside, deferentially, she called out Karen’s name, lightly and without conviction, for she knew Karen was not there.

The white guest bedroom door looked cold as she pushed it open and entered. With the shades half down, the room seemed cooler than the rest of the house but Catherine barely noticed. The room was obviously primed and ready to receive its next guest, with not an item out of place. Karen, she recalled, often said that even the President himself could stop by at a moment’s notice and the room would be ready and waiting.

All seemed perfect except for a slight rumple on the right hand side of the bed cover. Catherine looked closer and it occurred to her someone might have sat there, possibly while using their phone. Nothing else caught Catherine’s attention.

Leaving that room, she next made her way across the hall to the master bedroom, which sat between Philip’s dressing room and another small guest room. To Catherine this was perhaps the most familiar and comfortable room of all, as she and Karen often spent lots of time there just hanging out.

The door, slightly ajar, gave easily as she pushed it open. Stepping inside, Catherine immediately smelled Karen’s presence, or rather, the unmistakable scent of her perfume - Exquisite by Dior. Karen discovered it on a weekend jaunt to Paris several years before and used it exclusively ever since. For Catherine, the perfume always seemed too strong, almost overpowering, but she admitted Karen would not have been Karen without it.

The king-size bed, with its crisp white, Belgium laced, canopy, was made up perfectly, with the two, pastel pink, throw pillows resting in their proper places on the champagne colored duvet. Catherine walked around the bed but found nothing broken or misplaced. The two faux Tiffany bedside lamps were off but still impressive.

As she walked around the bed towards the bathroom, Catherine suddenly cried out in pain. Her bare feet had stepped on something sharp, making her jump backwards out of harm’s way.

Looking down, Catherine was shocked to see her favorite framed picture of Karen hopelessly smashed on the carpet. The shards of glass were sprinkled generously in the pile, with several now embedded in her feet. Sitting on the bed, she carefully picked them out with her long, manicured nails before wrapping the tiny pieces in a tissue. After using another tissue to stop the slight blood flow, Catherine hobbled outside for her shoes.

With her feet now protected, she once more reached the shattered frame, picking it up carefully and gazing forlornly at Karen’s splintered smile. If only you could talk, she thought. If only...

The melancholy lasted only a few seconds before Catherine put the frame on the bed and headed to the bathroom. Switching on the light, she glanced around the room looking for...what? She didn’t seem to know. Karen’s toiletries were neatly arranged on a shelf above the basin, while a white shower cap lay all alone in one corner of the countertop. The basin appeared dry, yet a few more flakes of the now familiar dark stains dotted the porcelain.

Catherine took a cursory look into the tub and shower stall and found both clean and dry. The mock Roman tiled floor gleamed spotless, too, yet something was not quite right. Taking a mental inventory, Catherine suddenly noticed a space on a towel rack where a monogrammed hand towel usually hung. She couldn’t see it anywhere. That seemed odd knowing Karen’s fastidiousness for having everything in its place. While not dismissing the absent towel as merely a strange occurrence, Catherine certainly felt there could also be an innocent explanation.

Without any further searching, Catherine left the bathroom, hurried downstairs and stepped out of the house into the bright May sunshine. Once inside the relative safety of her Mercedes, she reached for her phone. It was time to do what she knew she had to do. She quickly touched 911 and waited.

Chapter Two

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The dispatcher logged the call at eleven-nineteen, passing the message upstairs to anyone available. There were not many takers this Friday because the department had chosen this day to recertify most of its officers on the shooting range. An administrative snafu caused the start times to be double booked, which naturally meant most of the shooters were standing around for long periods of time waiting their turn. While not amusing, it did mean most could catch up on the department’s dirt, while simultaneously taking a few hours off.

Jerry Dougan, who had smartly recertified the previous week, worked alone in the stuffy squad room when Catherine’s call came through. He answered nonchalantly because this Friday morning, indeed the whole week, had been particularly quiet on the crime front.

Yeah, Dougan.

Hello? Yes, is this the police?

It’d better be, he replied, flippantly, or I’m in the wrong building.

Ignoring his casual manner, Catherine talked slowly into the phone.

My name’s Catherine Ballard and I’d like to speak to someone about a...about a... and Catherine hesitated a moment not knowing exactly what to call it, …about a missing person, I guess.

You guess? inquired Dougan, incredulously.

Yes. I’m not quite sure what else to call it right now.

Well, is the person missing or not, ma’am? Dougan asked, a tad sarcastically.

Catherine kept her temper as she continued with her story.

I was due to meet her at eleven, but when I got to her house she wasn’t there.

Maybe she just went out for a few minutes. People do, you know. Give her another half hour. And, with that advice, Dougan prepared to hang up.

Wait! insisted Catherine. Wait just one goddamn minute! I’ve searched the house and grounds and can’t find any trace of her.

So give her a break, said an exasperated Dougan. Or are you her keeper or something?

Catherine ignored Dougan’s obvious lack of interest and pressed on.

When I got to the house at eleven no one answered my ring, but the front door was slightly open. After calling out a couple of times, I went in. They’re friends of mine, so I figured it would be okay. I checked all the rooms but she wasn’t there.

So you keep telling me, interrupted Dougan.

But I did find a lot of things that were odd.

Catherine described her discoveries, slowly and methodically, impressing Dougan with her powers of recall. But it was only when she mentioned the dark stains littered all over the place that he really sat up and took notice.

D’you think it’s blood? he asked, pointedly.

Yes. Yes, I do I’m afraid. That’s why I’m calling.

Talking about calling, have you tried her cell?

Of course, Catherine answered, sharply. Texted her, too. No reply.

Dougan took down the address, told Catherine to remain there and said he’d be with her sooner than his feet could fly.

The journey from the station to Karen Hoffmeister’s house gave Jerry Dougan plenty of time to think. Not about some stranger’s possible disappearance, but about his job in general and, whether, at forty-eight, he’d had enough.

Since his transfer into the department three years earlier, Dougan, restless and discontented, often felt bored with the routine cases he seemed to be stuck with. He realized, of course, there was no one to blame but himself. No one held a gun to his head and forced his move from New York City. The choice was made willingly and happily.

In fact, Diane, his wife, initially refused to move, citing his eventual disappointment and lack of excitement as too big of a price to pay. She had visions of him pacing around the house like a caged lion, just waiting for the phone to ring; waiting for the ‘big’ crime that never happened.

Diane preferred the old Jerry she knew and loved so well. The Jerry who sometimes came home at two o’clock in the morning after a fifteen hour shift. Or the Jerry who left their warm bed in the middle of a freezing January night to deal with a body found floating in the East River.

On the other hand, maybe, just maybe, he was onto something. Perhaps suburbia wouldn’t be so bad after all. After nearly twenty-six years battling some of the harshest, unforgiving streets on behalf of the New York City Police Department, maybe it was time to wind down and give himself at least a shot of growing old gracefully. No one had taken away his senior detective rank, and no one cut his pay or benefits. Jerry, it seemed, enjoyed the best of both worlds, except, he was bored.

His last big case with the NYPD took seven months’ planning and involved the cooperation of the ATF, the DEA and the FBI, all of which took their initial direction from him. The end result of his aggressive organizational, practical and professional skills netted the city two drug kingpins, three murderers, cocaine with a conservative street value of ten million dollars and cash in excess of two million. Dougan felt at the time it was the right moment to leave. Now he was not so sure.

His last big case with his new department concerned an investigation of illegal dumping of toxic material into the local river. While important in its own right, it failed to hold a candle to his previous efforts. Also, in the three years since joining the local force, Jerry Dougan had not investigated one homicide.

These negative thoughts disappeared from his mind as he neared the address Catherine had given him. He glanced around the neighborhood, raising his eyebrows at the obvious wealth on show. Opulent houses always impressed him, mostly because he’d never lived in one and now doubted he ever would. He often imagined himself being waited upon by a servant or two and having his yard tended to by a bevy of experienced gardeners. Dougan sighed heavily as he concentrated on finding the right address.

Rounding a corner, he almost ran into the back of a shiny blue Mercedes. Catherine Ballard stood, arms folded, leaning against the driver’s side door.

Nice parking, he said, disgustedly. Pity there’s never a cop around when you need one. Hi, Jerry Dougan, I believe we spoke a while ago.

Dougan pulled in front of the Mercedes and got out. Catherine hurried over, immediately bombarding him with questions he could never hope to answer. Well, not yet, anyway. Not until he’d seen inside the house.

So, you must be Catherine Ballard. he said, ignoring her constant inquiries. Any relation to what’s her name in there?

No, I’m just a friend of Karen and Philip.

Married are they? Yeah, would be, he said, answering his own question, living in this neck of the woods. Too posh for any of that ‘living in sin’ business, I imagine.

Yes, they’re married, Catherine replied indignantly. The Hoffmeisters. Karen and Philip Hoffmeister.

Hoffmeister? What kind of name’s that? Foreigners are they?

No, they’re not foreigners, Catherine replied tiredly. I believe it happens to be an old European name handed down on Philip’s side of the family. They’re as American as you and me.

Glad to hear it, said Dougan. We’re a dying breed. He took out a notepad and pen and began taking notes. And where d’you live, Catherine Ballard?

1260 Regency Estates, Long Ridge.

That a house or what?

Apartments. Mine’s 4C.

And you got here when?

Eleven.

Was that by design or did you just drop by?

We had an appointment. Karen works with me. Doesn’t have to. Doesn’t need the money. She just has a knack for selling houses.

Is that what you do? Real estate?

Yes. Maybe you’ve seen our ads? BALLARD BRINGS YOU THE BEST.

Sorry, can’t say I’ve noticed. But if I ever need a house I’ll call you. Always was a sucker for a catchy line. Dougan wrote everything down because he was finding it hard to concentrate and didn’t trust his memory to remember. So, you arrive at eleven, check out the house and find she’s not here?

Yes.

But you think you saw some bloodstains?

Yes, quite a few, actually.

Did you touch anything?

The question flustered Catherine.

Well, yes, of course I touched things. How should I know what was going on? I just wanted to find Karen.

I understand, Dougan said, a little dismayed. You’ll have to show me when we go inside.

Catherine took the remark as a signal and began walking towards the house.

Most of the stuff I saw were little things but to me they just didn’t add up. She stopped when Dougan failed to follow her. Turning to face him, she said, Shouldn’t you...at least take a look?

All in good time. Now, tell me about your friend Karen? Any family living nearby?

No, no one. Her parents live in Connecticut and I believe she has a brother out in Boulder.

Children?

No. Don’t know why. Just never seemed to happen.

Any close friends she could be visiting?

Plenty, but the point is we had an appointment. Karen wouldn’t break it on a whim. She would’ve called first.

I’ll need a list, eventually, if I feel this thing’s worth investigating. So, how long have they been married?

But Catherine never heard the question. Worth investigating! she seethed. What do you mean, ‘worth investigating’?

Dougan rolled his eyes. If he had a dollar for every so-called missing person who showed up asking what all the fuss was about, he’d be a rich man.

Catherine, he ventured with a smile, most missing persons are not missing at all. He spoke as if addressing a small child. They go off to visit family or friends, or run to the store, or go out for a walk. She’s probably getting her hair done and forgot to tell you. All I’m saying is let’s not jump to a lot of bizarre conclusions.

Catherine Ballard, not known for her lack of self confidence, did not disappoint this time. Marching up to Dougan, she stopped within an inch of his face.

Calmly and coldly, she said, "Tell me it’s a bizarre conclusion, Jerry, when you’ve seen inside the house. Until then, don’t you dare patronize me. All I know is something’s happened to a very good friend of mine and I’m asking you to help me find out what it is. Now, if you’re not interested then find me someone who is!"

Chapter Three

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They walked in silence to the house. Dougan felt not in the least chastised, but rather refreshed by Catherine’s challenge. This could be interesting after all, he mused to himself. Certainly, it was better than languishing at the station catching up on meaningless paperwork.

As they entered through the front door he issued Catherine a friendly warning.

Let’s be sure not to touch anything this time. Okay?

Catherine nodded as she followed him inside. To her, for some reason, the house seemed a lot quieter than before, almost ghostlike. She pointed out the dark stains on both the door and the tiled floor in the foyer. Dougan, looking closely, frowned. He made several notes on his pad then followed Catherine to the library.

As he gazed around the small room, Dougan suddenly sensed an air of wrongdoing sweeping over him. Maybe Catherine wasn’t crazy after all. He noted the anomalies she pointed out and found others, too. From under Philip’s chair he retrieved a red button and, on the table by the same chair, he noticed a message pad. Not touching it, but looking closely, Dougan clearly made out several indentations on the clean sheet. He wrote in his notebook then followed Catherine to the dining room.

The remains of dinner surprised him but it was not evidence of a crime. Dougan was more interested in seeing the lounge and the throw pillow with the dark stain. But Catherine was in no hurry to have him dismiss her worrisome observations. With painstaking exactitude, she laboriously pointed out each and every item she felt out of place. Dougan dutifully noted them all down.

Upon reaching the lounge, Dougan asked Catherine to show him where she’d found the pillow. On his hands and knees, glancing under the couch, Dougan noticed what appeared to be a tuft of hair.

Leaving it in place, he asked Catherine, Blonde was she?

Dyed blonde. But yes, blonde.

Whoever stuffed the pillow under here didn’t notice. Could be a nice little break for us.

So you don’t think I’m crazy after all?

Never accused you of that, Catherine, just my nature to be wary. After nearly twenty-six years in this business it tends to follow you around like dog crap on a shoe.

He carefully scrutinized the stain on the throw pillow, concluding to himself that it probably was blood.

Was I right? asked Catherine, a little smugly.

About?

The stain. It’s blood, isn’t it?

Can’t say for sure, he said, guardedly. Be my guess, though.

Dougan spent the next few minutes wandering around the lounge, jotting notes into his pad, peering into corners and generally having a good nose around. Without a search warrant he was meticulous not to touch anything or open drawers or cupboards. But what he saw on the outside convinced him that Karen Hoffmeister probably wasn’t having a very good day.

In the next fifteen minutes Catherine showed Dougan over the rest of the house, gamely drawing his attention to all the troubling things she’d seen. By now his notebook contained seven pages of tightly written notes, which suggested, even to him, that some sort of altercation probably had taken place in the house. But the more pressing question seemed obvious - where in the world was Karen Hoffmeister?

Tell me about her husband? Philip, isn’t it?

Yes. What exactly do you want to know?

Catherine Ballard and Jerry Dougan sat in his car, effectively ‘guarding’ the house. With what, in his opinion, constituted strong circumstantial evidence of a crime having been committed, Dougan had requested his chief to obtain a search warrant. While waiting for the paperwork to arrive, Dougan wanted to ensure no one else entered the house and disturbed the scene.

Meanwhile, he had not been idle. Hospitals were checked for possible Karen look-a-likes; her friends contacted to see if she might be visiting, and patrol cars put on alert within a twenty-five mile radius. So far, everything drew a blank.

Dougan, still not totally convinced Karen was missing, nevertheless clicked his mind up a notch and began applying his professionalism to the case. To himself, he admitted the process was starting to feel good.

Start with the basics. Age, job description, that sort of thing.

Let’s see, Catherine answered, confidently, Philip’s thirty-seven, I think. Two or three years older than Karen. He’s in investments, in the city. Travels quite a bit, at least twice a month. Acquisitions, mostly, I believe. He buys and sells companies. Very good at it, too, from all accounts.

Obviously, agreed Dougan, casting his eyes at the house. Got any hobbies, does he, our Philip Hoffmeister?

He loves jazz. Streams it all the time. Almost addicted, I’d say.

And Karen? Likes it too, does she?

Not Karen. Not jazz. Never could quite ‘get it’, so to speak. A lot of loud, repetitive noise to her. No, her passion’s the classical stuff. Bach, Beethoven and old mister Mozart. She would tease Philip all the time about how all modern music, including his beloved jazz, has its roots in the classical composers. She’s quite knowledgeable about it, insistent too, much to Philip’s chagrin.

"An arguing point,