Seven Years Missing

By Robin Castle

Accomplished at locating missing money and wayward cats, 26-year-old Private Investigator Pear Márquez is certain she can solve the coldest case in Harriettu: finding Todd Byrne, a man missing for seven years. That no one, not even his family, ever searched for him doesn't dissuade Pear. But it should. Because someone doesn't want Todd's fate revealed. But who? And why didn't anyone look for him?

• Language: English
• Publisher: QOROS Books LLC
• Release date: Jan 9, 2024
• ISBN: 9781734961775

Robin Castle

Robin Castle has survived landslides, hurricanes, tornadoes, and a close call with an alligator. Castle resides in Ireland, where she contemplates murder... for her next mystery novel. Sign up for her newsletter at https://robincastle.net to see what she does next.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Finally, Harriettu could relax. After Elise’s numerous efforts to reveal her mother as Chester’s assassin, a chance meeting with a reporter upon exiting Grocery Grange did her in. Laden with bags full of chips and soda, the inexperienced reporter jumped in front of her.

Move! Mrs. Edwards roared. Or I’ll end you the way I ended Chester.

The novice reporter had idolized Chester. He motioned to the camera operator, and they followed Mrs. Edwards.

What was that? he asked, bumping her cheek with the microphone.

Mrs. Edwards set her bags onto the parking lot asphalt. The reporter’s heart skipped a beat. He cleared his throat, searching for the perfect question, but he needn’t have bothered. Toe to toe, so close he could feel her breath, she sneered, You’re scared, aren’t you? Smart boy. You should be scared. Hitting an innocent old lady like me. Now I’ll have to punish you.

He swiveled his head. They were being recorded. He’d need to be brave. Somehow.

Do you know what I do to little maggots like you? Do you?

He shook his head frantically, hands trembling.

I season them well till they stop moving. And then I eat them for breakfast. Just like Chester. A little DuraLong. A lot of nitroglycerine. It’s a very good sleeping potion. You should try it. I could help. She laughed, throwing back her head.

The police arrested her that night. She made a full, dramatically re-enacted confession.

CHAPTER ONE

First, she crawled through my garbage cans; then she accused me of murder. High praise, coming from her. Now she pushed into my tiny office, consuming the space.

Why are you here? I asked.

She frowned. Surely Elise Edwards wasn’t critiquing my social skills!

I’ve never been here before.

No one had. That was the problem.

With a flourish, I waved, Here’s the tour: desk, chair, diploma, door. End of tour. Thank you for visiting Pear Márquez Investigations. Now go.

What’s your full name?

Elise’s tedious ritual from book club. Inhaling deeply, I endeavored to embody a calm my shaking fists refused to accept. If it will get you to leave... my name, as you very well know, is Perla Josefina Márquez Márquez. And now we’re done.

Why does everyone call you Pear?

Pears were my dad’s favorite fruit. And I was his favorite person. But that’s just for me. For Elise, I cast a sneer in her direction. Easy, because she’s only three feet away.

Elise scowled back.

Sit down, she said, pointing to one of the secondhand chairs squeezed opposite the too-large desk that overpowered the room.

I ignored her as she slithered past me.

Where is the rest of it? she asked, peeking into the narrow coat closet.

Yes, my office is small. Thanks for noticing. Have a nice day. I opened the door to the hallway and made a sweeping motion with my arm.

Close the door.

Exhaling my defeat, I sank into a wingback, bracing myself for what was coming.

Elise dropped into the other chair, the one with the slight discoloration I pretended was a shadow. Terrible lighting in these old office buildings.

Book club. You’re coming.

Elise’s knee was millimeters from mine. Smaller chairs would have been better, but these were what I could afford. If only I’d prepared a clever excuse. Cholera or jury duty or some such. But here I was. Cornered.

For the love of turtles, Pear. Don’t ignore me. I’m right here! She bumped my foot for emphasis.

I’m tired of hearing how much Sunny is suffering. I made a mistake. Get over it.

Elise squirmed out of her suspiciously pristine parka. For all her protestations, she’d acclimated to success quickly.

You’re coming to book club. You owe Sunny.

She wasn’t wrong.

What’s the point of re-hashing everything? It was months ago. Better to leave the past in the past.

No.

What do you mean, no? I relocated to the tall chair behind my desk, so I could peer down at her.

"You’ve seen the headlines: Prominent Romance Author Murders TV Reporter. My mother’s incarceration garnered sympathy for her. And vitriol for Sunny. Sunny is radioactive. Even her hairdresser dropped her. Because of you and your rush to judgement."

Swallowing my guilt, I reached across my desk and lifted the bulky phone handset. I’m calling building security. They’re good at trash removal, I fake laughed.

Call them, she replied, picking something off the upholstery that I hoped wasn’t blood. They’ll be captivated when I tell them you falsely accused your friend and fellow book club member of murder, hindering the search for the real killer.

For a moment, I couldn’t catch my breath. The real killer. Elise’s mother. Thank heavens she was in jail. Why wouldn’t everyone forget about my insignificant blunder and move on with their lives?

For the love of turtles, Pear, you’re annoyed? You haven’t even bothered to apologize.

Ouch. Elise was right. Forgot about that in my rush to run away from the whole debacle. Replacing the phone in the cradle, I sniped, I never intended to hurt anyone. Unlike your mother.

Elise didn’t flinch.

Sunny lost her agent. Her publishing contract. Because of you. What you run from, eats you. That’s what my therapist says.

Elise rose from her seat, careful not to bump into the small table between the chairs. You were brave at my parents’ house, when my mother smiled and laughed and told us how clever she was, using her own heart medication to kill my brother. Why are you being a wimp now? She grabbed her coat and stomped out the door.

Descending from my roost, I twisted the doorknob frantically, ensuring it was locked. No more intrusions, I declared aloud, shaking the tension from my limbs.

Stupid Elise exaggerated. Without room to pace, I marched in place, wishing my office had a window so I could watch Elise get hit by a car. Or run over by a bus. Sunny wasn’t a victim. How could anyone with forty-one books in print be a victim? Not to mention the film and foreign rights deals she endlessly blabbed about. Sunny Valentine was not destitute. She was merely inconvenienced. And if she didn’t know the difference, then I’d done her a favor.

This called for coffee. Tamping grounds and frothing milk settled me. Elise and Sunny were bored rich ladies creating drama for their own amusement. I was not a criminal. Far from it. I had selflessly volunteered to solve a terrible murder. If anything, I’d been heroic. Where was my applause?

Returning to my desk with the steaming mug of liquid heaven, I glanced at my beautiful license on the wall. Reaching into a file drawer, I extracted a microfiber cloth and stroked the glass encasing my private investigator’s license, pressing hard to remove spots no one else would notice. Just like Mama would. That I was doing something the way Mama would do it rankled my bones, but there was no time to dwell on that. Elise was right about one thing. I needed to apologize.

With no other objects to dust, I folded the microfiber cloth and sighed. Why did Elise want me at book club? It made no sense. The members were published authors with book deals and TV shows. Well, Lenicia had a TV show. I was a private investigator in search of truth, not fiction.

They had earned their places there. I was a charity case, tolerated at book club because Mama called in a favor so I could rub elbows with writers. But I didn’t write. Not anymore. I had no further need for book club, but I needed to apologize. And I would. I’d write Sunny a letter and mail it to her.

But first, should I buy an expensive greeting card with a cute picture of puppies? Or butterflies? Or whatever animal symbolizes apology? No, that would be overkill. I’d accused her of murder in a room full of friends who would be forgiving. There was no doubt Sunny was innocent. Elise’s mother publicly recounted Chester’s premeditated demise several times prior to her relocation to Douglass County Jail.

Dear Sunny,

I apologize for the misunderstanding. Hope you’re doing well, flying down the street in your purple Porsche.

Sincerely,

Pear

P.S. Bonus: you could write a book about it! An insider’s perspective! In the end, I did you a favor!

Copying Sunny’s address onto the envelope, careful not to smear the ink, I licked the stamp, double sealed the envelope with tape, and grabbed my keys. Building security would not be amused if I locked myself out of my office twice in one week.

Old office buildings had cool mail chutes near the elevators. Dropping the letter down the chute felt like completion. I’d handled the task. I could resume working, without having to think about book club. Or Tioga’s warm presence. Or the great books we read together and better still, the terrible books we re-wrote as a group. So many ideas gelling together, fixing plots, enlivening characters, and invigorating sentences. And that time each of us penned a murder mystery for the group to enjoy! Mine was dismal, but Elise’s was extraordinary. It garnered her a book deal and a literary agent. Who was Sunny’s former agent. But that wasn’t a problem. This nonsense would soon blow over and Sunny would be out buying a third rainbow-colored Porsche.

Unlocking the door to my office felt like unlocking my future. Book club was behind me. Now I did important work as a private investigator, providing answers and solving complex puzzles. Or I would. One day. Locating lost funds and missing cats was important too, to somebody.

Surveying my office, it occurred to me that a year ago, I worked at a craft store. That same year, 2003, Elise lived in Harriettu’s worst neighborhood and couldn’t afford heat. Now she was a New York Times bestseller, and I was a private investigator. What a difference half a year made!

Smiling, I plopped down into a chair. My big case would materialize. A career-maker, the kind people would discuss for generations. Maybe not a murder case. That didn’t go so well last time. But a kidnapping! Or a missing dignitary! I’d swoop in at the last minute and save the world! All Hail Pear, The Greatest Private Investigator Of All Time!

CHAPTER TWO

Wiping tears, I squinted into the bathroom mirror, studying my face from every angle. Since childhood I’d done this, searching for her in my face. The face of the other, the one who’d abandoned me. The face that resembled mine.

I should be grateful. Mama would kill a grizzly with a toothpick to protect me. There is nothing she wouldn’t do for me. She is mine and I am hers. But there was another mother, before Mama, and when distraught, I ache for her still.

Mama rustled about in the kitchen, erasing evidence of my carelessness. I never intended to annoy her.

She loves me, I whispered to the mirror, neglecting the second part of the refrain. And I love her hung in the breeze that breached the locked bathroom window.

After spraying and scrunching my ginger waves, I dabbed on the sunscreen Mama insisted I apply year-round, certain those with my pallor were doomed to melanoma. I inhaled one last deep breath before unbolting the bathroom door and propelling myself through the dining room. Hoping to diffuse her anger, I began apologizing immediately.

You’re right and I’m sorry, I said, approaching Mama, who slumped over the offending Formica countertop, now surgically clean.

Mama dropped the sponge and pulled me into her. I’m sorry too.

I’ll do better tomorrow. I promise. I reached for her hand and held it in mine, a pretense to study Mama’s dark brown eyes and her glowing sepia skin. This was my Mama, whose warm embrace made me feel safer than anything else on earth. And how did I reward her devotion? With behavior that would embarrass a toddler.

Time to go, mija, Mama whispered, releasing me and gently nudging the hair out of my eyes. Collecting my bag and coat, my shoulders relaxed. I was someone’s child. I had a family. Everything that mattered was okay. Tomorrow I would do better. Mama deserved it.

ANOTHER WEEKEND, ANOTHER baby christening. To think I’d complained the year after high school graduation when weddings occupied my weekends. Now I languished in churches, feigning interest in babies and dodging their grandparents, who thought comments about me getting long in the tooth were hysterical. At least there’d be lunch afterward, and with any luck, dancing.

No luck. In a finished basement that smelled like damp and cigarettes, we balanced on picnic table benches, eating cake and drinking strong coffee. Thank heavens Mama wasn’t here.

Hi Pear, my former high school lab partner said, sitting across the picnic table from me. How’s the craft store?

Finally! I’m a licensed private investigator now. I have an office with a parking spot and a business phone number, I bragged, smiling like a Cheshire cat.

I awaited the follow-up questions about my exciting career! But she was preoccupied, tending to her spawn. When she finished, I cleared my throat and started again. I don’t know if you heard me before. I’m a private investigator.

She frowned. Do you work for the district attorney’s office?

No, I have my own business, I said, radiating a professional glow I was certain everyone in the room would notice.

Your own business, she smiled, her shoulders relaxing. Me too! I rent a space at Cut and Dye, on Seventh. No middleman, no annoying boss. And I make more money!

Her husband brought her a slice of cake and glanced awkwardly at me. The token singleton. At 26, I was the spinster stuck in the nest, eternally subject to Mama’s rules. Mama, who believed cleanliness was next to godliness and sloth the greatest sin of all.

The conversation around the table turned to mortgages and house hunting, as it always did. I had problems none of my friends could relate to. They were making progress in life. If only I had a case to investigate, instead of a blank calendar. Dragging a tissue across my lips, I removed the unbidden embellishment Mama had added in haste. That the lipstick smeared did not matter. No one was looking.

MIGHT AS WELL DUST my license, since I had nothing better to do. Wiping gently, I was careful not to leave smudgy fingerprints behind. Awarded to Perla Josefina Márquez, the parchment read. Mama said she’d named me for the most beautiful thing she owned (a pearl) and the most amazing person she’d known: her mother, Josefina.

Replacing my dust cloth in the file drawer where case files would one day be stored, I smiled. Family lore was replete with tales of Abuela Josefina killing venomous snakes and scaring away bad men. Her legend had grown to mythical proportions and still, Mama deemed me more special than anything Abuela had done. There wasn’t a day Mama failed to defend me, from teachers and neighbors and Principal Torres, who ridiculed my colorless complexion, calling it sickly. Mama registered her objection up and down Martin Luther King Boulevard. The message was clear: Mama was a nice lady, but don’t mess with her baby.

I was lucky, I reminded myself. Look at the family of locusts Elise was saddled with.

The phone! The phone was ringing! Hello. Perla Márquez. Investigator. Private Investigator. H-hello, I stammered, kicking myself.

Hello, a small voice said, sounding very far away. You’re a private investigator?

I answered in a loud, confidant voice, Yes, I am. How can I help?

The voice made a breathing sound. If this was some creepy moron, I’d find him and assist him in understanding the error of his...

I need to hire an investigator, the voice, clearly female, said. Can I, what do we... do?

You are over 18?

Yes. Of course. My name is Hailie Byrne, her voice was more assured now. I need to meet with you. Please.

Shifting in my desk chair, I strained to imagine what an experienced private investigator would say. My mind was blank. After agreeing on a time to meet, I nearly hung up when it occurred to me to ask, How did you get this number?

"I saw your ad. In the PennySaver?"

Beaming, I recorded the appointment on my empty calendar. 2004 would be the year everything changed. I was on my way.

CHAPTER THREE

Bubbling with excitement, I danced around my office, knocking over a table. A new client! A case! I couldn’t sit still. After dusting every surface twice, I called downstairs to the maintenance department and asked to borrow a vacuum cleaner. They refused. Undaunted, I picked lint off the carpet by hand, imagining an heiress in hiding arriving tomorrow, when I would save the day.

But time barely ticked by, and I was growing antsy. Why couldn’t she come today? Why hadn’t I inquired about the case? Was it a murder? A robbery? An embezzlement scheme? My mind raced. I longed for the warm embrace of a couch, where I could turn off my mind and enjoy an evening of mindless television.

But first, Grocery Grange. She cooked, and I shopped as needed, which meant most days. This morning, she’d requested something cooking related. If only I could remember what.

Warming the engine while brushing snow off my car did nothing to trigger my recall. Driving in heavy traffic, I warbled along with Marc Anthony’s Barco A La Deriva, visualizing myself sinking a little more every day.

Enough of that. Clicking the radio off, I wondered about the people in the surrounding cars. Probably doctors and lawyers and hypnotherapists, busy people with busy days, returning home to their peaceful lives in houses they’d paid for. The woman next to me at the red light caught my gaze, and I swiveled my head quickly, embarrassed.

Chugging past newer, more expensive cars than mine in a quest to find parking, I was yet again the odd one out. The lone rust bucket, a lampoon from school referencing my hair. These were not my equals. But they would be. If Elise Edwards was capable of social mobility, anything was possible.

Through the double set of heavy glass doors, the ceiling heaters raged heat at me, warming me so quickly I had to unzip my parka. Half of Harriettu was here, but I couldn’t turn tail and run. Mama wanted... something. Pondering baking powder and brownie mix, I struggled to recall Mama’s directive as she rushed out the door, no doubt hurrying away from me to avoid bickering. I employed the same strategy. And now I’d forgotten my assignment. If only I’d written it down. Maybe that was the clue? That they were common items, that didn’t require notation? Masa harina for tortillas? Flan? No. There was no disaster distressing enough to compel Mama to consume store-bought flan.

Pear, a voice called.

I tensed. Mama?

Hey, you! a louder voice exclaimed.

In front of the flour stood Elise Edwards herself, accompanied by a child from the cast of Oliver, in full costume.

Stomping toward Elise, I hissed, You’re following me again.

Wrong again, said the young boy. It’s me! Sunny! My disguise is awesome. Because you couldn’t detect me. But then, you can’t detect much.

Sunny had obviously gotten drunk and stolen someone’s clothes. But even in a brown knit cap and sackcloth, she radiated. Besides being rich and famous, Sunny Valentine was incapable of being unattractive. Poor Sunny. The burdens she bravely bore.

Are you purchasing items for Mariana’s delicious cooking? Elise inquired, as though we were buddies.

Why are you dressed like that? It’s not Halloween, I asked.

It’s obviously a brilliant disguise! You didn’t know it was me and so far, no one else does either!

Everything Sunny said was exuberant! It made me tired.

Sunny is grocery shopping, Elise smirked, appearing younger than her thirty-six years under the fluorescent lights. And what happened to her perennial bedhead?

Anger bubbled inside me. Why are you here? Are you following me again, Elise? Because fool me once...

Sunny frowned. I’m getting groceries! For my family! I have to select each food item myself! And transport the grocery bags home, lug them inside by myself, and put them away. It takes forever! And it’s all because of you.

I blushed purple. Itching to escape, I tried to sneak away.

Wait, Elise called. Sunny, take the cart and find the milk. I’ll meet you there.

Sure, Lisey-bear. I’ll meet you in the milk aisle. Which way is it?

Back wall, to the right.

Sunny shuffled off, dragging her feet behind the cart.

I don’t know what you’re up to...

Elise leaned in closer. Her breath smelled unexpectedly pleasant.

Sunny shops at this store because they banned her from the Grocery Grange near her house. They got a restraining order, she whispered.

I tapped my foot audibly, wanting to buy the saffron! I was supposed to buy saffron! And salt!

Come to book club, for the love of turtles. We both know Sunny is innocent, but everyone else despises her. People throw things at her. She gets death threats from people convinced she murdered Chester and got away with it. At least with us, she can relax.

Excuse me, a young woman elbowed her way down