Now I had another agenda, which was to find Phil Chambers. I had no idea what the law was concerning missing adults. I could imagine the police declining to put much effort into locating a healthy, strapping man who was known to be a frequent international traveler and who was destined for the altar in less than two weeks. I suspected that, like Elaine, they’d first latch on to the cold-feet theory. But Phil was also a scientist working on a classified, security-related project. Shouldn’t someone care? Maybe Matt’s presence, as one of their own, would help.
Apparently Matt’s offer unnerved Elaine, too, since her tears started flowing.
Right then Dana appeared in the kitchen wearing a lavender chenille robe I recognized as Elaine’s. Her arrival made things worse, as it seemed to occur to all of us at the same time that Phil’s daughter needed to know why Elaine was crying.
I knew Dana’s short period of grace, which had brought color to her cheeks, was about to end.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
We dropped Matt off at the Berkeley PD—lots of luck, I thought, glad I wasn’t the one headed up the imposing stone steps to the front door—then Elaine, Dana, and I drove to Phil’s house in Kensington.
The FOR SALE sign on the lawn reminded me how glad I was that Elaine had convinced Phil to move to her house after the wedding, instead of her moving in with him. Elaine’s neighborhood was physically almost an extension of the UC Berkeley campus, a significantly more diverse environment than this small, affluent, mostly white community in the hills to the north. Of course, I reminded myself, Phil hadn’t yet made the move.
“What are we even looking for?” Dana asked as Elaine produced a key. She scanned the house and grounds, seeming less concerned than I expected that no one had heard from her father for almost two days. Probably because they weren’t in daily contact. Neither Elaine nor I wanted to disabuse her of the notion that there was really nothing to worry about. I also had the thought that Dana couldn’t admit yet another crisis into her consciousness this week.
“We’re going to check out the briefcase,” Elaine said.
“And try to find his calendar,” I added. “Or just a telephone number or note that might give us a start to figuring out where he went.”
“And see if his suitcases are missing.” Elaine was still on the he’s-having-second-thoughts theme, I noticed.
Dana shrugged. Tall as she was, she looked like a child who’d been dragged on a family outing.
Once inside Phil’s home, I had second thoughts about big, sprawling houses in the hills. The real estate agent’s flyer, prominent in the high-ceilinged foyer, promised lavish living room suite wlbalcony and magnificent gg bridge view—not an exaggeration. An enormous redwood deck offered panoramic views of San Francisco Bay and the Golden Gate Bridge. Also correct was the description of the state-of-the-art kitchen with cherrywood cabinets, granite counters, hardwood floors, and exquisite light fixtures.
Beautiful as it was, however, the house had an eerie feeling, partly because it was unnaturally neat—to impress prospective buyers, I guessed—and partly because I knew its owner might be missing. I sniffed the air, as if to test for human presence, alive or dead.
“It’s creepy in here,” Dana said. Her sigh sounded nervous to me, as if she dreaded what we might find. “Like his cleaning lady just came through and sucked up everything with the vacuum. Let’s get some sound at least.”
“Judy Collins is in the CD player,” Elaine said. “We play it all the time, once we found out we were both at a concert she gave in the seventies in the Greek Theatre.”
Dana uttered a disgusted grunt, plucked Judy Collins from the player, and tossed her carelessly onto the couch. “That’s so last century,” she said.
A new side of Dana Chambers. Now I was sure she was more stressed out than she let on. She pushed the radio on, scanned around the frequencies, and settled on something loud and jerky.
I resigned myself to the fact that we’d be searching the three thousand square feet quoted in the broker’s flyer to the strains of something I’d never be able to hum.
“Evanescence,” Dana said. I wasn’t sure if that was the artist or the song. She moved her body to the rhythm. Elaine and I tried to follow suit and were rewarded by a full-throated laugh from Dana. Mission accomplished.
Our plan: Elaine would take the more personal areas of the house, Phil’s bedroom and office; Dana and I would comb the downstairs rooms.
“Look at this,” Dana said, pointing to a photo mounted on Phil’s refrigerator. “It’s me and Scott. I guess Dad’s not up-to-date.” The photo was of Dana and a young man with hair almost as long as hers, both in serious hiking clothes. A rectangular magnetic frame held the photo to the refrigerator door. Next to it, in a similar frame and aligned with the edges of the door, was a snapshot of Phil and Elaine, with the same misty mountainous backdrop. Not like my fridge photos, which were askew, precariously held at their corners by clunky decorative magnets. A Cape Cod lighthouse, Paul Revere on his horse, the Golden Gate Bridge, and a miniature bumper sticker—TRUST ME, I’M A SCIENTIST—stuck at a forty-five-degree angle to the floor.