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“Oh no. We’re queer-bombing some poor old lady?!”
“I wouldn’t call it—”
“Don’t worry. I’m in. Butchica,this could go really, really wrong.”
“I know. But it could also go right. What if she’stheEmily Lorrainne Mitchell? What if we found her, and she wants to see Jennifer?”
“Sounds like a rom-com.”
“Right? One without J-Lo.”
“Now that’s just rude.” Roxi adjusted the phone she’d stuck in a window mount, glancing at the map showing her how to get to Pasadena. “Looks like we’ll find out in half an hour.”
???
In her technical climbing wear—Capri tights, tank top, and wicking hat—Gia stood on the porch of a turn-of-the-century Craftsman home that looked like it belonged on the cover of Architectural Digest. Grand in stature, it had big, boxy columns supporting an oversized porch roof. A swing dangled on one side. Potted plants and bird feeders hung from the other. The double rows of shingles that sided the outer walls were painted deep forest green, with bright white trim boards. While Gia took in the details of the house, Roxi swiped screens on her phone, either distracted or pretending to be.
“I guess it’s now or never.” Gia spoke quietly, almost to herself, and pressed the long, thin doorbell button. The doorbell’s chime reacted with an organ tune.
“Maybe I should just wait on the swing,” Roxi said, head still bent, fingers still scrolling.
“No. Please—will you come in with me?”
The door creaked open a sliver—then more. “May I help you?” came the question before a person was visible.
“Hi, yeah—I called earlier.” Gia stepped to the side so the person behind the door could see her. “I’m Gia, and this is my friend Roxi. We were hoping to speak with Ms. Mitchell. Just briefly.”
“What about?” The door opened wider to reveal a mid-30s woman holding a feather duster and wearing medical scrubs.
“Well, I—okay, my friend back in Pasadena, Jennifer, is looking for someone she used to know named Emily Lorrainne Mitchell. I mailed Ms. Mitchell a letter, inquiring as to if she may be the same person, and I got a call today from her granddaughter—you?”
“Oh, no. I’m the home health care worker. Let me get Mrs. Mitchell for you. Stay here.”
Standing on a stranger’s porch with nothing to do but wait was a lesson in discomfort. A plane flew overhead, but they couldn’t see it. The gardener next door was blowing leaves around, creating a cacophony of buzzing blended with the gasoline smell Roxi had proclaimed she didn’t like. Gia stood with one foot crossed over the other and fidgeted. She didn’t have pockets in which to put her hands and didn’t want to make herself at home on someone else’s swing.
“Relax,chica.You’ll know soon. Just breathe. Here, let me teach you about box breathing. I use it for singing training. Breathe in for four beats—one, two, three, four. Now—”
“Hello there,” the woman said. “Won’t you come in?” She was sitting in a powered wheelchair, and her white hair was sprayed into a bouffant-shaped helmet that framed her face. She was dressed as if she were going into an office or was the Queen of England—powder blue power suit and pearls.
Gia froze. She’d taken that deep breath in, and the potential that she was now standing two feet from someone who was likely Emily left her looking like a deer in the dark facing a set of headlights.
“Breathe out,” Roxi whispered. “You need to exhale.”
“Right, sorry. I’m sorry, Ms. Mitchell. I just—you’re real—and—”
“Don’t mind her,” Roxi said. “She’s been climbing a fake rock wall all day down in Newport Beach. That takes it outta you. We’d love to come in.Gracias.”
Major save by Roxi, for the second time. The universe had to be conspiring, Gia thought. If Roxi hadn’t shown up, she wouldn’t be standing in a gorgeous home in Pasadena, talking to Mrs. Edelman’s former lover. Classical music spun on a record player in the formal living room, where Lorrainne Mitchell invited them to talk.
“Your home is beautiful,” Gia said, taking in the grandeur. Detailed crown molding joined the walls to the ceiling. There was a fire roaring in the fireplace, complete with a mantel that already had stockings hung on it. How novel to have a fireplace in Los Angeles. Gia noticed the names embroidered on the white cuffs of the red socks: “Lorrainne,” “Duke,” “Ranger,” “Emily,” “Joanne.” Certainly, Duke and Ranger were dogs?
“Thank you. I enjoy it. Can I offer you tea?”
“Oh, no thank you. We don’t want to intrude.” Wasn’t that exactly what they were doing? Never mind semantics, Gia thought.
“Why don’t you sit, then? What’s so important that you want talk to me about that you drove all the way from Newport Beach?” Lorrainne sat proud in the wheelchair, and her baby blue eyes twinkled in the fire’s reflected light.
“Oh, well, I was just following up on my letter—about Jennifer Edelman, or maybe Jennifer Wilkins? I talked to your granddaughter this morning, and she said—”
