ATLANTA GEORGIA
7th March 2022

DAISY

Mrs. Gretchen Carmichael’s house was a two-story duplex that gave you the impression that the home was well taken care of. The gutters were clean and the lawn was trimmed and glistened with the wetness of fresh rain. The house, it seemed, had been renovated recently. The grey paint looked new, the roof tiles sparkled, and the paved driveway gleamed. It was a beautiful house in a homely sort of way.

Daisy stared at the door, hesitant. She didn’t want to admit it, but Rebecca’s words had deflated her. She’d come from San Francisco, all guns blazing, holding balloons symbolizing all her hopes and dreams. At some point between landing in San Francisco and entering Rebecca's office, she’d added a balloon for the Samantha Carmichael case. One by one, though, since she’d set foot in Atlanta, all those balloons had begun to pop. Starting with Ronnie —stupid Ronnie—, with his stupid new wife and his stupid new family. Pop, pop, pop.

And now Rebecca was trying to deflate her Samantha Carmichael balloon.

Do you really think that Mrs. Carmichael needs a twenty-three-year-old rookie detective from San Francisco who gets herself transferred from one place to another just for love working her case?

Taking in a deep breath, Daisy told herself multiple times that she was more than capable, that she'd handled such cases before,  that back in San Francisco, she'd caught the Fairytale killer until her self-esteem was back on track, then knocked on Mrs. Carmichael’s door firmly.

At first, there was no sound or movement to indicate there was anyone inside. Daisy had been about to turn around and go, deciding no one was home when the door swung open to reveal Mrs. Carmichael, dressed in a grey tracksuit, panting like a steam train.

“You need a tracksuit to play bingo?” The words were out before Daisy could stop them. Stupid mouth. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Mrs. Carmichael laughed. “And what if I told you that I don’t play bingo and that I run instead?”

“Well then hat’s off to you, Mrs. Carmichael. I hope I’m half as fit as you when I’m your age.”

"And how old do you think I am, Daisy?"

Daisy stared back at Mrs. Carmichael. Guessing a woman's age was a trick question. There was no right answer. "I don't know. As old as you feel?"

Mrs. Carmichael covered her smile with her hand. She looked like she was enjoying Daisy's discomfiture. "I'm eighty-one." She said, opening the door wider and stepping aside to make space for Daisy to enter. “Come on in. Make yourself at home.”

Daisy stepped in and gasped. The inside of the house was disco themed. And not because there was a big spinning disco ball with multi-colored LED lights. Everything was a mishmash of colors: lime-green curtains, hot pink throw pillows, grey walls, dark wood shelves, orange sofas, a blue shag carpet, a coffee table the color of eggshells. It was like a unicorn had barfed inside the house.

“This is. . . nice.” Daisy commented.

“You could say that, though not many people would agree with you. I love colors. I guess that’s something me and Samantha had in common. Sam had such a flamboyant fashion sense. She wore anything as long as it was colorful, not caring whether they matched or not. I do that sometimes, too. Of course, as long as I’m not going out in public.”

Daisy had to steer this conversation away from the emotions, otherwise, Mrs. Carmichael would be a crying mess, and Daisy would not know what to do. "I got your daughter’s case." 

“Is that so? Rebecca handed it to you? Just like that?”

“Let’s just say there was a lot of pleading involved.” Daisy didn’t see the need to share that most of the pleading had been done by Vince. Not her. She had been too busy being angry with Rebecca for bringing up Ronnie. Stupid Ronnie.

Mrs. Carmichael went into the kitchen, speaking over her shoulder. “I don’t eat much so I don’t have what to offer you. Oh, there are some cookies in the pantry. Let’s talk over some cookies and tea. Sound good?”

Daisy nodded and moved to sit at the dining table. Each chair was a different color. She picked the red chair, feeling a little childish for picking it because it was her favorite color, and sat down.

The tea things arrived on a gold tray that looked like it had been handmade by an artisan in China. Daisy took her tea without adding any sugar because she knew that Mrs. Carmichael would not approve of her adding five spoons of sugar to her tea. Sugar was Daisy’s guilty pleasure. She didn’t smoke. She didn’t take alcohol. A little extra sugar wouldn’t hurt. Or so she thought.

Mrs. Carmichael put the cup to her lips and downed the whole thing like it was a shot of tequila then dubbed her lips with a napkin as she spoke. “I got the movie copied to a flash.”

“Pardon?”

“Don’t you remember the movie in which Samantha acted? The one that was supposed to be showcased at the Atlanta Film Festival? I told you this at the station, remember?" The disappointment was evident in Mrs. Carmichael’s tone. Unbeknownst to her, Daisy was operating on fumes. In the past three days, she had only slept four hours.

Daisy bit into a cookie. “ Oh yes, I remember. Thank you. That would be very helpful. I’ll watch it and see what I can find.”

“Is there anything more I can do to help?” Mrs. Carmichael put her hands to her chin.

“You can help by answering a few more questions for me. Do the names Jasmine Walker and Tyler James mean anything to you?”

Mrs. Carmichael swung the chair on its hind legs so far backwards that Daisy thought she would fall. “I have to think about it. . .Tyler? Nope, doesn't ring a bell. . . Jasmine?. . .Can I tell you something, Daisy?”

“Yes, Mrs. Carmichael.”

“Call me Gretchen. The truth is that Sam and I weren’t close. She didn’t confide in me. She was closer to her father. I bet Jeremy knows something.”

“Where is Jeremy then?”

Mrs. Carmichael looked away, her eyes suddenly shiny. So much for avoiding the tears. “He is not in a good state of mind, right now. When you add Sam’s disappearance to my terminal illness, it can be quite difficult to bear.”

Daisy took another cookie. They were surprisingly delicious. They had that perfect mix of salt and sugar that she liked. “Sorry for asking, but is he mentally ill?”

“No, he’s just. . . He—”

The door swung open, banging on the adjacent wall with so much force that the plaster cracked sending white dust flying. Daisy and Gretchen stood up at once, suddenly alert and tense.

“Gretchen, has the police come by to visit us after forty-one years? I’m seeing a squad car in the driveway. Are they going to finally start investigating?” A huge bald black man with a bushy grey beard walked —no swayed— in. He was rumpled and smelled like a brewery.

Oh, now Daisy understood. Jeremy was a drunkard. That’s what Gretchen meant by he is not in a good state of mind. You could always trust a wife to sugar-coat her husband's inadequacies.

Daisy’s hand moved instinctively to her gun, even though she knew she could handle him blindfolded.

“Jeremy,” Gretchen held his shoulders. “This nice lady is called Daisy. She is going to be handling our Sam’s case.”

Jeremy looked her up and down and wasn’t pleased. “Don’t you think it’s forty-one years too late for the police to be caring about our Sam?”

“It’s never too late, dear. We can’t just give up. The police are better equipped to find out what happened to Sam and get her the justice that she so deserves.”

Daisy spoke for the first time since Jeremy entered the house. He would be an intimidating man if he was sober. Now, he was just a sad man. A sad man plagued with grief. “Yes, I want to help. Could you answer a few questions for me, please?”

Jeremy’s voice was low and gravelly like a pitbull about to bite. “I don’t need to answer no damn questions. I know who did it.”

Gretchen and Daisy spoke in unison, their faces twin masks of pallor. “What?”

“It was that best friend of hers.”

The tiny hairs on the nape of Daisy’s neck rose. “What best friend?”

Jeremy spat his next words. “That Jasmine Walker girl.”

Daisy picked up her phone and opened up the notepad app, typing whatever Jeremy said. “Are you implying that Jasmine Walker did something to Samantha that led to her disappearance?”

Jeremy looked her in the eye, certainty blazing in his cold, hard, grief-stricken, teary, angry eyes, and said. “Yes.”

●●●

A/N: We are done with Part One of The book. Part Two is up next.