Damaged Goods

Chapter Six

Before I looked for Kandinsky, I figured I'd visit MICA while I was in the neighborhood. So before I left Java Joe's, I asked if there was an instructor at the school who might be helpful.

"Now that you mention it," Steve said, "there is one that everyone likes. Marie Solomon. She mentors a lot of students. Melissa might be one. You could see if she knows anything."

"Thanks, I will." I lifted my latte cup in farewell.

The art school is spread over several blocks of the Bolton Hill area, and the logical place to start seemed like the administration building, a solid, white block of classical architecture. The high-ceilinged, columned foyer surrounded a marble stairway built to impress. One staircase led down from each side of the second floor, they met in the middle and then descended as a single staircase that widened right before it reached the first floor. If I squinted, the steps seemed to create illusory ripples, as if the stairway had managed to liquefy.

Students milled about, artwork or portfolios tucked under their arms. Chatter bounced o the granite walls, creating a constant thrum.

Finding the main office was easy enough. A young woman with Rit-dyed red hair was happy to point me toward it. Even the clerk behind the counter seemed cheerful. She directed me to Marie Solomon's office with a smile and a twinkle in her eyes. Maybe I should get a job at MICA. Then I could be perky all the time, too.

I climbed the stairs, turned left at the top, and walked to the second door on the right. The door was open, and I heard quiet conversation, so I decided to peek inside. A tall, thin woman in her thirties stood with a younger woman—probably a student. I hung back and waited. Eventually, the instructor and student came to the door, and when the younger one left, the woman I assumed was Marie Solomon beamed at me. "How can I help you?"

After exchanging introductions, I gave her the spiel and asked if she'd seen Melissa recently.

Marie Solomon's smile faded. "The last time I saw her was two weeks ago, as of last Friday."

"You seem sure of the date."

The instructor nodded. "I'm sure of it, but I'll double-check my calendar, if you like."

As she spoke, Solomon walked to her desk calendar and flipped the pages back. Ooh, paper instead of pixels. Call me old-fashioned, but I have a genuine love for all things paper, not to mention a huge distrust of technology.

"There," she said, pointing to the page. "I saw her at 1:30, exactly two weeks ago Friday."

"Can you tell me what you discussed, without violating any privacy rules?"

The woman frowned. "No, I really can't. But you say she's disappeared?" Pausing for a moment, she added, "Are you with the police?"

"I'm not a cop," I assured her. "Just a concerned friend of the family."

"I'm not sure how much I'm at liberty to say."

"Well, if it helps any, I'm not too crazy about Melissa's dad," I said. "But if nothing else, I'd like to make sure she's okay."

Marie Solomon looked me over as if appraising me. "In that case, I can tell you this much. Melissa seemed upset when we met. She mentioned possibly taking a break from school. I was concerned, of course, and tried to talk her out of it, but if she wanted to quit that was her choice.

"Since then, I haven't seen her in class or anywhere around the school." She stared over my shoulder, her gaze puzzled. "I suspect she might have dropped out." Solomon raised her hand in physical punctuation. "I haven't received official word on that, though," she cautioned.

I wondered whether I dared to press my inquiries any further, but I forged ahead. "I understand Melissa is good friends with another student, Jen Gardiner. Have you ever talked to her about Melissa?"

Solomon shook her head, gaze drifting down. "Sorry. I'm already cutting things close to the line. Besides, I really don't have a clue where Melissa is."

Giving it one last try, I asked, "Did Melissa mention her father or a man named Slava Kandinsky?"

"No. Who's Slava Kandinsky?"

I'm not a mind reader, but Solomon's reaction suggested she was telling the truth.

"No one you need to worry about," I said, hoping that I was right.