Sour Grapes

and ran inside.
    Savannah had been on her way up to Francie’s room, to see if the girl was awake yet, but she was intercepted in the gallery.
    “Where’s my daughter?” Mrs. Matthews demanded. “I was told you had excellent security here. How could you morons lose one of the girls?”
    Savannah checked the family out with a quick onceover. Middle-aged dad was deeply tanned, muscular, and dressed in a stained T-shirt and jeans decorated with splotches of paint and bits of dried cement. A builder of some sort, no doubt.
    Dressed in a calico-print dress with a white-lace collar and white sandals, Mom looked as though the extent of her physical labor might be lifting the gavel at a PTA meeting. From the bossy, take-charge look on her face, Savannah was sure she would be president. She could also see where Barbie had gotten her penchant for heavy makeup and “big” hair.
    Younger sister would have been perfect for a talk-show makeover. The opposite of her mother and sister, the dowdy teenager appeared to give no time or effort to vanity. Her unwashed hair had been pulled back into a scrunchy, her baggy jeans and oversize sweatshirt hung limply off her shapeless body, and her thick-lensed glasses would have been improved by a simple cleaning.
    Savannah instantly pigeonholed them into three uncomplimentary slots: Mom the Hen, Dad the Pecked, and Sister the Ugly Duckling.
    In her personal life, Savannah tried to avoid snap judgments of individuals. People were complicated creatures, far too complex to be evaluated in a matter of minutes.
    But, as a street cop Savannah had learned that survival itself depended upon making evaluations in seconds. And, while she was always willing to change her original opinion of a person—given evidence to the contrary—experience had taught her to trust those valuable first impressions.
    Although she would have preferred to give this woman a karate chop, Savannah decided to ignore the insult. Exercising restraint was an excellent way to build character, and she figured it was a good time to chalk up some spiritual brownie points. Besides, she needed the bucks and didn’t want to get fired from the gig.
    “Mrs. Matthews,” Savannah said, “I wouldn’t necessarily say that your daughter is lost. She probably knows exactly where she is; the problem is, we don’t know. And we’re doing everything we can to find her.”
    “Then you’d better do more,” Mrs. Matthews said. “If anything’s happened to my baby girl, we’re going to sue you people for all you’re worth—you, and that Lippincott gal, and Villa Rosa.”
    “I have no doubt that you would do precisely that, Mrs. Matthews,” Savannah replied. “But hopefully, we’ll find Barbie soon, safe and sound, and all that nasty suing business won’t be necessary. Because, if you intend to sue me for all I’m worth, I’m sorry to say, you won’t get much... two lazy cats who eat as much as a couple of great Danes. That’s about the sum of my assets.”
    No abusive reply was forthcoming, so Savannah softened her tone. “Come along with me,” she said. ‘They have a lovely courtyard out here with tables where we can sit, and maybe you can tell me a few things about your daughter.”
    “Talk? Answer questions?” Mrs. Matthews’s densely ratted, stiffly sprayed hair seemed to bristle, like a hunting hound who had caught a whiff of a raccoon. “We don’t need to waste time talking, and the only question you need to answer is, ‘Where is my daughter?’”
    “I understand, Mrs. Matthews, that you’re upset,” Savannah replied. “I’m sure I would be, too, in your situation. But the best thing you can do for Barbie right now is to spend a few minutes with me, telling me about her daily life, her habits, her friends, et cetera.” Mr. Matthews laid a large, work-callused hand on his wife’s shoulder. “Come on, Mother,” he said. “Let’s do what she says... for Barbie.”

Chapter

12

    S avannah sat on one side of the table, taking notes on a small pad, and on the other side sat the three Matthewses, a united front of uncooperation.
    So far she had received only the briefest answers to her questions—most of those supplied by the husband.
    “Has Barbie been dating anyone special lately?” she asked. There, that should be simple enough to prompt a straightforward answer.
    But no...
    “Yes, she was,” said Mr. Matthews.
    “No, she was not!” His wife’s jaw tightened and her nostrils