Day One
Benny Abbott
From the doorway, Mallory and I stare at the jagged shards blanketing every surface of Joy and Xander’s bathroom—the floor, the clawfoot tub, both sinks, even the toilet seat. Neither Joy nor Xander are answering their phones.
“We should call the cops, right?” I ask. “Should we call the cops?”
“And tell them what?”
I toss her a harsh look, which she immediately dismisses.
“It was probably just the wind. Same thing that happened upstairs.” Mallory crunches over the glass in her Birks to jiggle the window frame on the far wall. “Look. No brace. And the latch is loose.” She jiggles that too.
I find it hard to believe such an explosive shattering was weather related, but she has a point. There are no other signs of intrusion. Nothing is missing, as far as we can tell. Nothing else is broken.
I try Joy again. Again, straight to voicemail. “Where are you?” I say, knowing she never listens to her messages. “We’re here, and you’re not here, and there’s a lot of broken glass, so just … please call us back.”
Breathing slowly through my nose, I strive to take Mallory’s lead. No reason to panic yet. I remind myself that Joy and Xander are only thirty minutes late, the winds were indeed strong last night, strong enough to yank a 150-foot tree out of the ground, and Joy has every reason to ignore my texts.
Joining Mallory at the window, I run my hands along the frame. At the top right corner is a white plastic sensor, which gives me an idea. Mallory follows me upstairs and hovers at my shoulder as I tap at the alarm system control panel. It doesn’t respond. “That’s … huh. It’s off.”
Mallory presses a button on the side and it flashes to life. We wait for the main screen to load and follow the prompts to view all recent recordings.
There’s nothing from the past twenty-four hours. We exchange a frown.
“Maybe they took another meeting with our lawyers?” Mallory suggests.
I concede this is possible, though Xander usually handles that stuff alone.
She pulls up the number for their office and sets the phone to speaker. As it rings, I whisper, “I’ll try Joy’s parents, just in case.”
She nods, and I trudge down the stairs. I have no intention of calling Joy’s parents.
She sent them on a transatlantic cruise out of London for their fortieth wedding anniversary; if I’ve got my dates right they’re in the middle of nowheresville right now.
Instead, there’s something I need to check before I properly lose my cool.
I hear a chipper woman pick up on Mallory’s phone as I deposit myself at Joy’s computer.
Joy recently changed her password in homage to our Happy Days namesakes here at TSMSYL.
I key it in—potsierichiefonzie, no spaces, no caps—and run a search on all recent audio recordings.
A list comes up, and I quickly toggle through it for anything Joy might have saved last night.
Soon, I’ve searched the hard drive, the cloud, the trash, Joy’s email. There are no files from last night anywhere, by any name. The discovery—or lack thereof—makes me so lightheaded I have to step outside into the wind.
“No one’s heard from them,” Mallory says, joining me several minutes later, adding that she also called our merch manager and research assistant. “I checked our socials too.”
The mention of our socials adds another prickly layer to my concern. “And?”
“Nothing.”
I need more. “Nothing from…?”
“You-know-who? No.” She scans my face. “What are you not telling me?”
In the six months since Mallory joined the team, I’ve observed her relationship with Xander as an anthropologist might study a new species.
Do they look like siblings? Undeniably. Sound like siblings?
Sometimes, when Mallory pulls her Danish accent out from retirement.
But do they act like siblings? Still open for debate.
If I didn’t know better I’d say they were fair-haired dignitaries playing nice for politics’ sake, but maybe they’re chummier when I’m not around.
In which case, Mallory might be able to offer some insight.
Hoping I don’t sound as anxious as I feel, I ask, “How has Joy seemed to you lately? Has she seemed different at all?”
“Why?”
I’m still considering my response when Richie sprints across the yard, barking his Look at that!
bark. He’s so loud, and so adamant, that Mallory and I get up to inspect.
We find Joy’s neighbor Carlotta in a colorful apron on the other side of their shared metal fence.
She calls out to us when she sees us, waving a pair of gardening gloves over her head.
I’ve become moderately acquainted with Carlotta since Joy and Xander bought this house.
After two decades of serving Los Angeles as a criminal court judge, she took an early retirement five years ago when she was diagnosed with leukemia.
Joy’s been helping her with her garden since the cancer recurred last fall.
She’s now in the maintenance-chemo phase of treatment, and as we approach, I note puffy moons beneath tired eyes.
“Glad I ran into you,” she says, downy white hair fluttering in the wind. “I just picked my weight in produce, and I need you to take some of it off my hands. What do you like? Beans? Romaine? Eggplants? Carrots?”
“That all sounds great, thanks,” Mallory says with a tentative smile. “But first—have you seen Joy or Xander this morning?”
Carlotta tucks her gloves into her apron and shakes her head. “Can’t say I have.”
“What about Potsie?” I add.
“Is something wrong?”
I explain about the bathroom window, the unanswered calls.
“That’s not good.” She glances up at her house, a forest-green wood-sided home built into the hill, and then down the far end of her property, which dips fenceless into a ravine.
“Come to think of it, I’ve seen the coyote a few times”—she pronounces it as two syllables: ki-yote—“but no Potsie. Maybe they’re walking him? ”
The screen door opens on her back porch, and her partner emerges with a small-toothed grin.
As with every other time I’ve spoken with him, he’s flaunting his bronze abs by way of a fully unbuttoned shirt.
The only visible hair on his person is atop his head—silver and close cut with a deep widow’s peak.
“Emil.” Carlotta beckons him over. “They’re looking for Joy and Xander.”
A former Hollywood stunt double, Emil is now an elite personal trainer who dabbles in vintage car restoration—a unique trifecta that lends itself to the title “Master of All Bodyworks.” Or so his business card says.
I find him best in small doses, but Xander seems to like him; they train together twice a week.
I explain the situation once more when he joins us at the fence.
He pushes his lower lip out in thought. “Haven’t seen them today, no.”
“Has there been anyone else on the property? Or lingering around outside?” I can see that Carlotta knows why I’m asking. She raises her eyes to Emil, who shakes his head.
“What about the MG?” If anyone were to notice it around, it would be Emil, seeing that Xander bought it off him only a few months ago. “It’s not in the garage.”
“Well, why didn’t you say so?” Emil slaps his bare stomach with a laugh. “You were starting to worry me for a second. They must be out for a spin.”
He sounds so confident I don’t bother reiterating the fact that this is not something they would do when we’re about to record.
“He’s right,” Carlotta says with a firm nod. “They’re grown adults. I’m sure there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for all of this. Now go on up to the gate.” She waves us toward the street, already backing away. “I’ll have Emil meet you with a couple boxes of veggies.”
Mallory and I exchange uncertain frowns but do as she says.
THREE HOURS LATER, we’re no closer to answers.
We’ve called everyone we can think of, but no one’s seen or heard from either Joy or Xander.
We’ve double-checked our socials. We even drove the neighborhood in case Joy took Potsie for a walk alone—an unlikely scenario considering her current reluctance to leave the house.
Nonetheless, we checked every path, every dead end, every alley, until we could say with relative certainty that she wasn’t dozing in any gutters.
Out of ideas for now, Mallory and I figure the least we can do is help board up the window, lest a family of raccoons move in when no one’s watching.
At the bottom of Joy’s terraced yard is a windowless metal shed.
I pull a string and the light bulb buzzes to life.
The dust is caked on in some places; in others, it’s been recently swept.
In the corner are the old paint cans the previous owners transferred with the property.
Propped against the far wall, behind a wheelbarrow, is an array of wood scraps.
I move the wheelbarrow and start plonking old boards and pallets aside to reach the half sheet of plywood in the back. Even over the racket I’m making, I can hear Richie barking at the top of the yard. I yell at him to stop as I slide my findings out the door.
“Watch for splinters,” Mallory calls from a nearby tree stump.
“I could use a hand.” I can carry it myself but I don’t want to. What I want is for Joy to walk through the gate and explain that she lost her phone, or took a nap in the grocery store, or needed stitches after cutting herself on broken glass.
Mallory sidles up to the plywood, but before we lift I say, “Can I tell you something, and can you promise not to jump to conclusions?”
She studies me with piercing scrutiny. “You know you can, and you know I can’t.”
I weigh my options, decide it’s a bad idea to go on, and do it anyway. “I was here last night. After we recorded.”
Her eyebrows lift.
“You promised not to jump to conclusions.”
“No, I didn’t. Was Xander home?”
“No.”
“Okay.” She stretches the word out. “And you’re telling me this because…”
“Because I’m not sure what to think. I didn’t stay long. She kicked me out almost as soon as I got here.” I focus on a knot in the plywood. “Before that, though, she said some stuff.”
Richie is howling now. Again, I yell. Again, he ignores me.
“It’s probably the coyote.” Mallory pronounces it like Judge Carlotta. “What stuff?”
“She said she wanted to take a break from the podcast.”
“A break,” Mallory repeats.
“Obviously I get it,” I go on, already uncomfortable. “It’s been a bad couple of months. We should take a break. But…”
“The contract.”
“I feel bad even saying it. It’s only money.”
“Life-changing money.”
“It’s not about the money,” I say as firmly as I can. “It’s just, I thought we were on the same page.” I cringe, remembering the look on her face when she told me to leave. The things I said. I may never stop cringing. “So I guess I’m wondering if you have any … insights. To share.”
Richie’s howls are now interspersed with whiny yaps. I can’t read Mallory’s expression. “Do you?” I ask.
She shakes her head. Then, “Richie sounds weird.”
I don’t want to change the subject now that we’re here, but she’s right. Reluctantly, I follow her around the house, and when I see what my dog is barking at, I start running.
Potsie is outside the gate. Alone.