Kiss the Girls and Make Them Cry(7)
She wasn’t sure what to do. If Catherine Ryan was the “CRyan” she was searching for, she could give her a little more time to respond to the voice mail message she had left. But something told her to press on, to try to figure out another way to get in touch with Catherine.
It occurred to her that Rob had said they updated their records as the graduates kept them informed regarding new addresses and phone numbers. Did that mean they deleted the old addresses? Or might BC still have Catherine’s parents’ address?
She was put through to Rob’s line, and he answered on the first ring. When she identified herself, his voice became terse. “In less than a minute I have a conference call.”
Gina knew she had to be quick. “Catherine Ryan’s most recent address showed her living in Georgia. Trying to find her was a dead end. I’m hoping to locate her parents. Would you have her original address, her home address when she was an undergrad?”
“I’ll have to check an older database. Let me see if I can find it now before I have to start dialing.”
She heard him under his breath mumbling the spelling of Catherine Ryan’s name as he typed. “Okay, it’s opening. Here we go. 40 Forest Drive, Danbury, Connecticut.
“And with that, I have to say goodbye.”
7
Gina went to an online site and found a listing for a Justin and Elizabeth Ryan in Danbury. The street address matched what Rob had given her. Their ages were sixty-five and sixty-three. That was about right for parents whose child was in her early thirties, Gina thought. Her reporter’s instinct told her it would be better to drive to Danbury than to reach out to them by phone.
The ride on the crisp autumn day was pleasant and not crowded with traffic. Thank God for Waze, she thought as the directions app guided her rental car out of the city to a pleasant suburban area in southern Connecticut with upscale homes on wide lots.
When she rang the bell, a white-haired woman in her late sixties answered. At first cautious when she read Gina’s card, she warmed up and explained that she and her husband had bought the house less than a year ago from the Ryan family and didn’t have their new address.
So much for the accuracy of online databases, Gina thought. But as she turned away, she noticed a FOR SALE sign on a neighbor’s lawn. The sign caused her to turn back while the new owner was still standing at the door.
“One last question,” she promised. “Did you buy this house through a Realtor?”
“Yes, we did.”
“Do you remember the name of the Realtor?”
“Yes, I can give you his card.”
According to Waze the broker was a mile away. It was five o’clock. Hoping that he was still in the office, Gina forced herself to stay within ten miles of the speed limit as she hurried across town.
The office was on a main street surrounded by a dry cleaner, delicatessen, hair salon, and sporting goods store. Pictures of houses were prominently displayed in the window. Keeping her fingers crossed, she tried the door handle and was relieved to find it open. She stepped inside just as a stocky, balding man of about sixty came from a back room.
He was obviously disappointed that she was not house hunting, but when she mentioned the Ryans, he became expansive, even loquacious. “Nice family,” he began. “Known them ever since the kids were babies. Hated to see them leave, but Elizabeth’s arthritis was getting worse. They finally decided they needed to do something about it and started looking around. Debated about the Naples and Sarasota areas but ended up in Palm Beach. Good decision if you ask me. They showed me the pictures of the condominium they were planning to buy. I told them in my opinion, even though I’ve only visited the area a few times, they were getting it at a good price. Newly remodeled, big rooms, second bath off the guest bedroom. What more could anyone want? Hated to see them go. Good people, if you get my drift.”
The agent stopped for breath and Gina managed to get a word in. “By any chance, do you remember the names of their children?”
“Oh, let’s see. I swear I’m getting old. Used to be that names popped right into my head. No more. It takes a while.” Frowning, he paused. “Wait a minute. I’m starting to remember. Both really good-looking kids. They must be in their late twenties by now. Let’s see. Okay, I’ve got it. Their son is Andrew. The daughter is Catherine. They called her Cathy.”
“Do you remember how she spells her name? I mean was it with a ‘C’ or a ‘K’?”
“That I’m sure of. It was with a ‘C.’ C-A-T-H-E-R-I-N-E.”
“C” Ryan, Gina thought. At least it was the right initial.
Three minutes later she managed to get the Ryans’ address in Palm Beach and their phone number.
She walked out to her car, started it, and paused.
Rather than call now with the possibility of background traffic noise making it hard to hear, or going through areas with spotty cell service, Gina decided to wait until she was home to make the call. This time the distance to Danbury felt longer, and she had to remind herself that she had gotten up early and it had been a long day.
It was seven-fifteen when she got back to her apartment. Gratefully, she poured herself a glass of wine, settled on a chair in the dinette area, and reached for her land line phone.
The call was answered by a man’s voice saying, “Ryan residence.”