Grandmother of Missing 9-Year-Old Melodee Buzzard: ‘I’m Numb and in Shock’ – A Year of Heartbreak in the Search for Answers

By Elena Vasquez, Staff Writer November 8, 2025 – Santa Barbara, California

In the quiet coastal enclave of Santa Barbara, where palm trees sway against a backdrop of endless blue skies, the disappearance of 9-year-old Melodee Buzzard has carved a wound that refuses to heal. One year ago today, the spirited girl with the infectious laugh and a penchant for sketching fantastical worlds vanished from the playground of Oakwood Elementary School, leaving her family—and an entire community—in a state of perpetual limbo. Amid the ongoing investigation, which has been plagued by dead ends and controversy, it is Melodee’s grandmother, Evelyn Hargrove, who has emerged as the unyielding voice of grief. In an exclusive interview with this publication, the 68-year-old widow opened up about her raw, unrelenting pain: “I’m numb and in shock. Every day feels like the moment I first heard the news. How do you grieve someone who might still be out there? How do you stop hoping?”

Evelyn’s words, delivered in a voice barely above a whisper during a tear-streaked conversation on the sun-drenched patio of her modest bungalow, encapsulate the agonizing duality of a family torn apart. For Evelyn, Melodee wasn’t just a granddaughter; she was a beacon of joy in a life shadowed by loss. The grandmother’s anguish has become a rallying point for those still searching, a poignant reminder of the human cost behind the headlines. As the anniversary of Melodee’s vanishing approaches, Evelyn’s story sheds new light on the fractured Buzzard family, the relentless police probe, and the flickering embers of hope that refuse to die.

The Day the World Stopped: Recalling October 7, 2024

Evelyn Hargrove remembers the call with crystalline clarity, even as the details blur into a haze of disbelief. It was a crisp Monday afternoon, the kind where the Santa Barbara sun bathes everything in golden light, mocking the darkness about to descend. Evelyn, then 67 and retired from her job as a school librarian, was knee-deep in her garden, pruning roses that Melodee had once declared “the prettiest in the whole wide world.” The phone rang at 3:47 p.m.—an innocuous chime that shattered her routine.

On the other end was her daughter, Ashlee Buzzard, Melodee’s mother, her voice a frantic staccato: “Mom, Melodee’s not here. She didn’t come home from school. Something’s wrong.” Evelyn’s world tilted. She dropped the shears, her hands trembling as she grabbed her keys and raced to Ashlee’s apartment on Elm Street, a 15-minute drive that felt eternal. By the time she arrived, the street was alive with flashing lights—police cruisers, concerned neighbors clustering like moths to a flame. Melodee’s backpack, a bright pink number adorned with unicorn stickers, lay abandoned on the front steps, as if she’d simply stepped away for a moment.

“I kept thinking, ‘This can’t be real,’” Evelyn recounts, her blue eyes—eerily similar to Melodee’s—distant as she stares at a faded photo on her mantel. The image shows the two of them at the Santa Barbara Zoo last summer: Evelyn in a wide-brimmed hat, Melodee perched on her shoulders, both giggling at a flock of flamingos. “I ran to the school, screaming her name. The teachers were crying, the kids were huddled together. It was chaos, but the kind where everyone moves in slow motion. And then… nothing. She was gone.”

Melodee Buzzard, born on a stormy May morning in 2016, was the epitome of childhood wonder. At 9 years old, she stood just over four feet tall, with a cascade of chestnut curls that bounced when she ran and hazel eyes that sparkled with mischief. Her teachers at Oakwood Elementary described her as “a dreamer with dirt under her nails”—a girl who could spend hours lost in her sketchbook, drawing elaborate scenes of interstellar adventures, or chasing butterflies in the school’s butterfly garden. “Melodee had this way of making the ordinary magical,” says her fourth-grade teacher, Carla Ruiz, who still keeps a collection of the girl’s artwork pinned to her bulletin board. “She’d tell you about her ‘space family’—aliens who visited her in dreams. We all believed her.”

But beneath the surface of Melodee’s idyllic school life simmered family tensions that Evelyn now grapples with in hindsight. Ashlee, a 32-year-old single mother struggling with intermittent employment and a history of personal demons, had always been a whirlwind—loving in bursts, absent in others. Evelyn, who raised Ashlee alone after her husband’s death from cancer in 2010, had stepped in as Melodee’s primary caregiver on more occasions than she could count. “I’d pick her up from school, make her mac and cheese with extra cheese, read her those silly bedtime stories about brave little girls saving the galaxy,” Evelyn says, a faint smile breaking through her sorrow. “She called me ‘Gram-Gram the Galaxy Guardian.’ God, I miss that.”

A Grandmother’s Vigil: The First Weeks of Despair

In the immediate aftermath, Evelyn became the family’s anchor, even as her own foundations cracked. She fielded calls from reporters, coordinated with volunteers, and scoured the internet for any whisper of her granddaughter. Sleep became a luxury; nights were spent poring over missing persons databases, her laptop screen casting an eerie glow on walls lined with Melodee’s drawings. “I’d wake up at 3 a.m., convinced I heard her voice in the wind,” she admits. “Once, I drove to the school at midnight, just to sit on that playground bench where she loved to swing. I prayed to every saint I could remember, begging for a sign.”

The Santa Barbara Police Department’s initial response was swift but soon mired in frustration. Over 200 officers and volunteers combed a 10-mile radius, utilizing K-9 units, drones, and even psychic tips that led nowhere. The FBI joined the fray within 48 hours, classifying the case as “high-risk” due to Melodee’s age and the proximity to the school. Yet, as days bled into weeks, the trail grew cold. A child’s sandal found near a drainage ditch? Not hers. A blurry CCTV image of a girl in a hoodie? A false alarm. “We turned Santa Barbara upside down,” says Detective Maria Gonzalez, lead investigator, in a phone interview. “But without more from the family, our hands are tied.”

That “more from the family” has become the case’s most incendiary element. Ashlee Buzzard’s uncooperativeness—her evasion of interviews, contradictory statements about her whereabouts on the day of the disappearance, and abrupt relocation to an undisclosed location—has drawn sharp scrutiny. Evelyn, caught in the crossfire, defends her daughter fiercely, even as doubt gnaws at her. “Ashlee’s hurting too, in her own broken way,” she says, twisting a silver locket that holds a tiny photo of Melodee. “She’s always run from pain—drugs, bad relationships, now this. But I can’t believe she’d hurt her own child. I just… I can’t.”

Whispers in the community paint a darker picture. Court documents, unsealed last month amid mounting pressure, reveal Ashlee’s 2019 misdemeanor conviction for drug possession and a 2022 domestic disturbance report filed by a former boyfriend. Neighbors recall heated arguments spilling into the street, and Melodee’s school counselor noted “signs of emotional neglect” in the girl’s drawings—stick-figure families with one parent conspicuously absent. Evelyn acknowledges the struggles but pleads for compassion: “We’re all flawed. Ashlee was a child herself when she had Melodee—barely 23. I failed her as a mother, maybe, by not stepping in sooner. Now, I’m failing Melodee by not bringing her home.”

Echoes of a Fractured Legacy: Evelyn’s Own Ghosts

To understand Evelyn’s numbness, one must delve into her own tapestry of loss—a threadbare fabric woven with tragedies that make Melodee’s absence feel like the final unraveling. Born Evelyn Marie Thompson in 1957 to a family of migrant farmworkers in the Central Valley, she clawed her way to a college degree in literature, a rarity for women of her era. She met her husband, Robert Hargrove, at a bookstore poetry reading; their marriage was a quiet romance, punctuated by Ashlee’s birth in 1993 and the move to Santa Barbara in search of coastal calm.

Robert’s death in 2010 from pancreatic cancer was Evelyn’s first seismic shift. “He was my compass,” she says softly, gesturing to a shelf of dog-eared sci-fi novels they’d read aloud together. Ashlee, then 17, spiraled into rebellion—dropping out of high school, cycling through dead-end jobs and toxic partners. Melodee arrived like a surprise comet, a tiny bundle who softened Ashlee’s edges and reignited Evelyn’s purpose. “That baby saved us all,” Evelyn recalls. “She’d climb into my lap with her crayons, and for a moment, the world made sense again.”

Now, at 68, Evelyn battles rheumatoid arthritis that flares with stress, her once-steady hands gnarled from weeding memorial gardens planted in Melodee’s name. She attends weekly support group meetings at the local YMCA, where other families of the missing share war stories of red-tape nightmares and phantom sightings. “There’s this numbness that sets in,” she explains, “like your heart’s wrapped in cotton wool. Shock keeps you from shattering completely. But underneath? It’s a storm—rage at the universe, guilt that eats you alive. What if I’d picked her up that day? What if I’d fought harder for custody?”

Her candor has resonated beyond Santa Barbara. Online fundraisers have raised over $120,000 for the Melodee Buzzard Search Fund, which Evelyn oversees, channeling resources into private investigators and advanced DNA tracing. Social media amplifies her voice: #GramForMelodee trends sporadically, with users sharing fan art inspired by the girl’s sketches—ethereal spaceships crewed by grandmothers with capes. “You’ve given me strength I didn’t know I had,” Evelyn tells a group of teen volunteers during a recent beach cleanup aimed at raising awareness. “Melodee would love this—kids her age, fighting for her like she’s their hero.”

The Investigation’s Labyrinth: Twists, Turns, and Lingering Shadows

As Evelyn clings to hope, the investigation churns forward, a labyrinth of leads and letdowns. Recent developments, shared exclusively with this outlet, offer glimmers amid the gloom. In September 2025, forensic teams revisited the school playground, employing ground-penetrating radar that detected anomalies beneath the sandbox—an old drainage pipe, perhaps, but no remains. “It’s progress,” Detective Gonzalez says, though her tone carries the weight of exhaustion. “We’re cross-referencing Melodee’s DNA with national databases, and we’ve got a tip from a trucker who swears he saw a girl matching her description hitchhiking near Fresno last winter.”

Theories proliferate like weeds in Evelyn’s untended garden. Was it a stranger abduction, a predator lurking in the school’s blind spots? Abduction statistics from the National Center for Missing & Exploited Children paint a grim picture: of the 365,000 annual reports, only 115 are stereotypical kidnappings by strangers. More likely, experts say, is familial involvement or a runaway scenario fueled by home instability. Ashlee’s silence only fans the flames; last month, she surfaced briefly for a court-mandated deposition, her testimony a maze of “I don’t recalls” that left Gonzalez fuming. “We’re not accusing anyone yet,” the detective cautions, “but cooperation is key. Every withheld detail delays justice.”

Evelyn, privy to more than she shares, navigates this minefield with a grandmother’s intuition. “I dream about Melodee sometimes—vivid ones, where she’s on a starship, waving goodbye,” she confides. “Other nights, it’s nightmares: dark vans, screams in the fog. I wake up gasping, checking my phone for that miracle call.” She’s hired a private eye, a grizzled ex-cop named Harlan Tate, who’s traced Ashlee’s movements to a Reno motel and unearthed burner phones linked to unsavory contacts. “It’s ugly,” Evelyn admits, “but for Melodee, I’ll wade through the mud.”

Community ripples extend far beyond the immediate horror. Oakwood Elementary, once a haven of finger paints and recess romps, now buzzes with fortified security: ID badges for visitors, fenced perimeters, trauma-informed counseling. Parents like Javier Morales, whose son was Melodee’s playground buddy, confess to hypervigilance. “I quiz my kid on license plates now,” he says. “It’s no way to raise a child, but neither is burying one.” Local businesses display Melodee’s updated age-progressed photo—envisioning her at 10, curls longer, eyes wiser—next to tip jars for the search fund.

Threads of Hope: Rituals, Resilience, and a Grandmother’s Oath

In the midst of numbness, Evelyn has forged rituals to stave off the void. Sundays are “Melodee Mornings”: she bakes the girl’s favorite lemon scones, arranges them on a plate with a single candle, and reads aloud from The Little Prince, Melodee’s bedtime staple. “It’s silly, maybe, talking to an empty chair,” she says, “but it keeps her close. I tell her about the stars, how they’re just distant suns with their own little girls dreaming big.” Volunteers join her for monthly “Hope Walks” along Stearns Wharf, where they release biodegradable lanterns inscribed with messages: Come home, space explorer. Gram-Gram’s waiting.

These acts of defiance have forged unlikely alliances. Jessica Buzzard, Melodee’s aunt and Ashlee’s estranged sister, has reconciled with Evelyn in the crucible of crisis. “We were oil and water before,” Jessica says over coffee at Evelyn’s, her tattooed arms crossed protectively. “But Melodee? She’s our glue. Mom’s shock is real—it’s like she’s frozen in time, waiting for the thaw that brings our girl back.” Together, they’ve lobbied Sacramento for expanded missing children alerts, drawing parallels to cases like Etan Patz or the still-unresolved Kyron Horman disappearance.

Evelyn’s resilience, though, is laced with vulnerability. At a recent vigil—200 souls gathered under string lights at the courthouse steps—she faltered mid-speech, her voice cracking on Melodee’s name. “I’m numb because feeling it all would break me,” she told the crowd, illuminated by phone flashlights. “But for her, I’ll shatter a thousand times. She’s my sunbeam, my why. And I won’t stop until she’s safe.”

A Year On: The Unfinished Story

As November 8 dawns—the precise anniversary—Santa Barbara pauses. Church bells toll at 3:47 p.m., a community-wide moment of silence ripples from beaches to boardrooms, and Evelyn stands at the playground’s edge, clutching a worn teddy bear that still carries Melodee’s scent. “Shock is a cruel companion,” she reflects, the sea breeze whipping her silver hair. “It dulls the edges so you can keep going. But hope? That’s the sharp one, cutting deep because it hurts to hold on.”

The search for Melodee Buzzard endures, a testament to a grandmother’s unbreakable spirit. With $50,000 still on offer for tips leading to her recovery, the Santa Barbara PD urges vigilance: call 805-555-1234 anonymously. Evelyn’s plea is simpler, more primal: “If you’ve seen my girl—those curls, that smile—bring her home. Tell her Gram-Gram’s in shock, but her love? It’s wide awake.”

In a world quick to forget, Evelyn Hargrove ensures Melodee won’t fade. Her numbness is a shield; her shock, a spark. And in the quiet hours, as stars prick the velvet sky, she whispers to the night: “Hold on, little one. We’re coming.”