Payne & Misery Page 10

  The car behind me almost rammed my bumper, but I managed to read LUVDOGS on the Explorer’s plate. What a happy coincidence to find the McCarthys in town. I needed a few staples from Kmart anyway.

  After minimal searching, I located them in the pharmacy section. Petite and peppy as a cheerleader, Maggie McCarthy frowned at displays in the middle of the aisle. Husband Don, a retired fire chief from Los Angeles, hunched over the shopping cart. He fidgeted as if impatient. Maybe shopping had taken him from needed work.

  I wheeled my cart toward them. “Are you tired of looking at that beautiful scenery yet?”

  As usual, Don let Maggie do the talking. “Still loving it. Always will.” Her dimple appeared with her grin. “How about you?”

  I returned her smile. “We love our view too.”

  She nodded. “We have puppies again. You remember Goldie? She gave us a litter of eight this time. All healthy and beautiful.” To say that Maggie loved animals would be axiomatic. Just as plain as the nose on your face.

  I raised my eyebrows. Eight! “How many dogs is that altogether?”

  Maggie’s lively brown eyes sparkled. “Sixteen in all. But the puppies are already spoken for, so we won’t get to keep them long.”

  Trying to imagine caring for so many animals at once, I shook my head. “I went to visit Lila Payne this week. She said you gave her the irises she planted down the driveway. Do you know the Paynes well?”

  Maggie and Don glanced at each other. Don opened his mouth, but Maggie spoke first. “Not well, no. They’re kind of … different, you might say. Hard to get to know.”

  Don shifted and looked away.

  What did Lila mention about the McCarthys? “She came to see you.”

  Maggie’s dimple flared into view again. “She came to see the dogs. Lila is passionate about dogs. I’d let her help me feed. Or just take them running in the yard. A couple times I invited her for dinner, but she never came. I always thought she might be anorexic. She always acted funny about food.”

  “Funny? In what way?”

  “Weird little things that always connected to food. Like once, I’d just baked a chocolate cake when she came, so I offered her a piece. She got so nervous, she cried. If I even tried to give her a cold drink on a hot day …” Maggie shook her head. The corners of her mouth turned down. “Once she came up while we were eating lunch. We had plenty, so I said, ‘Why don’t you join us?’ But she wouldn’t set foot inside the house. Didn’t stay to play with the dogs either. Ran home right away, like a scared rabbit. The first Christmas after they moved in, I gave her cranberry bread, but she wouldn’t accept it. Said she couldn’t take anything red into the house.”

  I remembered the glower. “Red?”

  “Yeah.” Maggie waggled her cropped hair. “She said he wouldn’t allow it. Like he would strike her dead for mentioning it. She definitely has issues about food. And she’s unusually thin too.”

  “I assume by he she meant Will.”

  She nodded, screwing her lips tight.

  Surely the McCarthys could tell me more. If only I knew the right questions. I stared into my cart, wondering how to get what I needed to know. “Did Lila ever say anything about a baby? About children?”

  Maggie’s pixie-cut hair cascaded to one side as she tilted her head. “You know, it’s funny, now that you ask. She named her dog ‘Baby,’ but sometimes when she talked about him, I got confused because it sounded like she meant a person … you know, a real baby.”

  “But she never mentioned having a real baby?”

  They both shook their heads.

  “Did you ever suspect abuse?”

  They leaned toward me.

  “What kind of abuse?” Maggie repeated.

  “Like maybe he’s beating her or starving her?”

  “Oh, now,” Don said. “We didn’t see them enough to know things like that.”

  Maggie shook her head. “Never saw abuse. But she’s a sad woman, no question about it. Unpredictable.” She brightened. “Remember that time she got so agitated?” She patted Don’s arm. He raised his eyebrows. “You know, her face got all red and puffy. I asked what’s wrong and she mumbled something about the boat and Baby … that she didn’t want it to go. I didn’t know if she meant the boat or the dog, so I asked which one. She sobbed like her heart was broken. I could hardly understand her. But I think she said, ‘She did it … just like before.’ Have no clue what she meant. Haven’t thought about that in a long time.”

  Don nodded. “She seemed upset that day.”

  The story didn’t mean anything to me either. “What about Will? Did you have better luck talking to him?”

  Don looked at his watch and then glanced away. “I figure folks tell you what they want you to know.”

  “I mustn’t keep you,” I said. “I know how busy you are. But I see Will leave the house every morning. Do you remember him going to work?”

  They leaned toward me as if they hadn’t expected the question.

  Don shook his head. “Didn’t have a job that I know of.” He glanced at his watch again.

  I said goodbye and nice to see you and turned to walk away when another question popped into mind. I hurried back to where they’d just rounded the aisle of headache remedies. “Say, did the Paynes have two cars when you lived there or just the white pickup?”

  “A pickup and a big car,” Don answered.

  “Do you remember what kind of car?”

  He scratched his head. “A sedan, older model. Kept it in that little garage at the side.”

  “What color?”

  “Brown,” they said in unison before returning to browse the aisle.

  “Did Lila drive it?” I held my breath.

  Maggie peered through reading glasses at the bottle of pain reliever in her hand. “I don’t think so. She said she couldn’t drive.” She lowered the container and removed her glasses. “Actually, she said she never learned to drive because speed kills.”

  Don cleared his throat. Maggie glanced at him. “That’s what she said. And she didn’t go anywhere, anyway. Not that we ever saw. He went out, but she rarely did.”

  Don directed a frown at me. “Why do you ask?”

  “Just nosy.” I smiled and continued on my way.

  I finished at Kmart and then gathered groceries. While I descended from town on the curvy roads, I glanced at the digital clock on my dash. Eleven forty-six. A little later than Will’s daily trip, but he might go later if he got busy tending the fire. With luck, I’d pass him when he came into town. After all, people usually do what they usually do. I’d never tailed anyone before, but I’d seen it done on detective shows and read about it plenty in mysteries, so I thought I understood the technique. Why not give tailing a try?

  I parked the car just inside a driveway near the intersection where we lost the truck the day before. Leaving the engine running, I hunkered down. While I tarried, I half-listened to the local radio, sorting through the new revelations I’d gathered that morning.

  Another radio plea for information on the hit-and-run grabbed my attention. “Police have interviewed everyone in the vicinity of the accident at the corner of Broad Street and Elm Avenue.”

  I pictured the location. Narrow streets followed the contour of the hillside. Trees overhung the street, impairing visibility. Once I almost hit someone in that spot myself.

  “A reward of fifty thousand dollars has been offered by the family for evidence leading to conviction of the person responsible.”

  I released a sad sigh. If only I knew how to find the guilty party. Not because of the reward. What a despicable thing, to run from a fatal accident. What kind of person would do that? God, if you care about little boys, please bring the person who did this to justice. The newscaster droned on to another story, and I returned to musing about the mystery at hand.

  Several cars passed along the road while I cogitated, some turning toward our house and some continuing straight both from the right and the left. Twelve
fifteen just clicked off my dashboard clock when a red sports car approached from the direction of our house. Directly behind, the old white pickup accelerated up the hill.

  I straightened to watch him pass.

  Both cars veered toward town. I put the Jeep in gear and pulled out, keeping a turn or two behind. Sure enough, the white pickup continued along the curvilinear streets the same way I’d come. At the gas station, the pickup sped onto Highway 49 that runs through the middle of Grass Valley connecting to the neighboring community of Nevada City.

  Letting him get ahead by several car lengths, I kept a close eye on the truck. He exited the freeway at Star Mine Road and turned right. By the time I maneuvered the right turn, he’d gotten so far ahead that I could barely see him. Then he disappeared altogether. I picked up speed, ignoring the posted thirty-five-mile-per-hour speed limit.

  Without warning, a black van pulled in front of me. I slammed on my brakes to keep from hitting it. My purse fell off the passenger seat, contents spilling onto the floor. I bent on one side to retrieve the tube of lipstick that rolled between my feet. The car swerved, and I jerked the steering wheel, coming to a screeching stop at the side of the road.

  Heart racing, I took a deep breath to steady myself. “Enough playing detective.” I concentrated on re-entering traffic.

  At the first stop sign, I glimpsed Will’s truck straight ahead, disappearing from sight around another corner. Maybe I’d continue tailing a little longer.

  Soon, businesses dwindled to a few spaced farther and farther apart and then no more. Trees and farms lay ahead. The stop sign at Brunswick allowed a slight rest. To the left, the historic Loma Rica Ranch occupied many scenic acres. On a small hill above the main house, the antique barn peeked between thick cedar trees. No time for sightseeing, though. A gap in cross traffic allowed me to squeeze through.

  More twisting roads ahead wound up one side of Banner Mountain in a slow but steady upward grade. Fall dappled the hillsides with color. Imagine God’s exuberance in creating this season. The slight difference in elevation from my house to here made a noticeable difference in the color palette. In my neighborhood, leaf colors only hinted of future glory. Here they sang in symphonic harmony of the artistic handiwork of the Creator. The many hues of russet, gold, burgundy, and brown stirred thankfulness in my soul. Maybe God cared about us after all. He had filled our world with an amazing supply of renewable beauty.

  I slowed to gawk. Around the next curve, the road opened to another straightaway. Jerking attention back to my driving, I discovered with chagrin that I’d completely lost sight of the pickup.

  16

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Maybe I could decrease the gap between us. I accelerated, blurring the fall colors. Before long, I passed four side streets without the slightest sighting of the white pickup.

  I slammed on the brakes—stopping right in the middle of the road—and craned my neck to look around. Luckily, no one followed too closely behind. Where had he gone? Surely he hadn’t noticed my tailing and hidden from me. Did he turn onto one of the streets along the main roadway?

  In this area, each side street accessed a residential micro-society with a communally maintained roadway and four to six homes set amid thick trees and bushes. Grass Valley didn’t have any “good” neighborhoods or “bad” neighborhoods. Typical of the foothills, each area comprised a wide variety of homes. Buildings of different ages, styles, and sizes, from new and expensive to old and rundown, resided in dissonant harmony on one street, the only thing in common being location.

  “Where is that natural direction-finder instinct when I need it?”

  I raced to the next side street and stopped.

  “Okay. Where are you?” I waited, hoping an answer would drop into my pea brain.

  None came.

  “Well, then let’s backtrack.” I reversed direction with care, thankful for no traffic. “Good job, Christine.” Now I wasn’t just talking out loud, I was carrying on a full conversation with myself. That must be a bad thing.

  As I steered down the first street, I slowed to navigate speed bumps. A few houses lined the blacktop, spaced discreetly apart, but I didn’t see the white pickup in front of any of them. At the end of the road, I circled the cul-de-sac and started back. Out at Star Mine Road again, I sampled the parallel street. Still no white pickup.

  My luck didn’t improve on the third street.

  I willed myself onward, veering onto another narrow street while discouragement nipped my heels. But just when I decided to give up, I spotted the top of the white pickup tucked in the driveway of the second house on the left.

  The small, mid-century clapboard house had been painted white with green trim. Nestled amid thick, overgrown pine and cedar trees, nature enveloped the structure. I passed the narrow asphalt driveway, searching for an inconspicuous parking spot. Not finding one, I parked along the road just out of sight. Then I settled in my seat, anticipating another long wait.

  “What am I waiting for?” I asked after a few minutes. “He might be here for hours. I have frozen food in back. I can’t wait for hours.”

  If I left the car and found a place where he couldn’t see me, I might be able to spy on him; find out what he was doing here.

  I didn’t lock the car door in case I needed to hustle back for a speedy getaway.

  Was I thinking like a crook? No. Just planning so I’d be prepared for … whatever.

  As I approached the building, I picked with care through dense thickets and trees that camouflaged the front of the property. Arriving at the small two-car garage, I skirted well around it—mindful of the truck in front—until I found myself at the side of the house.

  Three windows peeked out. I sneaked up on the first one, rising slowly from underneath to see a rectangular dining table with six empty padded chairs. Through an archway, I spied the living room beyond the dining room. No people there, either.

  A closed door to the right might lead to the kitchen. That would be logical.

  At the next window, faint voices sounded through double windowpanes—a man and a woman. I couldn’t make out their words.

  I crouched below, waiting while my ears adjusted to the volume, but still couldn’t understand them. I studied the window, trying to gauge how best to peek in without being observed. From the muffled voices, I gathered they weren’t standing close. Nevertheless, if they faced my direction, they might notice movement outside.

  A row of sheer café curtains hung down from the middle of the window to the sill. After considering for a moment, I decided these might provide enough shield to hide behind while I peeked in from the side. To test my theory, I faced the wall beside the window. I placed one hand on the protruding wooden sill to steady myself while bracing against the wall with the other. In slow motion, I eased sideways until I could see in with one eye.

  Just as I’d guessed, the kitchen adjoined the dining room. Will sat with his back toward me at a round oak table in the center of the room. A woman hovered over him, preparing lunch from the looks of the table contents. Judging by her shape and the wrinkles on her face and neck, she must have been about Will’s age. She might have been as tall as he; hard to tell with him sitting. Angular features made her look rigid and uncompromising. At the same time, gray streaks in a brown ponytail tied low on her head gave her a mousy quality. Not a particularly appealing person, but there’s no accounting for taste. Her face looked oddly familiar.

  The two discussed something that must have been serious as she stirred the contents of a yellow-ware bowl. A loaf of bread, still in its baking tin, rested beside the bowl. Every so often, she paused and frowned at Will. Her face congealed in a sour expression that made her look like a habitual complainer.

  I held my breath, standing as still as concrete, straining to catch the gist of what they said. Not being able to understand reminded me of Jesse’s brother, whose hearing failed ten years ago. How often I’d seen him strain at conversations until overcome by frustrati
on. Being too stubborn or unwilling to forego communication altogether, he learned to read lips. Maybe I could do that too.

  I concentrated on the woman’s mouth first, but that didn’t work.

  Jesse’s brother had explained to me how to take posture and context into consideration, because they provided clues about the words. By broadening my focus, I soon concluded that Will imparted information the woman didn’t enjoy hearing, but not much more.

  Some words were easier to decipher than others, maybe because they were delivered slower or with more involvement of the lips. I squinted to see if that would make it easier, but it didn’t seem to help. I thought she said “why,” then several words I couldn’t make out, then “no,” some other words, and “cannot find her.”

  I raised my eyebrows at my supposed success. I couldn’t understand the whole conversation, no matter what I did, but the longer I tried, the more headway I made.

  She said something about “clean.” Will responded. She said more words I didn’t get until “have to use bleach.” She dried her hands on her apron and rested them on Will’s shoulders. Her face contorted into an ugly grimace. “Make sure there’s nothing left.”

  She paused. The movement of Will’s head indicated that he answered. Then she shook her head and spat out several words like a rapid-fire machine gun. I didn’t get any of that. Next she said something about “fire.”

  A look of sheer rage crossed her face as she listened, and I feared she might slap him. Then she yelled loud enough for me to hear through the window. “It was an accident. Do you understand? Don’t ever speak of it again.” She shook his shoulders with both hands, lowering her face to an inch from his. “And keep your big mouth shut!”

  Just then, a fluffy, yellow-striped tabby cat wandered around the corner of the house. When he spied me beside the window, he padded toward me and meowed with an annoying nasality. I kicked gently in his direction, hoping to discourage him, but at the unexpected movement, the cat jumped backward with a screech. The woman abruptly snapped her head toward the window. Will’s head jerked in my direction, following her startled glance.