Payne & Misery Read online

  Once I made that determination, getting down proved more of a challenge than I anticipated. At my age, I feared I wouldn’t be able to jump that far without breaking bones. I resorted to sitting at the edge, dangling my short legs over the side. With sudden resolve, I pushed off, landing on hands and knees. Several pieces of wood thumped down with me.

  I rubbed my scraped hands while my eyes inventoried once more. Not finding anything else out of place, I hobbled home.

  While I cooked dinner, I relayed my latest discoveries to Jesse, but he seemed more concerned about the uninvited venture to the gray house than what I’d found. “Don’t go down there anymore. What if Will came home while you were there?”

  I let out a loud tsk.

  He removed a Diet Pepsi from the refrigerator. “Besides, if Lila left in the brown car on Saturday night, she’d need a suitcase to pack her stuff in. Nothing odd about that.”

  “Even if she couldn’t reach it without help?”

  He shrugged.

  When would someone take this seriously?

  After dinner, Jesse brought the entertainment section of the Grass Valley newspaper to the kitchen for my perusal. “What do you say to a movie? That’d be a great way to kill time.”

  I closed the dishwasher door. “There’s nothing I want to see.”

  “How do you know? You haven’t even looked.”

  “There’s never anything I want to see. Movies aren’t what they used to be—now they’re all car chases and explosions. I don’t even understand the jokes. Half the time, the plot is so choppy I get completely lost. And I never recognize any of the actors.” Faces of my old heroes and heroines paraded across the catwalk of my memory—Loretta Young, Katherine Hepburn, and Clark Gable — those were movie stars.

  Jesse imitated his hero. “I’d walk the desert barefoot to see John Wayne on the big screen again.”

  “John Wayne! You can see him any time of the day or night on TV.”

  Jesse threw me a pretend glare and swaggered into his John Wayne walk. “Watch it, little lady. You know how I feel about the Duke.”

  “Well, I must admit, you never need to tolerate bloody violence, profanity, or explicit sex in a John Wayne movie.”

  Jesse cocked his eyebrows. “Never.”

  In the end, feeling ancient and outmoded, we watched Jesse’s favorite John Wayne movie, The Quiet Man, on the classic movies channel.

  Midway through the movie, restlessness overtook me. During the middle of the town fight scene, I slipped out to call Zora Jane again. “You haven’t seen Molly today, have you?”

  “I would call you right away if I did, Christine. I know how concerned you’ve been.”

  I knew she would. In reality, I needed a distraction. “I’ve run out of places to look for her. I’m sure Will knows where she is, but I don’t know how to get it out of him.”

  “I’m sorry. I know this is hard. I’ve been praying for you.”

  “Also, we’re still waiting for the investigator from the sheriflps office. Waiting, waiting, waiting. Why doesn’t God fix this problem? Doesn’t he care what’s happening in that house?”

  “The Bible tells us to be anxious for nothing, but in everything by prayer and supplication, with thanksgiving, let your requests be made known to God. And—”

  I interrupted. “Hold on, where can I find that? I’ll look it up the minute we get off the phone.” I heard sarcasm in my voice. Uh-oh. That won’t help. Come on, Christine. Give it a chance. I sucked in air and let it out slowly. “I’m sorry, Zora Jane. I can’t stop worrying. Well, maybe for a little while I can, as long as I keep myself busy. But as soon as I stop, even for a second, worry comes back, stronger than before. I’m thinking of going back inside the Paynes’ house. There must be more clues there.”

  “Hmm. That doesn’t sound like a good idea. The apostle Paul certainly understood what you’re going through. Remember when he told the Corinthian believers to take every thought captive?”

  I considered that impossibility. “Paul probably could do that. He was a saint. But do you think anyone else has ever conquered this war of the mind?”

  “Conquering would demand constant vigilance in the power of the Holy Spirit. But yes, with God’s help, this battle could be won.”

  Her blind trust didn’t convince me. “Why is God waiting so long to answer my prayers?”

  She sighed. “Oh, Christine.”

  “Seriously. You think he’s working. What’s he doing?”

  “Well, he might be working on someone else—someone we don’t even know is involved. We’re not God’s only children, you know. Or the waiting might be for our protection. Maybe he’s letting a potentially explosive situation defuse. Or maybe he just wants us to learn submission to his sovereign plan.”

  I didn’t like any of those possibilities. Action. That’s what I wanted.

  Zora Jane continued. “There are enough examples in nature to guess God intentionally built waiting into his plan.”

  “Like … what examples?”

  She paused.

  My inner pessimist complained. Can’t think of any, can you?

  But she could. “Like it takes nine months to produce a baby. Crops germinate in the ground before they produce food. Flowers don’t pop out until the frost and snow have gone. Things like that.”

  I never thought of those as examples of waiting before. Could she be right? I made no comment while I considered.

  “The Bible has stories about waiting. Read those. While the saints, patriarchs, and disciples waited, God polished the rough edges of self-centeredness and sin off. He needed to do that to make them useful for his purpose. Jacob waited twenty years in Laban’s employment; Moses waited forty years in exile from Egypt before he led the Israelites out; Paul waited three years after his conversion before starting to preach the gospel. Even Jesus waited in the wilderness while he practiced conquering Satan with the Word of God.”

  “I never thought of that.”

  “Trusting God while we tarry, that’s the key. That and being joyful in the process. God is able to create good out of anything he allows in the lives of those called according to his purpose. He promised that.”

  As I hung up, conviction for doubting God’s timing nudged me. I knelt beside my office chair and raised my eyes heavenward but only saw the sloping log ceiling. Was God listening or was I just talking to myself?

  “Oh, God,” I prayed. “If you care, I need some help here. Will I ever get my attitude right? Forgive me for my impatience. Please change my thinking so I truly understand that waiting is a special gift. Help me not to waste it.”

  19

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  I spent the next day trying to dwell only on good things, but kept finding Molly’s dog toys around the house while I did chores. Fingering each one brought back floods of sadness. Not wanting to be depressed, I stashed the dog toys out of sight in a cabinet.

  About dusk, Jesse went to feed horses. I put a meatloaf in the oven and took a bag of garbage to the big green trash container, only to find the can filled to the brim.

  Oh, dear. Jesse forgot to take this with him. We would miss tomorrow’s trash day.

  I stuffed in my latest contribution and pressed hard. No matter how hard I pushed, the lid wouldn’t close over the garbage—too full to leave until another week’s trash got piled on top. Rather than nag, I’d take it to the drop-off place myself. That would give me something to do while dinner finished cooking.

  I dragged the heavy green can to the driveway, popped the Jeep’s rear door, and hefted the trash container into the back.

  By the time I arrived at the garbage pickup near the neighborhood park, cans already lined most of the parking area. I pulled our container out of the car and shoved it into the queue with our stenciled house number facing the street.

  As I turned to leave, I caught a glimpse of Will’s house number painted on his aluminum trashcan, halfway down the row.

  I froze.

&nbs
p; No cars had passed on the street since my arrival. Circling in place, I surveyed the neighborhood. I couldn’t see houses from that spot. Did that mean no one could see me? I stared into the woods, just in case the homeless guy spied on me. Nothing there either, except a line of thick trees.

  Discarded garbage constituted public domain. Wasn’t that a legitimate way to gather evidence?

  I held my breath and lifted the lid ever so carefully—as if something might jump out. When I let out the big gulp of air, a rotten stench assaulted my nostrils. The lid slipped from my grasp and clanked on the blacktop.

  That really stinks!

  I glanced around again, doing a slower scrutiny, and then peered into the can. Why didn’t I carry plastic gloves for emergencies?

  “Okay, here goes.”

  A black garbage bag lay on top. Careful to allow minimal skin contact, I lugged the bag out and cradled it in the lid. After taking a deep breath, I unwound the tie and peeked inside. Partially eaten food spilled out of plastic containers: hamburgers green with mold, stringy Chinese noodles with shiny worms roaming through, french fries with mounds of black hair, globs of congealed gravy supporting a new generation of tiny black bugs. This garbage hadn’t been generated from recent meals. It must be weeks old.

  I recoiled from the stench, dropping the bag. “Ugh!”

  How cruel that Will threw away all this food while poor Lila starved. He had plenty to share. Some of this mess had barely been touched.

  The pungent odor bombarded my senses even from a foot away. I didn’t want to dig around in that, not without gloves. Too bad I didn’t bring a clothespin for my nose. I sealed the bag as tightly as possible and turned back to the can.

  Empty bleach containers had been packed underneath. I leaned closer and counted six of them. That was a lot of bleach to use all at once.

  Why put them in the trash container? Why not burn them with the rest of the stuff?

  Using just my thumb and forefinger, I tugged them out one by one and set them on the ground. I remembered my initial fantasy about Will and his boxes. “For cleaning up blood, perhaps?”

  But whose blood? Lila’s? Or—no. It couldn’t be Molly’s.

  I peeked inside the garbage can again.

  Reaching as far as my short arms allowed, I hefted out a solid black bag. The weight worried me. What if it turned out to be full of body parts? I had to use both hands to extract it and nearly dropped it back into the can. Curiosity demanded that I drag it out, so I tightened my hold and pulled.

  After extracting the bag, I gulped another mouthful of fresh air and unfastened the knot holding it shut. Strong chlorine fumes made my eyes water even though I held my breath. The towels in the bag had been soaked in bleach. I could think of just one reason for that. My stomach lurched and I dry-heaved.

  Leave them or take them, what should I do? God help me do the right thing.

  I hesitated, hoping for audible instructions. Since I didn’t hear a sound, I scooped up the bag and hefted it to the Jeep.

  When I made my next trip to town, I detoured to the county library in Nevada City for information on anorexia. Most people would just look it up on the Internet, but I didn’t know how to Google, and even if I did, I suspected that Internet information couldn’t be trusted. It might be loaded with subliminal Communist propaganda or some other kind of liberal brainwashing. How did stuff get on the Internet in the first place? What would motivate someone to spend hours downloading all that data? Best not to rely on the Internet for information. Besides, the Internet would never give me that same multisensory reward for successfully locating the object of my quest that I could get at a good library.

  To be frank, I craved that book smell. I’ve always loved libraries. No wonder I chose the library for a career. During childhood, my sister and I spent many Saturday mornings at the knee of the grandmotherly children’s librarian, listening to story hour. In high school, I hurried to the library to begin my term papers the same day the teacher assigned them, even though most of my friends considered that odd. Yes, the library had always been my friend.

  Standing between the first set of bookshelves, I closed my eyes and breathed the delicious musty aroma. I had been away too long. I ran my finger along one shelf, scanning the creative titles. Wondrous worlds awaited inside those colorful covers. I wandered slowly down the aisle, browsing the leather bindings. At the end, I pivoted and strolled along the other side, basking in the silence. How safe and predictable this world seemed.

  Time to get to work. In the medical reference section, I scanned titles until I located a couple of thick books about eating disorders. Carrying my prizes to a table, I settled down to research. Maggie McCarthy suggested Lila might suffer from anorexia. I wanted to know more about that, so that’s where I started.

  I flipped pages until I found anorexia nervosa described as a serious, often chronic disorder defined by refusal to maintain minimal body weight. Most often occurring in young women, a classic cycle of fasting, binging, and purging left the body out of balance and depleted of nutrients. Various related medical complications developed over time and could result in death.

  During a long stare into quiet library air, I imagined the state of Lila’s physical health. She probably hadn’t stepped into a doctor’s office in years. After just two short visits with her—not to mention that I didn’t possess a medical degree—how could I accurately assess her medical complications?

  Moving my finger down the page, I discovered the hallmark of anorexia nervosa: preoccupation with food. The person so afflicted often manifested strange eating habits such as aversion to certain foods or refusal to eat in the presence of others.

  I nodded. That described Lila well.

  The next book described causes for the disorder, including genetic predisposition to obsessive behavior, as well as a wide range of environmental influences. Stressful incidents could trigger the onset and served to increase the risk. Initially a psychological problem of distorted body perception, the progression to physical involvement often occurred rapidly. Personality traits common in persons with anorexia included low self-esteem, social isolation, and perfectionism. In advanced cases, hallucinations and other mental abnormalities could occur.

  Who knows what demons might plague Lila’s consciousness?

  While pondering life in the Payne house, I skimmed the rest of the page. The secretive nature of this debilitating mental disorder would preclude close relationships. Not to mention how lack of nourishment might affect her body. How would it alter her ability to bear children? Maybe the baby by the water tower died a natural death because Lila couldn’t produce enough nourishment to sustain it. And what about stamina? She disappeared who-knows-where in the brown car. How would she find enough food for her frail body? In her weakened condition, she wouldn’t last long.

  Oh, Lila, where have you gone?

  20

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  After another troubled night tossing and turning and trying to sleep, I got up early Saturday morning. Without Molly’s sweet presence, the emptiness in the house felt weighted. Although Jesse and I stopped discussing my obsession, the two disappearances consumed my every waking thought. I’d run out of places to search. Everyone in the neighborhood had been alerted. Where could they be? Why couldn’t we find them?

  We finished our usual round of chores in detached silence before I made my way down the spiral staircase to exercise again, just for the view. Jesse wandered to the arena to practice riding around the highway cones with Ranger.

  About midway through my hike on the treadmill, a green-and-white Nevada County Sheriff’s vehicle, complete with colored light bar on top, parked in front of the gray detached garage. A uniformed deputy stepped out and disappeared, hidden by the house. Cold shivers raced up my neck.

  At last.

  I completed power walking—which seemed to take hours— without seeing the deputy exit. Afraid I might miss something, I raced upstairs and jumped in the shower. I m
ade a swift swipe at all my major stinky parts, then jumped out without washing my hair. I hurried to the closet and yanked on clean clothing.

  Please, God. Please help the deputy get to the bottom of this.

  I blow-dried my sweaty hair and clipped it on top of my head. I’d just finished when someone buzzed from the gate. The deputy requested admittance. When I looked out the window, I saw Jesse striding from the barn. He must have spied the vehicle as well. I pressed the star key to open the gate and dashed out the front door.

  A stocky but tidy deputy emerged from the green-and-white squad car. Perfectly straight creases shouted that his uniform must be fresh from the cleaners. A shiny sheriff star decorated his uniform just above his only pocket. Under his hat, gray-brown hair had been clipped military-close. Aviator frame glasses perched on his most distinguishing feature—a honker of a nose so disproportionate, I struggled not to stare.

  I broke off pondering that schnoz when he spoke. His voice, high-pitched for a man his size, had an affected, robotic quality. “I am Deputy Sam Colter from the Nevada County Sheriff’s Office.” As if we couldn’t see the car or his uniform. With an air of self-importance, he extended a business card. Jesse arrived in time to grab it.

  “Are you Jesse Sterling?”

  Jesse nodded.

  “I have come about the complaint regarding your neighbor, William Payne.”

  An unfamiliar, formal atmosphere settled over us. Jesse gestured into the house. “Please come in and sit down.”

  I didn’t know the proper protocol for entertaining a lawman, since we’d never had one investigating on our property before. Jesse and I filed into the house in silence and headed for the living room with the stiff backs of children who had been called to the principal’s office. The deputy chose the white leather cowboy chair, so we sat across from him, near enough to each other so our knees rubbed for emotional support.