Payne & Misery Read online

  I searched the front section of the phone book. Iowa had five area codes. I scribbled them on a piece of paper. “Elk Grove is 7-1-2. Des Moines is the closest big city. Its area code is 5-1-5. Those are the most likely, don’t you think?”

  Jesse nodded. “I say we give it a try.”

  I couldn’t think of another way to find the 5-0-6 prefix, so I concurred.

  First, he dialed the number using the 7-1-2 area code. “Hello. I’m trying to find someone who knows Lila Kliner.” He paused to listen. “Okay. Sorry to bother you.”

  He hunched his shoulders. “Not a helpful person.”

  “Well, then, try Des Moines.”

  Jesse took a deep breath and repeated the numbers aloud as he dialed again, using the Des Moines area code this time. His expression told me the phone on the other end was ringing.

  “Hello? This is Jesse Sterling. We’re trying to locate a relative or friend of our neighbor, Lila Kliner.” … “Lila Kliner. Do you know her?” … “Her brother, you say? What’s your name?” Jesse celebrated his success with a triumphant thumbs-up. “Alan Kliner. Where do you live, Alan?”

  I quickly handed Jesse paper to write on.

  He copied the address. “Well, your sister lives next door to us. She left here two weeks ago and hasn’t returned. She’s weak and possibly sick. Do you know where she is?” He shook his head while he listened. “When did you speak to her last? … That’s a long time ago. Well, we’re concerned about her. She’s been gone too long. Will doesn’t seem worried. … Will Payne, the man she lives with. … Yes, that’s right. He says she just ran off. Do you know where she might go?” Jesse shook his head again. “How about other relatives? Friends, maybe? Can you think of anyone who might know where she went? … No, we’re in California. Lila lives down the hill from us.” He raised his eyebrows as his eyes met mine. “Well, could I leave my phone number? That way, if you hear from her, you can let us know.” He recited the number, thanked the man, and hung up.

  Jesse turned to face me. “He’s lived almost twenty years in a suburb of Des Moines—Hamilton. Hasn’t seen much of Lila in that time. He seems confused. Doesn’t know where Lila is and hasn’t talked with her for a long time—months, he thinks. And she gets a little loco when she calls.”

  I raised my eyebrows.

  “That’s what he said, Christine. ‘A little loco.’”

  I hugged my arms tighter across my chest. Another crazy person? Just what we needed. They seemed to be materializing from the closets. When would we find someone who could make sense of this insanity?

  26

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  A mixed feeling of apprehension and expectation churned in my stomach on Wednesday as I rode with Jesse into the impound lot used by the Nevada County Sheriff’s Office.

  Just before one o’clock, Deputy Colter met us inside the high-fenced area near the one-room office building. Jesse shook his hand, and Deputy Colter led the way around the side of the office to a lot storing perhaps fifty cars. An attendant stood at the entrance to the lot. The deputy handed him a card, and the attendant nodded and directed us to the location of the Buick. Deputy Colter’s scowl made his nose look even bigger than ever. Jesse wasn’t smiling either.

  My heart skipped a beat when I spied the brown 1985 Buick LeSabre. I would’ve recognized the car even if it hadn’t stuck out because of its age and size. We came upon the front end first, which seemed unusually long—a hideous brown monster with boxy rectangular headlight eyes and prominent chrome grill mouth.

  Deputy Colter marched toward the back end. Jesse followed, with me lagging behind, gripped with dread. When I passed the windows, I stalled, pretending to inspect the burgundy interior and split-bench seats. Years of sliding in and out on the cloth upholstery had worn the driver’s side to threads. I avoided looking toward the trunk, but when Jesse reached the back, he exclaimed something that sounded like, “What the—?”

  I hastened toward him, grabbed his arm for support, and made myself look. A mass of black-and-white fur was curled in the trunk. Decaying bones and yellow teeth protruded from the shriveled, cracked body. A light blue receiving blanket with a pattern of nursery rhyme characters enfolded it. Most of the blanket had deteriorated, leaving only a few small patches intact. The animal, though, couldn’t be recognized as a dog.

  I gasped.

  It was not Molly.

  This dog died long enough ago that no odor clung to the carcass and the skin had dried to leather. Years ago, probably. No one with half a brain would ever mistake the short, coarse fur for Molly’s soft, wavy border collie fur. I blinked away tears, staring hard to be certain.

  “Thank you, God!” whispered out of my lips. I swayed slightly, and Jesse steadied me. “That is not Molly.” I fixed my eyes on Deputy Colter. Tears blurred my vision. “This is not our dog. This dog has been dead much longer than days.”

  Colter looked surprised. “I only read the report. If I had seen this creature, I would have known it could not be yours.” He shook his head. “It is crazy to leave a mummified animal in the trunk of a car.”

  I glanced at Jesse. “Why would she do that?”

  Jesse shook his head. “I … don’t know.”

  In a memory flash I recalled the look on Lila’s face when she whispered, “I had a dog.”

  Wetness moistened my cheeks. I swiped it away and stepped back to refocus. A couple more puzzle pieces chunked into place. “The running-out-of-gas thing. It doesn’t work either way. Why would she drive out there if she knew she didn’t have much gas?” I divided a gaze between Jesse and Deputy Colter. “That road doesn’t lead anywhere; it just loops back to the front entrance. The campground is closed. It’s freezing out there at night, and the nearest house is miles away. Where was she going?”

  My voice gathered strength as I continued my litany of observations. “The funnel is all wrong. Why siphon gas out? Where did she put the gas she removed? Also, what direction did the car face when they found it? Did they turn it around to hook it up to the tow truck?”

  Colter shook his head slowly.

  “That means Lila drove it in and turned it around before abandoning it in the middle of the road. Why would she do that?”

  Something seemed odd about the front seats, as well. “Can I open the door?” Without waiting for his reply, I opened the front door.

  Deputy Colter hurried next to me while I leaned in. His high-pitched voice squeaked, “Do not touch the car. The crime lab has not completed their examination yet.”

  “Did someone drive this car away from the campground?”

  “No.” At last, I commanded his complete attention. He stared into the interior. “Standard procedure for towing is to hook it to the tow bar. No one drives. Why?”

  “Lila couldn’t have driven this car.” I straightened to my full five-feet-one-and-a-half-inch height so I could get as close as possible to meeting his beady eyes. “Lila is shorter than I am. I couldn’t drive this car with the seat in this position. My legs wouldn’t reach the pedals. Also, Lila doesn’t drive, according to the McCarthys. Someone else drove to the campground and abandoned this car.”

  A strained silence accompanied us on the winding drive from town. Waves of relief washed over me, alternating with confusion over what finding another dog in the trunk might mean. Jesse didn’t sing as he drove. I interpreted that as focused problem-solving activity and let him have time to ponder. I broke the silence first, but not until he parked in our driveway. “Does it strike you as strange that the more we learn about this whole thing, the more questions we have?”

  When Jesse ruminates, he’s a man of few words. “Seems that way.”

  I followed him into the house. “So, if Molly isn’t in the trunk, where is she?” I asked that more to myself than to Jesse. Those words had been bouncing around in my brain throughout the drive home. When I voiced them, they seemed to reverberate through the quietness.

  Jesse had no answer.

  How did Colt
er get that dead dog confused with our Molly? Must be because they both had black-and-white fur. I pulled out the photo of Lila and her puppy. Sure enough, Lila’s dog had short black-and-white fur, much shorter than Molly’s wavy coat. Baby might have been some kind of beagle-terrier mix.

  The ringing phone made us both jump. I picked up the kitchen extension.

  “Hello,” a young female voice said. “Um. I got your number from the flyer at the mailboxes. Um. Do you own a black-and-white dog?”

  I motioned for Jesse. “Yes, we do. Have you seen her?”

  “I think so. We picked up a black-and-white dog on our way out of town last week. I guess she wandered out to the road all by herself. She had no dog tags, and we didn’t know what to do with her. We took her to my mom in, um, Auburn. Mom tried to feed her, but the dog wouldn’t eat. So she took her up to the Humane Society shelter in Grass Valley. You know—the one out by the fairgrounds. We’ve, um, my boyfriend and I have been out of town, but when we got back, we saw your notice by the mailboxes.”

  “The Humane Society?” I forced back excitement, lest I squeal into the phone. “Jesse, they took Molly to the Humane Society. Thank you. Thank you so much!” I disconnected without further ado, not even asking for her name. I couldn’t wait another second to check the Humane Society.

  A quick call to the animal shelter confirmed that more than one border collie arrived during the past two weeks. In fact, there were three—all without tags.

  “Well.” Jesse drew out his response like warm candy at an old-fashioned taffy pull. “We’ve been assuming these two things are connected—Molly disappearing and Lila leaving. Maybe they’re not.”

  “But we found her dog tags at the Paynes’.”

  “Then there must be another explanation.” He picked an apple out of the fruit bowl. “Maybe she caught her collar on that rusty water faucet by the house and tore it off.”

  Did I feel stupid! How narrow-minded to assume there could be only one possible explanation for Molly’s disappearance. Maybe God had heard my prayers after all.

  The drive back to town seemed longer and more tedious than a presidential debate. I jumped out of the car and raced Jesse into the Humane Society shelter. I stood on tiptoes in front of the desk, waiting to see the dogs. A small, round lady, who reminded me of a chubby toy poodle—maybe because of her kinky hair—quizzed us before allowing us to see the dogs. “Does she have a locator chip embedded in her skin?”

  “No.” Jesse glanced at me. “We never had the vet put one in.”

  As I remembered the conversation at the veterinary clinic, the locator chip had seemed like just another useless bit of technology we didn’t understand. And another expense.

  Miss Poodle frowned.

  Did she think we were unfit dog parents? “We considered a locator chip. But we thought she didn’t need it. She always comes back. Until now.”

  Miss Poodle’s disapproving expression did not soften. “You might want to rethink that.”

  I fidgeted, rolling a pencil across the counter and re-arranging a small stack of paper. Miss Poodle threw me another deprecating glance and scampered around the counter to direct us to the border collies.

  We found the dogs in a large warehouse-like space behind the reception area. When we entered, canine ruckus echoed off the walls: low barks and howls, whining, yapping, and deep woofs from dogs large enough to be small horses. The rows of cells had concrete floors, which sloped toward the back for easy cleaning. Sidewalks cut paths through each row.

  Miss Poodle stopped at cage fourteen about halfway down. “Here’s the first one.” The dog in question appraised us with fearful eyes. Mostly white with a few black spots, she seemed agitated, pacing aimlessly back and forth in her cage.

  I shook my head. “Too young.”

  Miss Poodle led us down two cages to an old creature standing forlornly at his gate, wagging a scraggly black tail.

  “Too old.” Something about this exchange reminded me of Goldilocks and the porridge.

  She consulted her clipboard and shook her kinky hair. “Also, he’s male.”

  Jesse smiled. “We’re getting closer, though.” The markings on the second dog were more like Molly’s. Plus, only one remained.

  Miss Poodle pranced to the end of the row. We followed. I clutched my purse and held my breath.

  In the corner of the last cage, a hairy black-and-white heap appeared as wrung out as a dirty rag mop. Brown eyes dull and listless, splotches of mud clung to her wondrous wavy fur.

  Jesse and I called in unison, “Molly!” At the sound of our voices, her head perked up and she shuffled to her tired old feet. Big brown eyes glistened to life as her tail swung with an exaggerated wag that nearly knocked her off balance. Miss Poodle unlatched the gate and we were reunited. Tears of joy poured down my cheeks, and I didn’t scold her when she licked them off—Molly, not the lady.

  “There’s no doubt whose dog this is.” Miss Poodle sashayed back to the entry area. Molly trotted with us, jumping up once or twice. I didn’t scold her for that, even though her muddy feet smudged my shirt.

  Miss Poodle resumed her official stance as soon as she returned to her post behind the counter. She consulted the computer. “Someone found her on Mustang Hill Road, south of town—with no tags.” She barked the last part in a disapproving tone.

  Jesse said. “We live south of town. She had tags but they came off somehow.”

  “Name, please.”

  Jesse furnished it.

  She typed the information. “On Paso Fino Place?”

  We nodded.

  “Her license runs out in April. Would you like another set of tags? We can renew now and save you a second trip.”

  We did that with smiles of gratitude, paying a small fee for the license and for boarding.

  When we returned to the car, Molly snuggled close, head resting on the console, wide brown eyes shifting between Jesse and me. After the engine started, she heaved a sigh of relief.

  I kept my hand on her the whole way home to keep her from disappearing again. She had more gray on either side of her nose than I remembered. This ordeal had been hard on her sensitive soul. “We have one answer to our prayers, Jesse.”

  He nodded, expression solemn. “Now we have to find Lila.”

  27

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  The phone rang in the middle of the night. Groggily, I swatted the nightstand. The ringing continued after I slapped the clock alarm.

  I fumbled for the receiver, finally getting it to my ear. “Hello?”

  The speaker slurred his words as if tipsy. “Thish is Alan … Alan Kliner. Are you my shista’s neighbor?”

  Jesse turned, pulling the covers over his head. “What time is it?”

  He always asked that when the phone interrupted his sleep. What difference does the time make? When the phone rings, someone has to answer it.

  I waved for silence. “Lila? Yes, we’re Lila’s neighbors.”

  “Got this number. Some guy said call if you know where she went.”

  “Right.” I sat on the side of the bed, now fully awake. “Do you know where Lila is?”

  “This guy Lila lives with, what’s his name?”

  “William Payne?”

  “William Payne. Right. The rich dude.”

  “Rich? I … don’t know about that. I guess he has enough to live on.”

  In the long silence, I thought I heard him crying before he said, “Lila … poor little Lila!”

  “Did you call to tell us something?”

  “Who is that?” Jesse lifted a corner of the covers to peek at the clock. “Who calls at 2:14 AM?”

  I shushed him, but he switched on the lamp. Light didn’t improve his mood. He growled indistinct words at the same time Alan slurred something into the phone. It sounded like, “Helen. She knows.”

  Did I hear correctly? “Did you say Helen? Will’s sister, Helen?”

  “Ask her what happened in the boat.”


  “The boat?” Noise at his end sounded like the phone dragging across the floor. He cursed. Maybe the phone fell somewhere and he couldn’t find it. “Alan? Are you still there?”

  The commotion subsided as the connection went dead.

  While I replaced the receiver, I repeated the conversation to Jesse. “That was weird. What do you think he meant?”

  Jesse yawned. “I guess he meant that boat they used to have. We’ll have Colter look into what happened to the boat.” He switched off the light. “Not right now, though.”

  I started to complain about Jesse’s tirade over the time, but caught myself and let it go. He’d been so changed.

  Of course, now fully awake, I couldn’t go back to sleep again. I flopped from one side to the other, trying to find a comfortable spot as Alan’s words replayed in my mind. He didn’t say, “What happened to the boat,” he said, “What happened in the boat.” That must be significant. I just didn’t know why.

  I couldn’t wait for morning.

  At nine the next morning, I tried to reach Deputy Colter, but he wasn’t at work. I stared at the gray house, seeking direction. How could I find Lila? Please, God, show me where to look. The answer didn’t immediately fall from the sky. Frustrated, I busied myself with chores, hoping to occupy my mind elsewhere.

  By early afternoon, however, I’d gotten nowhere. My eyes zeroed in on every phone in the house as I went from room to room. Could that mean I should call someone? But who? I went through a mental list of possibilities. Only one person emerged as a likely source of information: Alan Kliner.

  Alan sounded less sloshed but grouchier this time. “Yeah?”

  “Alan. This is Christine Sterling. I’m your sister’s neighbor, remember?”

  “Yeah. What?” He yawned and stirred as if just awakened. From the sounds, I imagined him lighting a cigarette and taking a big drag.

  “I’m worried about Lila. She’s still missing. You said ask Helen what happened in the boat. What does Helen Sterne know about the boat?”