Payne & Misery Read online

  Well … hardly a bit.

  I opened the door for my happy dog. “Come on, Molly. You need a walk.”

  I swung the basket as I strode toward the gate. “Nothing sneaky in this. I’m just walking my dog and taking a gift to my neighbor’s front door.”

  Why, I practically qualified for sainthood!

  By the time I got to the street, I’d changed my mind about going all the way to the front door. Maybe I’d just peek in a few windows. If spotted, I’d say I got lost hunting for the front entrance.

  Tramping down the hill onto Percheron Drive, the street connecting mine to his, I changed my mind again.

  Oh, for heaven’s sake. Make a decision, already. I drew a deep breath. Had I actually sunk to the level of a cowering snoop sneaking through the bushes, peeking in windows to find out what her neighbors were up to?

  I shifted the basket from my right arm to the left. The front door then.

  Dust puffed from beneath my feet as each step drew me closer. I rehearsed what I’d say in case someone answered the door—how to work in questions about the mysterious boxes.

  I hesitated where the tar from Percheron Drive jutted into Mustang Hill Road. Did I really need to disturb these outlanders? I didn’t want to end up in a box of my own, being transported to the woods in that bucket. Perhaps I should scope out the place first after all.

  Usually, I didn’t need to put Molly on a leash, even in the city. She obeyed so well, she’d come right back when I called. She trotted ahead, paying no attention to my stops and starts. At the entrance to the neighbor’s driveway, she paused, looking back. I understood her signal to me and quickened my step to catch up. Soon we stood together, surveying the neighbor’s property.

  A steep, curved gravel road made an elbow turn at the bottom into a partially wooded lot. At the side, someone had planted iris bulbs, which had multiplied over time into hundreds of plants. Although splendid during spring, the flowers had long since dried and crumbled. Traces of crinkly leaves and headless stalks remained, towering above the brittle tangle of dry weeds.

  Molly’s innate need for movement allowed only short inactivity. She expressed her impatience with a whine and trotted ahead, stopping again a few paces past the driveway to look back over one shoulder.

  I threw her an apologetic glance before focusing on the house.

  A grizzled atmosphere hovered over the property like a funereal tent. Thick curtains covered the windows on the inside, holding in the secrets. Part of the exterior grayness might be due to lack of paint, stripped away by the elements. The remaining gunmetal paint curled in freeform stripes on the fascia board and siding. Shingles dangled off the roof in places. From the street, the house appeared larger, perhaps once grander, than I’d noticed from the back—a tattered old lion stretched in the gloom, waiting to die.

  Two disparate garages, like unmatched bookends, anchored the building to the landscape on either side. On the left, the attached garage gaped open, allowing a view of stacked firewood. A paneled door with windows along the top blocked the contents of the detached garage. The secondary building crouched against the hillside, away from the house, as if attempting to hide from nosy neighbors.

  Nothing moved. Even the trees possessed a lifeless aspect, more ghosts of trees than real ones. Although the temperature registered in the normal autumn zone, the atmosphere made me shiver.

  I whispered, “Let’s go, Molly,” but my feet didn’t move.

  Several minutes passed. Molly returned halfway and whined. The tug on my heart intensified. Why did this house conjure thoughts of pain? Chronic, debilitating suffering seeped through the cracks and filled the air like choking smoke. I could almost smell it. Where did that come from? I simply must find out.

  Calling Molly, I plunged down the driveway to investigate.

  Silence hovered low like a dark storm cloud. When I topped each step, I paused to listen. Not a single bird twittered, even though just up the hill in my yard, flocks chirped autumn songs and gorged seed from my bird feeders. The air hung deadly still. I tensed. Shouldn’t there be a dog? Almost everyone out here had a dog.

  My feet felt stuck in cement shoes. I gulped, trying to dislodge the large pebble stuck in my throat while I stoked gumption. Molly’s yelp jerked me from temporary paralysis. I flattened both hands over my ears to block the piercing sound. “Easy girl. I’m thinking.”

  Bony fingers yanked open the curtain nearest the door. While I stood transfixed by the sight, a pale gaunt face flashed into view. Before I had time to determine the gender, the heavy curtains sagged back in place and the apparition disappeared.

  I definitely didn’t imagine that.

  With my insides quivering like a Jell-O mold, I raised a shaky finger to the doorbell. The rusted apparatus looked questionable, so I knocked instead. While I counted to a hundred, I shook tremors out of my knees. The door still hadn’t budged, so I pounded louder.

  A tiny tinge of relief threaded through my tense shoulders. Maybe my intervention would not be required after all.

  Then, creaking like a horror movie set piece, the door inched open.

  The expanding gap revealed a withered woman of indeterminate age. Haunting eyes peered from dark hollows above sunken cheeks and colorless lips. Her skin reflected a dispirited grayish pallor, similar to the house. Stringy silver-blond hair fell limply from her shoulders to the back.

  I forgot my rehearsed opening and stared.

  Jesse teased that everyone looked tall to me, but at five feet one and a half inches, I had to look down to gaze into those pallid, gray-blue eyes. She must be shorter than my twelve-year-old granddaughter.

  The woman didn’t speak, but tilted her head and frowned.

  Disheveled hair made me wonder if I’d caught her napping. She didn’t attempt to rearrange it, and I couldn’t tell if she didn’t know or didn’t care about her physical state. She held the door with one dirt-smudged hand, revealing unkempt fingernails. An oversized tan sweater and faded black sweatpants draped her skeletal frame. Around her body, an overripe smell hung like an offensive aura.

  I swallowed the shock that rose in my throat like an undulating swell of nausea. “Hi. I was out walking the dog today, and when I came to your drive, I thought, um, that I’ve never met you. I live just up the hill in the log house. We’ve seen lights on—my husband Jesse and I have. But I’ve never seen you before. So … I thought I’d stop in to say howdy.” I presented my friendliest smile.

  The part of the entryway I could see beyond the lady appeared drab and dim. She blinked, her enlarged pupils contracting in the sunlight. To be polite, I paused for her answer, feeling my smile go stale.

  After several seconds, the burgeoning silence became unbearable and unplanned words erupted from my lips. “You know, sometimes it’s good to know your neighbors … in case you have an emergency. We live so far out in the country, if something happened and we needed help, someone coming from town would take at least half an hour to get here.”

  Was she deaf? Maybe she had a mental problem or didn’t speak English. Could she be mute? I’d never met a mute person before. Maybe she never went outside because she couldn’t speak and didn’t want to draw attention to her disability.

  When nerves overtake me, babbling flows from my mouth whether I want it to or not. “Or you might call me if you get lonely sometime. I’m lonely often, actually. We’re retired and there’s not much to do anymore. What I’m trying to say is, you can call anytime.”

  Still no sound from the lady. Maybe it’s a processing problem. I should wait longer. I clapped a mental hand over my mouth.

  Seconds ticked by before her lips twitched open. I leaned forward. Wait for it.

  Words breathed out on a whisper. “Which house?”

  I pointed. “The log one … on the hill … just up that way from here. You can see it from the back of your house.”

  Air leaked out in a sad sigh, with words tumbling through. “Up the hill? The big house?”

/>   “Big, did you say? I guess it’s big … probably too big for the two of us, anyway. Sure seems that way when I clean. We bought it from the McCarthys. They built the house themselves—did all the labor and everything. Do you know the McCarthys?”

  She offered a single nod. “Dogs … lots of dogs.” Her voice reminded me of the rustle of leaves in a gentle breeze.

  “That’s right. The McCarthys bred golden retrievers. That’s probably what sold us on their house, actually. Those six silky dogs greeted us every time we visited. Not barking like watchdogs. So graceful. I think they staged it. I always heard music in my head … you know, like in the movies.” I stopped short of breaking into song, praying the woman would take no notice of my babbling.

  “I had a dog … Baby.”

  Did she say Baby? Did she mean she named her dog Baby?

  Good thing I didn’t have a hearing problem like Jesse or I might not have heard her at all. I stared harder at her face so I wouldn’t miss anything that might lend insight. “My name’s Christine Sterling.” I smiled to encourage her. “What’s yours?”

  The pale blue eyes narrowed to tiny slits. “Lila … my name is … Lila … Payne.” She pronounced it as if hearing her name spoken aloud surprised her.

  Lila Payne. How fitting.

  “Hello.” I extended my hand. She didn’t move, so I let my hand drop. “It’s nice to meet you. I have a dog too. That’s Molly.” I pointed.

  Molly finished smelling the front yard and advanced toward the detached garage with her nose to the ground. In Lila’s protracted silence, I called Molly in case Lila wanted to pet her, but she only watched the dog with a strange longing expression. At last, a smidgen of interest.

  My faithful sidekick returned to sit at my feet, waiting for direction. “Molly’s a good dog. Smart too. The best dog we ever owned.” Molly’s brown eyes locked on mine. I could almost swear she smiled, so I returned the smile. When I glanced back at Lila, the grin still covered my face. “Maybe you could come to my house one day—to play with her. She’d enjoy that. So would I.”

  It looked as if the corners of Lila’s lips tried to turn up but couldn’t. Probably hadn’t used those muscles for a long time. Maybe her head would crack open if she achieved an actual smile.

  Lila lowered her head and melted into the darkness as if shrinking. Afraid she intended to shut me out, I pushed the door. “Lila—Mrs. Payne—I brought you a gift.”

  Without comment, she lifted her eyes to the basket.

  I thrust my offering toward her. “I made extra jam last summer so I’d have plenty to give away. These are for you. I wrote my name and phone number on the card.”

  She frowned into the basket. A skirmish seemed to rage inside her head about whether or not to take it, and I guess not won. I held the jam out anyway, ignoring the blooming ache in my arm as my muscles fatigued.

  Lila’s gaze moved from the basket to the dog sitting at attention on the porch.

  “You can pet her. She loves that.” I demonstrated by reaching for the collar of ivory fur between Molly’s ebony head and body. Then I ran my fingers all the way to her soft chest, where she loved to be scratched. To finish off, I gave her several pats between the ears.

  At first, I thought Lila would pet the dog. Her bony hand moved off the door and paused. The stretched-out sweater sleeve dropped from her forearm. Four plum bruises about the size of dimes stood out garishly against her alabaster skin. They appeared to be imprints of fingertips, running upward on her arm from the wrist. Beside each, a faded blue-black bruise discolored her arm.

  Alarmed, I searched her face. But she appeared as heedless of the exposure as of her overall appearance. She focused her entire attention on the dog. A solitary tear slipped from one eye and slithered down her cheek.

  I stepped closer. “It’s really okay. She’s gentle. She’d never hurt you.”

  Molly sat beside me, ears poised for instruction.

  Lila’s anemic blue eyes moved back to the basket and then slowly to my face.

  The jars clinked companionably as I lifted the basket toward her. “I want you to have these. I made them myself. There’s a peach, a plum, a raspberry, and a blueberry.” I fingered each as I mentioned it hoping to lure her to the jewel-like hues sparkling within the jars.

  A glower flushed her countenance. “Red.”

  I didn’t know what that meant, but made one final pitch anyway, refreshing my smile to enhance the appeal. “The fruits and vegetables in Nevada County are incredible, don’t you think? Much better than we had in southern California. That’s where I grew up. I bought the fruit at the farmer’s market in Grass Valley—the one they have every Friday night in the summer. Do you ever go to that?”

  No response.

  “Please take them. You do eat jam, don’t you? On toast or biscuits in the morning?”

  The glower intensified.

  “I know you’ll like them. Try them with peanut butter. Jesse eats peanut butter with almost everything.” I shrugged. “It’s weird, but that’s Jesse. Anyway, I brought this jam as a get-acquainted gift. Maybe you’ll come eat lunch with me sometime.”

  Those last words scarcely left my lips when something snapped in her face, almost as if I’d slapped her. She took a giant step backward.

  “Just a minute! Mrs. Payne … are you all right? What about your arm? Did you hurt yourself?” I moved to follow her inside, but the door started closing. “Do you need anything? There must be some way I can help you.” I craned my neck in an attempt to see inside, standing on tiptoes for a better view. “Are you here all alone?”

  The closing halted.

  Lila thrust her head into the remaining slit of open doorway. Her terrified eyes darted beyond me. Words burst from her lips in a scream without the volume. “Don’t come again! It’s not safe!” Then she disappeared and the door banged shut.

  Lips tight, I turned and trudged up the driveway, gravel crunching under my feet. At the top, I lingered, squinting back at the house while Molly lagged to sniff clumps of iris stalks.

  It’s not safe. What does that mean? Not safe for whom? From whom?

  The sound of tires on loose rock yanked me from my thoughts, and I spun to see the rickety white pickup veering into the driveway. A spray of pebbles fell at my feet, and an old man’s wrinkled face glared through the windshield. Mr. Ball Cap. I offered a greeting smile, but something about his expression checked that before it fully emerged.

  Angular features in his face combined with a firm mouth to render his countenance cold and unyielding. Small, steely eyes hid behind thick-rimmed glasses, but I felt the power behind their stare. Reflex sent my hand to cover my mouth, holding in a cry that welled from my chest.

  As the driver’s side window dropped open, I retreated one hasty step away.

  His gravelly voice asked, “You lost?”

  I shook my head harder than necessary. “No, no. That is …” Clapping my hands, I pretended to summon Molly. “We’re just … taking a walk.” Molly trotted to my side. I grabbed her and pulled her close.

  He scowled at my basket. “We don’t need nothin’ from you.”

  In his elevated position, maybe he couldn’t hear my knees clapping together like cymbals. I hoped so.

  Revving his engine, Mr. Ball Cap slammed the truck into gear and rumbled down the driveway. His macho display of dominance left me coughing his dust.

  I waved away the flying dirt cloud and narrowed my eyes to slits. Rather than the deterrent effect he obviously hoped for, that moment a firm commitment to rescue Lila Payne bloomed in my heart.

  4

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Lit by the nearly full moon, the pond below our deck rippled under a slight breeze. Lights glowed through the curtains of the gray house beyond the pond, but as far as I could see, not a creature stirred.

  What terrible abuse might be happening? Both inhabitants had to be home. I imagined Lila’s shrieks as the man with the ball cap beat her; the sickening thud of her
frail body hitting the floor, her cries of anguish disregarded. Then he’d drag her to the bedroom and lock the door from the outside so he could gorge himself with double portions of dinner.

  I had to help before he killed her. But what could I do? I’d never encountered anything like this situation before. I needed an ally—someone with experience being neighborly. Someone like Zora Jane.

  In the world-class-good-neighbor category, Zora Jane Callahan would rank number one. On first-name basis with most of the community, she managed a drop-by visit with each of us from time to time, always on the pretense of delivering a plateful of homemade cookies. The woman must bake every day.

  I punched Zora Jane’s number into the portable phone and paced while waiting for her answer.

  About one and a half laps around the kitchen island, she picked up. “God loves you.”

  I never knew how to respond to that. “This is Christine Sterling.”

  “Christine! What a slice of heaven!”

  “Listen.” I peeked out the window. “I’ve been watching that gray house across from you ever since we moved here. I always meant to ask you who lives there. I know it sounds hard to believe, but I’ve never seen anyone go in or out of that house until today.”

  “The house down the hill?”

  “Right. Today I saw a man there and I went down to introduce myself. Do you know them?”

  “Well, that’s the Paynes’ house—Lila and Will Payne—with a ‘y’ instead of ‘i’. I met Lila shortly after they moved in. Took a plate of cookies down. Lila answered. I opened my mouth to welcome her to the neighborhood, but she snatched the cookies out of my hands and closed the door. Didn’t get a single word out.”

  So even the Paynes had been recipients of Zora Jane’s cookie ministry. “What did you make of that?”

  “Must’ve been the wrong day for a visit. She has a sweet tooth, though, the poor little thing, ’cause she sure wanted those cookies.”