Payne & Misery Page 20

  Mouths watering, we ambled up the street. When we’d gone about halfway, I stopped cold and tugged on Jesse’s sleeve. On the sidewalk trudging toward us were Helen and Will.

  “Well, lookie there.” I dipped my head toward them without looking straight ahead. What should we do? Lord, give me words if you want me to speak.

  Helen’s long-legged stride led the two, with Will trying to keep up. They weren’t talking. Seen side by side, the family resemblance was unmistakable—the same height and build, even the same scowling angular features.

  We faced off in front of the Cornish pastie vendor. I caught Helen’s eye first and smiled. She didn’t return the greeting but lowered her head as if intent on pushing by without acknowledging our presence.

  I stood solidly in her path. “Oh, Jesse, look who’s here. Our neighbor, Will Payne, and his sister. Hi there.”

  Jesse extended his hand, as if Will hadn’t pointed a shotgun at our dog that very morning. “Oh, hello.”

  Will appeared surprised, not pleasantly, managing a gruff, “Hello.” He didn’t grab Jesse’s hand, but Jesse didn’t seem to notice.

  Without hesitating to plan my attack, words poured out of my mouth. “We’ve been so worried about Lila. Have you heard from her yet?”

  A tall boy munching a corn dog dripping with mustard bumped Helen as he scurried by. She stared after him. When she looked back, her expression reflected nary a hint of a smile. “Oh, you’re the meddling neighbor from the hardware store.”

  I glanced at Will. “We’ve been wondering why you burned Lila’s mattresses so soon after she left.” Where did that come from?

  Jesse shot me a quizzical glance, eyebrows raised.

  Will appeared bewildered too. “The mattresses?”

  Helen narrowed her eyes. “How do you know he burned those?”

  I couldn’t think of an answer. How about another question? “Won’t she need them when she comes back?”

  Will frowned at Helen as if deferring to her for a suitable explanation.

  Helen’s eyes locked on mine. “Those mattresses were … soiled. Lila was a filthy creature … wet the bed.”

  A fleeting memory of odors in the Paynes’ house rushed to mind—a mildew smell in the kitchen, stale air in Lila’s bedroom. My smeller had definitely ruled out urine as one of the contributors. “But … but what will she sleep on when she comes back? She is coming back, isn’t she?”

  Helen’s eyes continued drilling into mine, transmitting evil. In mere seconds, she defeated my feigned bravado with the power of her stare. “No, she is not. She packed her clothes and left. For good.”

  I lowered my head, focusing on the cobblestones. “She packed her clothes? In a suitcase?” That simply couldn’t be. Lila’s clothes had been packed in the burned cardboard boxes.

  I peeked up to see them exchange another dark glance.

  Helen leaned down to deliver her insolent threat directly to my face. “Snooping is not a healthy diversion. My advice is to mind your own business. You never know what might happen if you don’t.” She straightened and grabbed Will’s arm. “Now, if you’ll excuse us.”

  They shoved us aside in their rush to pass.

  30

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  I stood on the deck, wishing the gray house could talk. But of course, the house remained as quiet and closed as always, although a tiny part of Will’s white pickup peeked from the front, so I knew he must be inside.

  Ever since we brought her home, Molly had stayed close, but with the door open and me standing on the deck, she wandered into the backyard.

  I planted my hands on my hips. What could she be up to?

  Once she left the deck, she darted toward the back gate as if on a mission. Then she stood on her hind legs, front paws on the gate, rocking the top gently until she popped the latch open.

  I gasped as the heavy gate swung away and bounced closed. Molly didn’t go out into the pasture but sat beside the gate, looking up at me. Perhaps she expected a reward for such an outstanding trick.

  Her ability to open the gate impressed me a great deal, but I scolded her anyway. “Molly, come back here!” She cocked her head and hesitated. When I persisted, she trotted up the stairs in obedience. To keep her from wandering off again, I dragged her inside the house by the collar. The sadness in her eyes reprimanded me, but I had to make sure she understood I wouldn’t tolerate that behavior.

  Well, at least I finally knew how she got out of that gate.

  Next time I let Molly outside, I stood on the deck to watch her. She trotted straight to the gate and jiggled until it opened, just like before.

  I yelled in frustration, “What is wrong with you, Molly? Come back right now. You can’t go down there.”

  Will came out on his stoop, hands on his hips, assaulting us with his eyes. To be fair, I couldn’t actually see his expression but guessed from his posture that he scowled at us. Clutched in fear’s evil grip, I rushed to gather Molly back where I could guard her. For the rest of the day, I let her out the front door and directed her away from the fence to do her business.

  Although I’d been sleeping soundly without any remembered dreams for more than a week, a strange vision disturbed my rest that night. The setting—a dark dungeon-like stage. I couldn’t say where. I acted the part of the audience, rather than participating, viewing the scene through a gauzy veil, perhaps a curtain over a window.

  Thumping on the stairs announced the approach of a man wearing the uniform of a fireman. He trotted into the large subterranean room and peered rapidly around, giving the room a quick onceover. His expression appeared bored and puerile. While he scanned the space, a spotlight illuminated a horizontal figure lying in a heap in one corner. It reminded me of wrapping paper, discarded after a birthday party. I pushed through the veil for a closer look.

  In the half-darkness, the form of a man appeared. I strained to identify him but couldn’t see him clearly enough. He lay on his side with his back toward me, facing into the corner.

  The young fireman finished his cursory examination, turning not just his head but also his whole body in a circle. His gaze passed quickly over the man. Then he shrugged as if he had nothing to attend to and trotted up the stairs with his hands in his pockets.

  While I pondered his actions, I heard footsteps on the stairs again. This time a crisp-uniformed deputy sheriff came partway into the room, tiptoeing on crepe-soled boots. He peered over aviator-frame glasses resting on an enormous cartoon nose. His gaze lingered in the corner. He cocked his head, deep in thought. Pulling a notebook from his pocket, he consulted it and tapped his pen on the coil a few times. Maybe that reminded him of an appointment, because he abruptly snapped the notebook shut and hurried out of sight.

  I moved a step closer to the wounded man. He lay in a pool of thick, sticky blood, which spread out like a small receiving blanket under him. Slowly he turned his face toward me. Around him, a low sound rose from the depths of the earth, starting to crescendo until it became a roar. Pain, sorrow, and despair in one unyielding howl—the sound of human misery. I covered my ears but couldn’t block out the agony.

  After the noise died down, a light footfall on the stairs made me turn. A frail white-haired woman descended. She hobbled to the injured man and bent to her knees. With gentle hands, she dressed his wounds using bandages she carried in a bag slung over one shoulder. Then, cradling his head on her lap, she stroked his brow with tenderness.

  I sobbed. She looked at me, extending one thin, wrinkled arm in my direction. Burdened as she seemed, she offered me comfort. “Pain is inevitable, but misery is a choice,” she said in a sweet, well- modulated voice.

  Filled with fear, I moved toward them until I saw the face on her lap. The once-steely eyes were closed and the angular features rested. In the stillness of his repose, William Payne didn’t look like a monster at all.

  Shaken deeply by possible interpretations of Monday night’s vivid dream, on Tuesday morning I packed Molly in t
he car for company and set out for town, simply to get out of the house. I needed to buy groceries—I almost always needed to buy groceries— but by the time I arrived in town, my focus had shifted to Helen. She most certainly withheld vital information, she and Will. How could I make them talk? While I mused over the possibilities, I drove past the grocery store turnoff toward Nevada City.

  Helen’s clapboard house reposed in its usual state, as if someone had duct-taped its mouth. Not a hint of action anywhere. Molly gazed out the window when I stopped the Jeep to study the house. I scratched her head. “Looks like nobody’s home today, girl. Any suggestions about where to look now?”

  Molly blinked and panted, tongue hanging to one side.

  I put the Jeep in gear and headed back out Sierra Vista, turning left toward Grass Valley down the front of Banner Mountain. I didn’t have a particular destination in mind, but maybe if I drove awhile, I’d think of something to do.

  Before I reached Brunswick, I passed a one-story motel. I’d never paid much attention to it before. Common and unmemorable, it had a run-down quality, like those referred to as no-tell motels—the type someone might rent by the hour. I glanced quickly as I passed, and then turned back to the road. Belatedly, something familiar registered in my peripheral vision.

  A blue sedan filled the parking space in front of room 115—the same kind of car Helen Sterne drove. I slammed on the brakes. Molly fell off the seat with a thud, but I hardly noticed.

  How puzzling! This motel couldn’t be more than two miles from Helen’s house. Why would she rent a room here? “What do you know about that, Molly? I think we just found ourselves a surveillance job.”

  Molly climbed back on the seat from the floor. She watched as I maneuvered the Jeep into a parking space across the street from the motel, and then she curled up on the seat to sleep.

  I roamed through radio channels, hoping to find music to pass the time. Instead, another news report informed me that there were still no suspects in the hit-and-run death of little Marcus Whitney. A month had passed. That poor family! I sighed and settled for an oldies station instead of news. I pushed the seat back and tilted my head against the headrest. An unusually sunny autumn day warmed the windshield, pressing onto me like a comfy blanket. Soon I felt as drowsy as Molly. A mushy love song soothed my nerves. I blinked my eyes, trying to focus on the motel across the street. But the harder I tried, the heavier my eyelids became. A little nap would be great.

  I don’t know how long I slept before Molly’s shrill bark woke me. Molly doesn’t bark often. The piercing noise sent my heart racing. I bolted upright. “What?”

  An unsmiling uniformed policeman tapped on the driver’s-side window. “What’re you doing in there, sleeping?”

  I stared at him, trying to make sense of his question.

  He continued to frown, expression growing darker by the second.

  I rolled down the window. “Sorry, officer. I didn’t realize I fell asleep. Is there a problem?”

  He leaned in as if trying to sniff my breath. When he straightened, he pointed to a No Parking sign right next to my front bumper. “Can’t you read?”

  I looked at the sign his finger pointed to. Where did that come from? It wasn’t there when I parked. I gave a sheepish grin. “I … didn’t see that.”

  “That sign is big enough to read from fifty feet. How long since you had your eyes checked?”

  My smile weakened.

  His expression communicated what are you, an idiot? “You’re having car trouble then?”

  I shook my head. Of course not, you moron.

  “Have you been drinking or using drugs?”

  I shook my head harder. Stupid question. Who would admit that?

  He shrugged. “I give up. What’s your excuse for parking here?”

  I glanced over at the motel. “I … well, I know this is going to sound lame, but I think someone I know is in that motel, and I’m waiting for her to come out.”

  The officer raised his eyebrows as he withdrew his ticket pad from his pocket. I’m sure he thought this must be some kind of adultery thing. “Okay, lady. Let’s see your license.”

  Not even a please? Apparently, they didn’t teach manners in officer training. With a deep sigh, I collected the requested documents and handed them out the window. While he copied the pertinent information, I sagged in the driver seat and fumed. I glanced at the motel just in time to see the door of room 115 pop open. With a start, I straightened from my slumped position.

  Helen Sterne exited the room, followed by a younger man wearing black. Slight of build, the man’s expression looked haunted and hunted. Thick blond hair hung in his eyes. He needed a haircut badly. Silver chains dangled from his belt. His face reminded me of someone, but I couldn’t think who it might be. Though not a large man, his attitude blocked the doorway. Standing feet apart with arms locked across his chest, he looked ready to defend his turf. Helen faced him. From the body language, I presumed she spoke. I couldn’t see her face. He stared at her without expression.

  The policeman completed writing the citation, followed by a lecture on reading street signs, and returned to his motorcycle parked behind my Jeep. By the time I looked back at the motel, Helen’s blue car had disappeared and the door to room 115 had closed.

  Who was that man in black? What was Helen doing in his room? Could it be the obvious? That just didn’t fit with what I knew about this frigid woman.

  I’d come to town intent on finding answers, but instead I returned home with another heap of questions.

  31

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  That night after dinner, I studied the forlorn gray house from my kitchen window. It reminded me of a discarded turtle shell.

  Lila, oh Lila. Had she found a safe haven? Please, God, help her.

  Burning with desire to connect with her, I rummaged through the drawer until I found the page torn from Lila’s poetry book. The cramped but neat writing, without punctuation or capitalization, now had a familiarity that soothed my spirits. That is, until I scanned the contents.

  sleepless nights erupt like daggers

  heavy weigh my gaping eyes

  dark perverts your flawless features

  severing head and limbs asunder

  piles of maggots consume the flesh

  while ravens rip and screech

  dark avenging angels circle

  oh pain and loss that never die

  why did i let her touch you

  to burn forever in the punishing fire

  is all thats left for me

  A massive lump formed in my throat as I imagined her intense pain. She definitely lost her baby. Someone buried him in that shallow grave by the water tower. A feeling in my gut told me Lila couldn’t have killed the baby herself.

  I reread the poem word by word, stopping at “why did i let her touch you.”

  I studied that line, repeating it out loud twice. Who’s her? Someone Lila had no power over. It had to be Helen. Both Maggie and Alan heard Lila say Helen did something just like before. Cece and Maxine confirmed that Helen killed the dog. A chill shivered down my spine as truth struck home. Helen killed Lila’s dog, just like she murdered Lila’s baby and buried him by the water tower.

  The lump in my throat threatened to strangle me. I swallowed, trying to dislodge it. Although I still had no facts or motives, only inferences and hearsay, I knew what I knew. Would Maggie, Alan, Maxine, and Cece agree to testify?

  How in the world could I prove this if they wouldn’t?

  Wednesday morning, we sat in our living room with the Callahans and Russell Silverthorne. I covered my spiky hair with a visor that matched my shirt and hoped no one would wonder why I wore a sun visor indoors.

  Zora Jane leaned forward extending her hand to Silverthorne from the bright blue mohair poncho she wore over tight black jeans. “Thank you for coming all this way out here on such short notice. We’re so glad to meet you.”

  We all murmured agreement.
>
  I sat on the edge of the sectional, hardly able to contain my excitement. “It’s not even been a month since I first laid eyes on Lila Kliner and I only met her twice, but it feels like she’s been part of my life forever. I’m so grateful you came to help us find her.”

  Jesse asked, “Should we call you Deputy?”

  Silverthorne’s eyes twinkled. “Oh, no. Russell suits me fine.” Former Deputy Sheriff Russell Silverthorne’s wavy white hair circled around a bald spot on top of his head like a glorious nimbus cloud. Well-placed wrinkles imparted a distinguished look—what some call “aging gracefully” when applied to men. Blue eyes sparkled from behind wire-rimmed bifocals—eyes that penetrated when he spoke. Perhaps he could see clear into our minds with such eyes. Bright and intuitive, he had none of the rudeness or lack of finesse I expected after my experience with the local sheriff’s office.

  We officially hired Silverthorne to investigate the possibility that Lila Kliner might be the mother of the water tower baby. He produced a contract, which the four of us signed before Zora Jane and I wrote checks to cover his usual retainer. Expenses would be billed separately. With paying clients, Silverthorne could legally work within the confines of California law. Ed Callahan would be his primary contact, since Ed had the law-enforcement background. Of course, Ed would share all reports.

  Although the scope of his investigation didn’t officially include locating Lila, in order to prove her connection to the baby, he’d have to find her. We took turns emptying our figurative puzzle box of clues, examining each in detail as we placed it on the table. The funnel Jesse so meticulously collected; Jesse’s close-up photographs of Sierra Meadows; my black plastic bag of bleached towels—we surrendered our entire collection except the little charred chunk Molly found in the fire, because I couldn’t find that. Silverthorne seemed mesmerized.