Payne & Misery Page 24

  The four of us headed home, but I couldn’t stay focused on anything. I divided my attention between the clock and the phone, waiting for Silverthorne’s report. Meanwhile, I needed to hash over the latest developments with someone. Jesse had work to do but promised to keep his cell phone with him so he could relay Ed’s message.

  I invited Zora Jane to early afternoon lunch at a trendy restaurant in old downtown Nevada City. I covered my ugly hairdo with my pink sequined ball cap and applied extra make-up, hoping to distract from my hair.

  Housed in a former bakery, the Bunnery touted California cuisine served in casual ambiance. California cuisine meant exotic fruits and vegetables, like sprouts, avocados, and butternut squash, used in imaginative ways to create an arty, pleasing presentation. Casual ambiance meant stained cement floors with rough barn siding on the walls.

  Zora Jane had changed clothes. She met me outside the restaurant wearing a stylish pink and gray knit jacket over a hot pink shell. Charcoal gray stretch pants covered her lower parts, topping off hot pink mules with little black heels that clicked when we ambled to our booth. I wouldn’t have guessed someone with Titian hair would look so gorgeous in hot pink, but there you are.

  As I set my cell phone in a prominent position on the table where I’d be sure to get Silverthorne’s call, I overheard a group of youngish women in the booth to our left. Glasses and silverware tinkled companionably. Their conversation drifted above the partition as we contemplated our menus.

  A lady with a husky voice said, “The police still have no leads. Somebody out there must know something.”

  Another said, “It happened just after dark. When people are eating dinner instead of watching what’s happening on the street.”

  A third said, “That poor little boy! It’s such a terrible tragedy. Lucille says his mother is a mess. She’ll never get over it.”

  Zora Jane scanned her menu. “They must be talking about that hit-and-run. Wasn’t that the same night Lila disappeared?”

  I’d been so preoccupied with Molly and now with Lila, I’d given little thought to the hit-and-run. What I wanted to talk about was the strange man I saw with Helen at the motel. I couldn’t get him out of my mind. Who was he? “Terribly sad. Hope they find the person responsible.”

  “The newspaper says they’re putting extra men on the investigation to cover all the leads they’ve received.”

  I slammed down my menu. “Oh, sure. They have extra men to investigate that little boy’s death. But who’s looking for Lila?”

  Zora Jane patted my arm. “Now, Christine. It’s been over a month with no answers. Imagine how those poor parents must feel. You wouldn’t begrudge grieving parents a little peace of mind, would you?”

  I started to say something I’d regret later but the waitress arrived to take our orders.

  The young women in the next booth continued their discussion of the hit-and-run. When our food arrived, I took a bite of my bleu cheese walnut salad with apple chunks and sprouts tucked into sweet butter lettuce and chewed while eavesdropping.

  The husky voice said, “The family’s offered a big reward for information about the driver. I hope they nail him.”

  Zora Jane buttered a piece of crusty pumpernickel. “It happened just up the street from here. Beyond the old hotel.”

  Nevada Slim thought the hit-and-run and Lila’s disappearance were connected. I told Zora Jane what he’d said.

  “The timing does seem odd, doesn’t it?” She smoothed her napkin thoughtfully. “But other than timing, there’s nothing that connects.”

  I jiggled the ice cubes in my herbal iced tea. “Well, now we know Helen drove the Buick that night. That means Helen hit the little boy.”

  Zora Jane forked a bite of salad. “Right.”

  I set my glass on the table. “But there’s no proof. Just hunches.”

  Zora Jane’s eyes reflected sadness. “I’m afraid it’s going to take more than hunches to get to the bottom of this.”

  “Also, I saw Helen and some guy at a motel in town.” I described the sighting. “I need to talk to Helen again.”

  Zora Jane suggested we should pray for her instead.

  I flopped back against the vinyl upholstery and frowned. “I know you’re right. I just don’t like it. Lila’s still out there somewhere. I’ve got to do something to find her. No one else is working on that.”

  “Prayer is doing something.” Zora Jane smiled sweetly. “God cares more about Lila than we do. We have to let go of our need to control this and let him work. That’s what we do when we pray. We release our will and surrender to God’s will. That’s the ‘Thy will be done’ part.”

  I sighed. “But I don’t see God doing anything.”

  “That’s because we don’t understand his timetable and we can’t see everything like he can. God is never late. He’s always on time.”

  We prayed for Lila right there at the table. And even for Helen and Will too.

  After lunch, Zora Jane went to church for a ladies’ ministry planning meeting, but I wanted to see the hit-and-run site. I hiked from the restaurant up the hill to the corner where it happened. Standing in the street, I prayed, Please, God, lead me to truth.

  At the corner of Broad Street and Elm Avenue, the business district ended and the residential section began. To my right, the recently refurbished Union Hotel built in the 1890s dominated the street. To my left, a stately Victorian mansion with a large round tower and white picket fence lent a regal presence to the neighborhood. Across the avenue, another Queen Anne had been painted a garish pink. The gingerbread around its shingled front sported a rather disharmonious shade of pea green.

  Color was desirable, but who chose that combination?

  Around the front of the pink house, trees and shrubs hung like long, green bangs over the sidewalk, blocking visibility to Elm Avenue. That must be where the accident happened—a dangerous corner.

  Why would a four-year-old be out after dark, anyway? Where was his mother? And why hadn’t they cut back those trees and bushes?

  I wandered closer, crossing the street. Could someone see the corner from inside any of these houses?

  With no one around, I climbed the steps to the porch of the pink house, turned, and stared back at the street.

  Good view from here.

  I rang the doorbell.

  Feet pattered toward the entryway. The woman who opened the door seemed frazzled. Her short-cropped hair stuck out like straw, and her makeup had faded and smeared. On one hip, she bounced a chubby baby. She spoke over children’s laughter and squeals drifting from the interior. “Yes?”

  “Hi. I’m investigating the hit-and-run on this corner several weeks ago. Did you see anything that night?”

  “No. I was in the back, cleaning up. I already told the police that a couple times.”

  “Are you sure no one in your family saw anything? You can see the corner from here on the porch.”

  The baby expressed impatience with several loud cries.

  The woman jiggled him on her hip. “Look … who did you say you are?” She shook her head and waved one hand dismissively. “Doesn’t matter. I can’t help you. Please excuse me.” The gust of wind from the slamming door blew my bangs off my forehead.

  One down. I marched to the imposing white Victorian and let myself through the gate in the white picket fence. A member of one of Nevada City’s pioneering families still resided in this house—the older woman who spoke at church, Bessie Parrish. I climbed the blue stone steps to the covered porch and turned again to look at the corner. Here, too, a clear view of the accident site might be seen. Was Mrs. Parrish home that night?

  I rang the bell. Big Ben chimes clanged “bing-bong-bing-bong-bing,” appropriate for summoning an elderly Victorian lady, but no one answered—Victorian or otherwise. Maybe I could catch Mrs. Parrish at church sometime and question her about that night.

  I rang the bell once more, just to hear the sound.

  “Now what?” I
wandered toward the old hotel. High on the second floor, side windows faced out at such an angle that a person couldn’t see the street from them—unless the person happened to be a contortionist hanging out the window at just the right moment. Doubtful.

  I circled to the last house on the intersection, kitty-corner to the Queen Anne—also a Victorian but considerably smaller. More Westlake, if I remembered my architectural styles correctly. Painted brown, it appeared to be in several stages of repair. Blue tarps covered a portion of the roof, and scaffolding trailed up one side. Matching bay windows on either end of the front entrance provided unobstructed views of the street corner. “Might as well try this one too.”

  I climbed the slate steps, rang the bell, and stepped back. A thirty-something woman opened the door, carrying a tea towel and glass bowl. I must have interrupted her washing the dishes.

  She frowned slightly. “May I help you?”

  “I hope so. I’m investigating the fatal hit-and-run on this corner a few weeks ago. Were you home that evening?”

  “We were having a birthday party for my son. I’ve already spoken to the police. “ She nodded toward the room at the right of the entryway. Through the arched opening, I saw part of a large mahogany dining table with chairs tucked around it.

  “So, you were in there?” I stepped toward her, inclining my head toward the aforementioned dining room.

  “Yes. Along with a dozen children eating birthday cake.”

  “Can you see the corner from that room?”

  “Sure. But we weren’t looking outside. Have you ever entertained a dozen ten-year-olds? They make a lot of noise. We didn’t hear anything. We didn’t even know something happened until the police showed up.”

  “Oh.”

  Now what?

  A small inner voice urged me to pry a little deeper. I glanced back at the corner and bit my lip, thinking. The streetlight would have lit the corner at the time of the accident. “Did you take any pictures during the party?”

  “I did. With my digital camera. Been too busy to look at them, though.”

  “Can I see them?” I didn’t know what I’d find, but my heart fluttered as if I might be onto something.

  She retreated into the house, returning with a silver pocket-size camera. She clicked it on and watched the photos whiz by on the tiny screen. “I’m sure there’s nothing that will help you. I took all the pictures.” She continued watching the monitor. “Nope. Can’t see the street through the glass. Sorry.”

  She handed me the camera. In the foreground, a chunky boy with a pointy birthday hat attacked a large piece of chocolate cake with a plastic fork. Above his head, a burst of light flashed like fireworks in the window.

  “Oh.” I handed the camera back.

  The woman clicked through a few more pictures. She paused at one, looking puzzled. “Well, I’ll be darned! One of the kids must have taken the camera when I wasn’t looking.” She shook her head. “Those kids. But look. You can see the corner.”

  The picture was blurry, but clear enough to see a dark sedan stopped at the stop sign under the streetlight. The driver’s-side door stood open, and a shadowy form hunched over a tiny lump lying in the street.

  37

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  I’m sure I didn’t open the door to let Molly out on Friday morning. Apparently, Jesse didn’t notice when she sneaked out as he went down to feed the horses. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it, unless we want to believe the cats let Molly out. However she did it, by the time I dressed and arrived in the kitchen, Molly had gone. I called her a couple of times, then I opened the sliding door and stepped onto the deck.

  No Molly there either.

  With a glance over the railing into the backyard, I called her again. Something dark caught my eye. In a pile of leaves under the blue oak lay a black object. I couldn’t make out its identity, but the gate in the back fence stood wide open, so it must have come from the ashes. I hustled down the stairs to look.

  Another gift—a fragment of jawbone with a few teeth still attached. Last year Molly dismantled a deer carcass she found beside the well in the pasture. For several weeks, she dragged up bones and left them in the yard. Please let this be a deer.

  However, the black soot clinging to the bone meant it probably did not come from a decaying deer carcass.

  What would a human jawbone look like? I shivered, cringing from touching it.

  A flash of terror gripped me. “Molly. Molly! Come back here.” I didn’t see her at Will’s rummaging through the fire mound, or anywhere along the back of the house. I scrambled toward the fence.

  “Where has that dog gone now?” Should I re-latch the gate?

  I didn’t spy Will’s pickup in its usual place in front of the house. He must be inside, though, given the hour. Silverthorne had reported that Will suffered a panic attack. They were concerned about his heart, which was beating abnormally. His blood pressure was too high as well. They scheduled a series of tests for the following week and sent Will home. Go figure. Someone sick enough to collapse like that and yet they didn’t keep him at the hospital overnight. The quality of healthcare just kept declining.

  Before pulling the gate closed, I hesitated, scanning the pasture.

  A long, low howl rose to echo off the hills. Like no other sound I’ve ever heard except in my dream, its tone communicated loneliness and despair. I gasped in surprise, feeling the hairs on my neck prickle.

  Barking followed soon after the howl died down. With a start, I recognized Molly’s bark. Something must be wrong. I had to help.

  This time I wasn’t snooping. I was doing my neighborly duty. Yet, wasn’t this where I started? Had I learned nothing from the predicaments my snoopiness caused?

  I glanced toward my house and then at the barn, but didn’t see a sign of Jesse.

  “God, help me. What should I do?”

  Urgency tugged my heart. I continued praying aloud as I picked my way down the slope. Foxtail spikes and burrs clawed at my legs. With difficulty, I climbed over the fence and hurried toward the back door of the gray house. “Stop me, God, if you don’t want me to go.”

  The back door was locked, as was the sliding glass door on the small patio.

  Déjà vu.

  I circled to the front. The old truck snuggled close to the front door as if its driver hadn’t been able to walk far. Dread shivered over me. Molly sat on the porch, whining like she wanted to do something but couldn’t.

  “Okay, Molly. I’ll see what I can do.”

  Standing tall, I rapped on the door. Molly continued to whimper, so I gripped the knob. It turned in my hand. Without hesitating to wonder why the door wasn’t locked, I pushed it open a slit and peered into the dimly lit entry. “Will? Mr. Payne, are you home?”

  No answer. Then a muffled cry.

  I called again. “Mr. Payne? It’s me, Christine Sterling. Do you need help?” A louder moan made Molly commence whining again.

  Although I knew I should go for help, I didn’t want to leave him alone. “Dear God, what shall I do?”

  On tiptoes, I moved toward the groans emanating from the stairwell.

  So that I wouldn’t surprise him, I kept talking in a loud voice. “Mr. Payne? Are you there? I’m coming to help you.” I crept along the hallway. Standing in front of the stairway entrance, I hesitated before inching into a slow, deliberate descent with one hand supporting me along the wall. To my left, the door to the shrine room stood ajar.

  Moans and sobs echoed off the cavernous walls.

  “Mr. Payne? It’s Christine Sterling.”

  An unrelenting recital of wrenching heartache greeted me. My brain said, Run away! but my feet didn’t respond. I blinked to speed up adjustment to the darkness and forced myself forward until I stood in the open doorway.

  Will Payne knelt in the center—precisely where the dark stain had been—rocking and sobbing in a deep, raspy voice.

  Pale of skin, sweat dampening his shirt, he swung towar
d me when I entered. Intense pain radiated from his eyes. The right side of his face drooped. His left hand clutched his chest, knuckles and fingers drained of color to a ghostly white. The other also clenched into a fist, but the arm hung at his side.

  I shivered in the chilly room.

  Will didn’t seem surprised to see me but reached out with the hand hanging at his side. The fist opened and a wad of paper fluttered to the floor. He whispered a slurred, “Lila.”

  “Mr. Payne.” I toddled toward him. Just as I reached him, he toppled over, crumpling as if boneless. I wanted to run, but his look restrained me. I bent closer. “I … I need to find someone to help you.”

  His words were almost inaudible. “Please … don’t go.” Speaking seemed to require his total airflow. He sucked in another breath. “I … didn’t … forget … what you wanted me … to do.”

  Eyes closed, he lay still as death.

  I touched his chest. He was still breathing. “Hang on, Mr. Payne! I’ll call someone to help you.”

  Heart racing out of control, I rushed upstairs to the back bedroom where I’d seen a rotary phone before. Dialing 9-1-1 seemed to take an eternity. Relief washed over me when a voice answered. The dispatcher requested information and then promised to send help immediately. I dropped the phone and watched it bounce on the carpet before it landed on a heap of clothes by the bed. Then I dashed downstairs to Mr. Payne’s recumbent form.

  The crumpled wad of paper lay undisturbed. My tidy-up reflex made me stoop to collect it without thinking—another page from Lila’s poem book, written in a now-familiar hand, small, cramped, and obsessively neat, without punctuation or capitals.

  baby waits he wont be denied

  revenge is his at last

  blaze in the fires of hell to atone

  will my will its all there

  dont forget you promised

  Cradling his head in my lap, I reassured him help would arrive soon.

  He opened his eyes, his gaze spearing through me. His black-rimmed glasses sat comically askew on his nose. I straightened them.