Payne & Misery Read online

  Typical of Zora Jane to spin rudeness in positive terms. “Humph.”

  “They moved into the neighborhood the year my youngest grandson was born. Todd. That would be … about ten years ago.”

  “Okay.”

  “Oh, my word! How could I forget that day? I made those cookies just after I came home from visiting my daughter at the hospital. So ten years ago last spring. Ten and a half years, since it’s fall now.”

  And I thought I babbled! I started pacing again. So far I hadn’t come close to anything that might help Lila. “Do you know where they came from?”

  “The Midwest, I think. A small town in Iowa. Elk something— Elk Field, Elk Farm, Elk Grove. That’s it. Elk Grove, Iowa. Just off Interstate 80, west of Des Moines.”

  “Why did they move all the way out here?”

  “I don’t know. They don’t get visitors often. Least I haven’t seen many. Don’t think they have family nearby. They do get outside, though. I can’t imagine why you’ve never seen them before.”

  “Well, I never have.”

  “You only see the back of their house and from a distance. Our house faces theirs. Maybe that’s why.”

  “Maybe.”

  “We start conversations whenever we catch them working outside. Ed managed to get a bit out of Will once or twice. They’re quite … reticent might be a good word for them.”

  “Reticent? They’re downright reclusive!”

  “I’m sure there’s a reason for that.”

  I pressed my back against the wall, afraid the reason wouldn’t be a happy one. “Uh-huh.”

  “Let’s see. What else do I know? They used to have a boat. Think they said they took it to Lake Tahoe sometimes. When they got back, we’d see them cleaning it. Don’t know what happened to the boat. All of a sudden, it just disappeared.”

  “How long has it been gone?”

  “I don’t know, at least a year now.”

  “Huh.” What possible help could any of this be?

  “Now and then, Lila putters outside. She put in all those irises along the driveway—gloriosa daisies at the front, a small rose garden on the side, Iceland poppies and perennials in the flower boxes—a nice colorful garden. I always wave at her, but she never waves back. Now that I think of it, the flowers have been gone a long time. And I guess I haven’t seen her either … maybe for as long as a year.”

  I straightened. “A year? Same time they got rid of the boat?” Now we were making progress—but what did it mean?

  She paused before answering. “Could be.”

  I hadn’t the foggiest notion what to make of the connection.

  Light extinguished in one window of the gray house just before another lit up. I smushed my face into the glass but couldn’t see figures behind the drapes. I sighed in frustration.

  “Whatever made you stop in today, dear?”

  I told her what I’d seen from the deck, about the puzzling transportation of the boxes on the tractor. “But the bruises, that’s what worries me.”

  At first, she didn’t answer. When she spoke, her voice assumed a tender quality, as if reassuring a frightened child. “You know, dear, sometimes you imagine things are worse than they actually turn out to be. I’m sure there’s a simple explanation for what you saw.”

  I shifted from one foot to the other and expelled a breath. Why does everyone blame my imagination? I composed my answer with care, speaking slowly. “She told me not to come anymore. Said it wasn’t safe. Why would she say that?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe she’s afraid of strangers. She might be a bit eccentric. You know, some people would rather be left alone.”

  Did I ever understand that! It would be so much easier not to suffer relationships. My frequent daydream of the idyllic life in a hilltop monastery with a locked gate wound like wisps of smoke around my head. I closed my eyes. Wish I could shut out the pain of dealing with people as easily as blocking the daylight.

  Her question pulled me back to the present. “You still there, Christine?”

  Right. Where were we?

  I fought the strong urge to isolate. My odd little neighbor needed our help. Despite the possibility that what I saw might not have a sinister cause, a nagging gut feeling demanded me to keep probing. “There’s something wrong in that house. I just know it.” Of course, I didn’t know it, but when I staked this claim, some inner authority confirmed it as fact. The vision of Lila’s battered arms sent cold shivers skittering down my spine. “Those bruises. Someone restrained her—held her with enough pressure to leave bruises. Or they made her do something she didn’t want to. If you turned her forearm over, I’m sure you’d find a thumb mark on the other side.”

  “Christine—”

  Her tone alerted me the imagination lecture would launch next. I hurried on, hoping to persuade her with logic. “Don’t bruises usually change color after a few days?”

  “I guess so, but—”

  “Purple means they’re fresh, then. And apparently she’s been injured before, because there are black bruises underneath the purple ones.”

  “But really, Christine. Who would abuse her?”

  Inwardly, I stomped my foot. “If only two of them live there, then the husband is the obvious suspect.”

  “That’s a serious accusation. We’ve never noticed anything to point to that. Not in all these years. Are you sure you’re not just … embellishing what you saw?”

  If only Zora Jane had been with me today. I expelled a calming breath and changed the subject slightly. “He left this morning in a white pickup. Does he leave every day? Maybe he has a job.”

  “I haven’t paid attention to that. Don’t know about a job, though. Back in Iowa, he did something farm-related … something with machinery, I think. But they’re retired now. At least, he is. She’s much younger, of course.”

  I tried to justify using the word younger on the woman I’d seen, but could imagine nothing short of less old. “How much younger, do you think?”

  “Wasn’t that obvious when you saw them? Must be at least twenty or thirty years between those two.”

  “So you’re saying she might be as young as forty?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Huh!” I never would have pegged her as young as that. I let the word sit in the air until the idea sank in deeper. “Could you come with me tomorrow morning if he goes out? Just to be sure she’s okay.”

  “I’m sure everything’s fine—”

  “Please!”

  “Well, okay.” Then, in typical Zora Jane fashion, she added, “Why don’t we pray for her too?”

  I frowned at the phone, face flushed at the implied reprimand. “Certainly we should pray for her.”

  Syrup dripped from her tone. “I know you believe in the power of prayer, Christine.”

  “Of course I do.” Sure, I believed in a God out there somewhere. I just wasn’t convinced that he cared about the niggling details of my unexceptional life.

  “God longs to hear our prayers. He delights in answering his children.”

  Who’s she kidding? “It’s just … he never answers me.”

  “Oh, Christine. He answers. He doesn’t always give us what we ask for, because sometimes that would be bad for us.”

  “Hmm.” Memories of unanswered prayers dropped into mind like an oppressive bundle of soggy newspapers. I figured God had better ways to spend his energy than fixing things at our house. Must have been busy helping powerful, important people.

  Zora Jane continued. “God knows everything—past, present, and future. He sees the big picture. He knows how things will turn out if we do them our own way. We can trust him, Christine. His way is always best.”

  Despite the patronizing tone, I knew her heart ached with compassion. But prayer hadn’t held a high priority for me in many years. I hadn’t been communicating well with anyone, worst of all God. I gritted my teeth. “Pray for her, Zora Jane, please.”

  Her voice sang through the phone. “Heav
enly Father, thank you for laying the Paynes on Christine’s heart. You love them far more than we ever could. Help us love them with your love. Please protect them and keep us from doing harm. We pray this in the blessed name of Jesus. Amen.” To me she said, “God will make a way.”

  I thanked her with half my heart, and we arranged that whoever spied Will’s pickup leaving first should call the other. I didn’t want to encounter that snarling face again unless I absolutely had to. I even felt resistance to praying for God’s protection over him. I didn’t like Will Payne. Not one bit.

  Part of me argued that we shouldn’t intervene. After all, Lila Payne never asked for help. In fact, she warned me to stay away. Maybe we should just mind our own business.

  A faded, lilac-colored apparition invaded my dreams that night. She floated ahead, hidden by fluid drapes. I raced to catch her. An eerie melody penetrated the night silence like movie background music. She whispered in a singsong voice like quietly rustling leaves. Although I strained to hear, I couldn’t catch the words. Who was she? The distance between us precluded definite recognition.

  I slogged ahead in that frustrating slow-motion gait of dreams. My mind commanded speed, but my legs wouldn’t cooperate. The putt-putt of a motor sounded close. When I glanced back, a dilapidated white pickup followed. I hurried on.

  A withered vine blocked my path. I clawed at the brittle plant until I made just enough space to crawl through, then raced on, dodging in and out among huge headless iris stalks as tall as trees. An aged oak materialized; a tree with low, clinging branches that tore at my hair. I pushed through a thicket of bushes with long thorns that cut into my flesh like sharp claws, shredding my shirt. Blood seeped from the scratches, but I didn’t stop. The white truck closed in, and the lilac lady sprinted far ahead.

  The urgency to catch up soon gave way to an even greater terror that billowed around me like my mother’s sheets pinned to a clothesline on a windy day. The gossamer lady disappeared through a dark hole. I squeezed in after her and found myself in an expansive black tunnel—so dark I feared I might never see light at the end. “It’s not safe! Not safe! Not safe!” echoed through the air. I couldn’t see where the words came from.

  The pickup’s engine grew louder.

  A heavy feeling of evil engulfed the darkness. Spiders and snakes, maybe. I squinted into darkness as thick as chocolate pudding. Patting along the walls, I stumbled at last through the end of the tunnel, only to hear the pickup’s groaning engine even closer.

  An enormous gray portal with layers of peeling paint appeared in the distance. The tiny lady tore through cobwebs shrouding the door and vanished inside. By the time I arrived, the cobwebs had closed ranks again as though no one had passed through.

  The engine droned on. Hurry, hurry!

  In the middle of the huge door, a fine layer of dust covered a gigantic brass knob. I fumbled and tugged, but the knob wouldn’t turn. The pickup gathered speed. Fear’s arrow pierced the target of my heart.

  “Help!” I coughed on the swirling dust. “Someone please help me!”

  The truck bore down on the door. Closer and closer until the engine’s heat blistered the skin on my neck. The volume rose to a deafening crescendo. With no way of escape, I turned and squared my shoulders, resigned to face my destiny.

  I bolted upright in bed, gasping for air. My heart pounded like a judge’s gavel. Then, through the open window, I heard the roar of a diesel engine.

  5

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The strong scent of tuna awakened me next morning. I opened my eyes to four almond-shaped orbs fixed on my face. The cats, Roy Rogers and Hopalong Cassidy, meowed in unison. Why did they always have tuna breath when they only ate dry cat food made from chicken and turkey?

  Yawning and stretching, I upended my two black-and-white buddies. They alighted on their feet and then settled on the carpet, maybe waiting to see whether I required further assistance. Jesse never allowed them in our bedroom at night, for fear they might pounce on him while he slept. Needing all my furry friends around me whenever he departed, I left the door open so they came in and out at will, taking full advantage of my generosity.

  The digital clock on my bedside table announced eight forty-five in bright, red numbers. I did a double take, thinking I’d misread the time. “You boys must be hungry.”

  Molly’s brown eyes peeped through the wire door of her sleeping crate in the corner of our room. She licked her lips with her big red tongue.

  “Okay, okay. I’m up already.”

  First thing, I checked the house. In the morning light, all the rooms appeared intact and unmolested. I had stayed awake a long time after my dream, listening for the truck to crash through the gate. It never did, of course. However, assorted evil creatures paraded out of the darkness while I lay on my back, staring at the log ceiling. Maybe that’s why my mother wouldn’t let me watch scary movies as a child, although enough other monsters had populated my years for a lifetime of nightmares. Those images ever hovered in my brain, waiting to terrorize me.

  Unable to return to sleep, I made a thorough house search, turning on every light and double-checking every lock and window. I pushed dining chairs against the outside doors and piled them high with stacks of pots and pans. Only after fully convincing myself that no one could sneak into my bedroom without making a great deal of noise could I venture back to bed. Judging by my stiff neck and aching muscles, I must have slept soundly until the cats came.

  The morning sun glowed in the autumn air as I descended to the exercise room via the spiral staircase Jesse put in for easy basement access. Heaven forbid it should be work to get to the workout area! Formerly a storage room, we painted this space raspberry and sage, coordinated to the colors of the vivacious oak-leaf-and-berry pattern swirling on the carpet. Jesse and I intended to frequent this room every day in pursuit of good health in middle age and hoped the vibrant colors would energize us. After the newness wore off, I went down alone most of the time and not as often as I should. Jesse occasionally reminded me of my need for strenuous exercise, but he didn’t usually follow his own advice. However, on the chance the window in the exercise room might afford a first-rate station for spying on the gray house, I hopped on the treadmill and commenced surveillance.

  Unfortunately, no action appeared. A slight breeze teased the weaker leaves off the oak trees outside the window. They drifted lazily to the ground. I watched a woodpecker drilling holes in one of the blue oaks in the backyard. At least he wasn’t attacking the house. Thank goodness for that. Having an all-wooden house tainted our enjoyment of the redheaded creatures.

  I picked a piece of straw off my sweatshirt as I trotted along—a reminder of Jesse’s orders to feed the two horses he left in my care. Let me be clear here: I am fully aware that ownership of animals necessitates a certain amount of labor. However, the pleasure derived from their company far outweighs the inconvenience, so I don’t mind tending the horses when Jesse is gone. The problem was that Jesse never asked for my help; he issued orders. Did he ever appreciate anything I did? Or just assume he had the right to command his slave to obey his every whim?

  When I finished power walking, I hefted the barbells for a few minutes, hoping to tone up that persistent fish-belly flesh under my upper arms. Still nothing stirred across the pasture, so I stood at the window a few minutes longer, studying the back of the Payne house.

  From this lower vantage point, I saw most of the weed infested back yard and a small patio connected to the house through sliding glass doors. On the patio rested one chair, deserted and lonely. Who put that there? And why? I’d never seen anyone sitting in it.

  My eyes scanned the back door and stoop without stopping. Continuing past the propane tank beside the house, my scrutiny stalled on a stack of boxes. They appeared to be cardboard, an irregular mound of many sizes and shapes, some white, some brown. Could that be where he deposited the boxes I saw him carrying on the tractor?

  In this part of the county
, we dismantled discarded boxes and disposed of them at a common location so the trash collector had only one stop to make in our neighborhood. The trash company assigned specific days during the month to flatten cardboard boxes and leave them along with other recyclable materials.

  Why was he hoarding boxes instead of getting rid of them?

  An image of burning dropped into mind. Perhaps this pile of boxes rested on the ashes of the huge fire I watched last year. I shuddered, remembering tall flames that shot into the sky for days. Since apparently no one monitored the inferno to make sure it didn’t burn out of control, I’d been at my window nearly the whole time. Fires always terrified me, ever since the corner of our kitchen caught fire the year I turned six.

  Just then, something moved in the periphery of my vision, but when I jerked to look, only the motionless gray house appeared. Hairs on my neck prickled. Someone was watching me. But who? I scanned the pasture and house again. No one. Must be my imagination.

  More than a mite paranoid, I fled from the window. Upstairs I showered and dressed, this time in a bright blue sweater and my favorite black jeans. Then I peeked out again.

  Still nothing to see.

  I returned to the bathroom, where I busied myself arranging my unruly hair and applying a dash of make-up. My face stared from the mirror. Intentional blond highlights enlivened my brown hair. Once thick, it had thinned but hadn’t grayed yet. Only puffy bags under my eyes suggested age. Maybe the laugh crinkles at the corners of my eyes were more numerous than in my youth, and maybe the smile lines had deepened, but I didn’t believe I looked as old as my driver’s license proclaimed. I certainly didn’t feel old inside.

  Jaclyn Smith still looked stunning at about my age. No bags under her eyes. Whenever I mentioned that, Jesse pointed out that I could achieve her look if I spent as much money as she probably had for plastic surgery. Of course, no amount of plastic surgery could transplant Jaclyn Smith’s sculptured beauty to my plain round face.