Payne & Misery Page 7

  “What kind of Boy Scout are you? You’re never going to make Eagle Scout at this rate.” What a stupid idea. Molly had more sense than to come into these woods. I scratched madly at another spot on my arm, taking out frustration on imaginary tick bites.

  Jesse lumbered off again through the brush.

  I called after him. “Wouldn’t we have seen something by now if she came this way?”

  He didn’t break stride, yelling his answer over his shoulder. “Don’t think she did. She couldn’t get through. Plus, as you say, no prints or clumps of black-and-white fur on broken branches. Not a sign of her.”

  I nodded. Of course, the two of us would never be able to comb this entire area looking for fur on broken branches.

  After another session of pushing through the brush, we stopped again. Stillness embraced us with not so much as a breeze moving in the treetops. It felt as if the thick woods had swallowed us whole. Newspaper headlines flashed into my brain: Grass Valley Couple Found Dead in Woods Only Yards from Home. “What if we get lost in here?”

  Jesse shot an intolerant glare over one shoulder.

  “Seriously, Jesse. Do you know how to get out of here?”

  “We’re going downhill. Just keep up, will you?”

  But down what hill? I hurried to catch up again.

  After another interval, I noticed shafts of light touching the ground between the trees. We quickened our pace and before long pushed through the brush into a small clearing.

  Jesse stooped to examine a dark lump on the ground. “Someone camped here. Could be the tramp Ed mentioned.”

  I bent for a closer look. “Very funny. Why would someone camp way out here?”

  Jesse found a stick to poke into the mass. The damp clump tore apart like clothing. It might have been a shirt or sweater rotting in the damp fall air. Beside the mound, blackened pieces of wood, cigarette butts, and a rusty tin can minus the paper label provided evidence of an intruder.

  “What kind of fool makes a fire in these woods?” I asked from a safe distance. With as little rain as the Sierra Nevada Mountains had gotten lately, one small campfire threatened to consume the forest in seconds. “I’m surprised no one saw the fire and came to investigate.”

  Jesse pointed. “Look over there. Is that a building?” We trudged onward a few more feet before emerging at the back of the Paynes’ detached garage.

  “Well, look at that. Must be a sign we need to hunt for Molly down here.” I brushed off my arms and legs in case of ticks. We should’ve come here in the first place. “Jesse, come with me to see Lila. We can ask her about Molly. Please.”

  He put his hand on his hip. “Why would Molly be here?”

  “Just a gut feeling. That man took an unusual interest in our dog.”

  Jesse grabbed my shoulders and shook. “Stop with the feelings already—and the imaginary villains and jumping to silly conclusions. I want to find Molly as much as you do. I just think we should use our heads. And frankly, I’m tired.” He let go of my shoulders and bent to stare in my eyes. “Let’s take a break. Huh? We’ll go home and call the Callahans. Maybe they’ve heard something by now.” Jesse turned and plodded toward the hill leading to our house.

  He didn’t understand. I couldn’t quit. Not yet.

  I glanced toward the gray house but didn’t see Will’s truck. Drapes covered the windows at the back, with no faces peeking out. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  I turned to the stack of cardboard boxes.

  Laying three and four deep in a heap almost shoulder high, the boxes took up more space than I’d guessed from my exercise room vantage point. These boxes must be significant. I skirted the outside of the mound and returned to my starting place. All appeared to be closed and taped.

  Behind me, a shuffling broke my concentration and I looked up to find Jesse striding toward me. “I thought you were right behind.”

  I ignored his disapproving tone.

  “Is this the same place they burned the branches and leaves last year?”

  He frowned. “Looks like it. There’s a layer of black ash underneath the boxes.”

  I crouched to stare closer at the pile.

  “Christine.”

  I peered up at him.

  “We’re trespassing.”

  I shrugged, certain that any sensible sleuth would just open the boxes and look inside. Nancy Drew would. I removed my work gloves and stuffed them in the pocket of my jeans. I pushed at a box and heard the contents shift inside. “These boxes are not empty.” I pointed to the tape. “Give me your knife?”

  “Knife? Now hold on a minute—”

  I leveled a don’t-mess-with-me-now look.

  With a sigh and quick glance toward the house, he grabbed my arm and steered me around to face him. “Look, Christine. I’m uncomfortable digging in the neighbors’ boxes without permission. Don’t make me drag you home by the hair.”

  He picked a fine time to try his macho humor. I planted both hands on my hips and glared. “Like you Tarzan, me Jane? Come on, Jesse, what could it hurt?”

  He sighed. “Okay, Sherlock. Against my better judgment, let’s ask Lila if she’s seen the dog.”

  First we came to the detached garage. I tried the knob on the side door. Locked. I headed right, peeking in a dirt-streaked window. In the interior darkness, shadowy furniture appeared to be stacked high against the walls, leaving the center empty—a space roughly big enough for one car.

  “Is that a dresser?” I pointed. “Why would the furniture be in the garage and not in the house?”

  Jesse stood beside me, shielding his eyes for a better view. “That is weird.”

  After calling Molly’s name as we circled the garage again, we satisfied ourselves that she wasn’t inside. Then we wandered to the front door via a small wood-plank patio connected to the front porch and walkway. I knocked, paused, and knocked again. Jesse pounded. No one came.

  “She’s not here.” How could that be? According to Zora Jane, Lila never went anywhere. “Could there have been someone besides Will in that truck that almost hit us?”

  Jesse hunched his shoulders. “I barely even saw the truck.”

  Maybe she was hiding from us or sleeping so soundly she couldn’t hear knocking. Either way, no one would stop us. “All righty, then. Let’s see what’s in those boxes.”

  I spun on my heel and strode toward the pile. Jesse followed.

  When he caught up, I opened my palm like a doctor in an operating room. “Knife, please.”

  Jesse hesitated, but I didn’t withdraw my hand, so he pulled his silver autographed Chuck Buck knife out of his pocket and sliced open the nearest box.

  Sucking in a deep steadying breath, I steeled my emotions and peered inside. A jumble of fabric peeked back. From the clothing, I tugged out a dirty, aqua blouse about Lila’s size. Poking and pushing, I dug inside to find the box filled with ladies’ clothing—sweaters, pants, skirts, and blouses—stuffed together without care. “I don’t get this. Why pack the boxes with clothing and dump them outside?”

  Jesse shrugged and glanced toward the house again. “I really think we should go. Now, Christine.”

  A bolt of energy charged through me. Partaking of forbidden fruit ignited an unfamiliar thrill. I indicated another box while I replaced the shirt and tucked the box flaps together so they would stay shut. “Open this one.”

  Jesse applied his blade to the tape and popped open the second box. A wad of yellowed newsprint tumbled out as he tilted the box toward me. Voracious as though starving, I pawed through paper wrapped around various knick-knacks: a couple of milk glass vases, bookends, a few chipped ironstone bowls and small plates, assorted china animals—mostly dogs—and several mismatched salt and pepper shakers with salt and pepper still inside.

  I blinked at Jesse. “Why are they getting rid of all this?” Not waiting for his answer, I bent to study the ashes underneath the boxes. “And why take the time to wrap the stuff and box it like they’re moving if
they plan to burn it?”

  He shook his head, eyebrows pulled closely together.

  My groping fingers closed on a flat, padded piece and I drew out a business envelope with several photos inside. The subjects in the pictures looked strangely familiar—a younger, healthier version of Lila and Will. In a couple of photos, Lila might have been forty or fifty pounds heavier—hard to tell because a long, loose caftan covered her body. She still had that lost waif expression, but her face appeared rounder. Neither of them smiled. One picture showed Lila holding a puppy. “These must be Will and Lila, don’t you think?” I held the pictures out to Jesse.

  “Probably. They weren’t taken here, though. That’s not this house.” He pointed to a farmhouse, featured as the backdrop in several pictures, and then checked the Payne house again. “We need to go … now.”

  While I filed through the pictures once more, Jesse bent to retrieve the wad of newspaper that fell out, flattening its wrinkles between his palms. “This is a newspaper from Iowa.”

  Most of The Des Moines Herald Examiner heading showed at the top but only part of the date. “Zora Jane said they came from a small town in Iowa. I think that last number in the date is a five, but it could also be a two.”

  Jesse studied the heading. Since he wore glasses with lineless bifocals, he could read close-up without any problem. I needed magnifiers, since only my nearsightedness had been corrected by the laser surgery.

  “That’s a two, February 2.” He stuffed the paper into the pocket of his jacket. “Okay. Come on, Christine.”

  Jesse took the newspaper, why not one of the pictures too? I palmed the photo of Lila and the puppy as I slid the others back into the envelope, managing it unobtrusively. With a flourish, I placed the envelope back among the wadded newspaper in case an audience watched my performance. Then I folded the flaps together and piled the two boxes on the mound so the tucked-in sides rested underneath to hide their violated openings.

  “No one’s home,” I said, doing a mental hand rub. “Let’s check out the house.”

  11

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  I pounded on the front door. “For sure she’s not home. She couldn’t sleep through all this racket. Not unless she’s unconscious or drugged.” I punched the rusted doorbell once more for good measure.

  Jesse fidgeted at the bottom of the porch. “Right. Let’s go!”

  The white truck had not reappeared, and no sign of life presented itself. Despite the sunshine at our house, the sinister cloud of silence hanging over the property seemed to grow darker and thicker by the minute. I didn’t budge. “Something is wrong here.”

  Jesse threw me a disapproving frown. “How much real trespassing do you propose to do today?”

  “Come on, Jesse. We need to be sure he’s not hiding Molly inside. I know he took her. If you saw how that man glared—”

  “We’re not breaking into their house, Christine, no matter what you know.”

  “Okay. Okay.” I stalled to think. “Let’s just look around a bit.” Off I went, looking. I didn’t know exactly what I was looking for, but all the answers had to be hidden in this house.

  Jesse followed a few paces behind as I inched along the wood-plank walkway. Narrow flowerbeds between the sidewalk and the house held hard-packed dirt and a few straggling dried stalks. Firewood filled the detached garage.

  He stared at the wood. “Looks like they’ve been storing wood a long time.”

  Stacks of wood had been piled so tightly together that even a small person like Lila would have trouble squeezing through the gaps. “There’s not even a path to walk between. How do they get to the back of the garage?” And why hadn’t we ever heard them chopping or splitting wood?

  The little garage contained other things besides wood. At the side closest to the house, an old-fashioned rounded refrigerator like from my childhood crouched in a dark space with just enough room to open the door. Concealed by the short front wall on the side of the opening, I’d never noticed it before.

  A thick metal chain circled it, fastened by a heavy-duty lock.

  I leaned closer. “Why put a padlock on the refrigerator? Are they afraid someone might steal their food?” I peered behind the refrigerator into darkness to determine whether it was plugged in or not. Motor chugging answered back.

  In the rear of the garage, a row of storage cabinets stood like weathered sentinels guarding the wood. Stacks of firewood blocked the cabinet doors. Along the side near the refrigerator, an assortment of mason jars with old-looking liquids perched on spacers between the exposed wood studs. “What’s that?”

  Jesse peeked in. “Judging from the way the liquid separated, I’d guess paint.”

  Below the jars, a worn red gas can leaned against the wall. On nails on the other side of the jars hung an assortment of garden tools, their wood handles aged to gray and their rusty metal crusted with hard clods of red Nevada County dirt. At the far end, metal chains and ropes looped on hooks. A couple of aluminum folding chairs rested underneath. In the rafters, fishing poles teetered. An old brown leather suitcase and a well-used fishing creel crammed a narrow ledge. Two dovetailed wooden crates like the ones my father stored ammunition in held down an unsteady pile of flattened cardboard boxes. A thin layer of dust blurred everything.

  I finished my examination of the rafters just as Jesse stood from a crouch, frowning at an object in his open palm.

  “What—?” I didn’t finish the question as the significance of what he held registered in my brain.

  Dog tags. Molly’s dog tags. The O-ring that once connected them to her blue collar had been twisted open as if ripped apart in a struggle.

  My heart raced as I met his eyes. A wave of dizziness roared over me. I grabbed Jesse’s shirtsleeve to steady myself. “I told you that man took Molly. Where were they?”

  Jesse pointed to a weedy patch just outside the opening to the garage. His eyes held a mystified quality, as if processing this development required slow deliberate concentration. I bent to pat the area, but only found an abandoned spigot. The round faucet handle had partially broken off and the threads had rusted red. Dry hard-packed dirt precluded footprints.

  Jesse swiped his forehead and gazed toward the house. “This might be more than we should tackle alone.” He nodded toward the Callahans’ house on the other side of the street. “I think we need to call in reinforcements.”

  My eyes followed his gaze. I shook my head, unready to leave. “Maybe she’s inside. We could try all the doors and windows in case one is unlocked.” I knew Jesse wouldn’t approve, so I threw that last bit in evenly, hoping to make it sound reasonable.

  The stiff set of Jesse’s jaw revealed his desire to protest. I took off before he could do so. Striding manically from window to window, I tugged and pushed. The screens in the front didn’t move. I proceeded to the side, mindless of whether Jesse followed or not. All the windows fit snugly in their tracks. I continued to the door on the back stoop, which I found locked just like the sliding door on the concrete patio. I kept going until at last one of the back windows moved a bit as I pushed it through the screen.

  Jesse stood on the patio with his arms crossed.

  “It opened!” I threw him a pleading look. “Come here. Jesse, please. Help me. If I can just make this opening a tiny bit bigger, I can peek inside.”

  His expression said he wanted to say no, but he inched closer anyway. By then, I’d already commenced pushing and wiggling the screen.

  “If you find something, how will you explain your actions to the authorities?” Jesse always plans before he acts. I usually act first and then realize I’d have fewer mistakes and better results if I had planned.

  This time, though, I trusted my instinct. I needed to get into this house. Answers waited. Molly waited. I applied greater pressure, breaking a fingernail in the process. I stopped a moment to inspect the damage and then attacked the screen with renewed vigor to punish it for ruining my manicure. As if in contrition, the screen s
lid up and popped out. So I yanked the offending barrier from the window.

  Ha! Score one for acting first.

  I opened the window enough to stick my head through and peeked into the dark interior.

  A typical bedroom greeted me. A mid-century maple bed rested close to the window. The tousled bedclothes exposed one corner of striped ticking. My nose puckered at the odor of sweat and dirty socks. Washing machine must be broken.

  Beside the bed, an old-fashioned black dial telephone perched on the carpet atop a pile of wadded clothing. The enormity of the space dwarfed the bed, which sat alone in the center of the room.

  Jesse’s shout sounded far away. “Does the phrase, ‘breaking and entering’ mean anything to you?” The voice of conscience.

  I pretended not to hear.

  Jesse whispered, “What do you see in there?”

  Turning my head to his side, I stage-whispered. “It’s just a bedroom. Can you boost me up so I can get in?”

  He stepped behind me and put his hands on my hips as if he could hold me back. “Get in? Are you crazy? You’re not living in a movie mystery, you know. This is reality. Come on, Christine. Let’s get out of here. Do you hear me?”

  I heard him, but it didn’t matter. I’d come this far and couldn’t turn back. Opening the window as wide as I could, I gripped the side and jumped a couple of times. Somehow, I managed to boost myself upward far enough so my middle cleared the ledge. Leaning forward, the momentum propelled me off balance so I toppled into the room. I landed on my head and one shoulder with a muffled thud that surprised me and knocked the air out of my lungs for a moment. Pain throbbed where my waist scraped the windowsill. A stabbing headache pulsated inside my brain.

  “Christine Sterling!” Jesse stuck his head through the window. “I can’t believe you did that. Do you know how old you are?”

  This from a man who dressed in cowboy costumes. I closed my eyes and ears, but I could still hear him blabbering.

  “You could break something. Come out right now!”