Authors: Brandilyn Collins
“Stellar.” I headed for the first aid section, close to the checkout counter, my rubber-soled shoes squeaking against the floor.
“A CSN night.”
CSN—Crosby, Stills and Nash. Perry was playing our name-that-song game. I slowed, trying to think through the pain in my head. “ ‘Cold Rain.’”
“You got it. The
CSN
album, 1977.”
I managed a smile.
“You one of those without electricity?”
“Yup. Went to my sister’s for the night. You?”
Perry grunted. “I got lucky.”
He folded his arms and watched me pluck a bottle of extrastrength pain reliever from the shelf. Perry is around my age, with an average build but strong, his hair pepper and salt. Dark brown eyes. A bit of a dreamer in a feisty sort of way. Not content, like my Tom. Not nearly as laid back. But I’ve always liked Perry. Solid—that’s the word for him, in body and soul.
Silence descended. Perry’s gaze slid to the nearby rack of Vonita’s weekly paper, then bounced away. He cleared his throat.
I walked to the checkout and set down the plastic bottle. Perry focused on it, then raised his eyes to mine. “Headache?” His tone revealed more than the question.
“Yeah.”
He opened his mouth as if words trembled on his tongue, then shut it.
I suppressed a wince. Perry and I had known each other for years, yet he didn’t feel he could say what was on his mind? The subject separated us as tangibly as the slick green counter. Was he judging me for that newspaper article?
He concentrated on working the register, and I paid him. “Want a bag?” he asked.
“No, thanks. I’ll just stick it in my purse. After I take some.” I opened the top and dry-swallowed two tablets, then dropped the bottle in my handbag. With a nod to Perry I turned to go.
“Joanne?”
“Hmm?”
He shifted on his feet. “For what it’s worth, I think it looks fishy too.”
The words practically glowed in the air between us, as if Pandora’s box had been opened. My eyes locked with Perry’s. I wanted to say thank you, squeeze his arm to express how much his statement meant to me. Instead I blurted, “Why?”
His gaze wandered past me. “You know Linda was supposed to be on her way here that night? Baxter said she had a headache and needed some aspirin. Funny, huh. Just like you coming in here right now.”
Not so funny. More like prophetic. A link from my best friend on that fatal day to me here, now, pursuing the truth. “I remember that’s what Baxter told the police.”
Perry focused on me once more. “I always thought that was strange. You know I’ve owned this place for years, before Linda came along. Not once did she come here that late at night. During the day maybe, but once dinnertime hit…” He shook his head.
“Maybe a bad headache was enough to change that.”
“That’s what I told myself. What’s kept me quiet all these years. And after all, it’s Baxter, so who would doubt him? But then when Cherisse died…”
“You don’t believe that was an accident?”
He smiled wanly and tapped the paperback. Shrugged. “Maybe I read too many of these things.”
“Maybe you’re listening to your gut when others are refusing to.”
“But it’s
Baxter
.”
I’d had the same reaction on that fateful day when Linda first told me things weren’t right in her home. One day during a visit—shortly before Melissa came to live with her and Baxter—Linda had seemed sad, weighted. It was so unlike her. I pressed her to tell me what was the matter. After a succession of feeble claims that she was “fine,” she gave in. She lifted up her shirt, showed me a large purple bruise on her back. I gaped at it, my mind refusing to grasp her silent message.
Never would I forget Linda’s reaction. Her eyes closed in pain, as if my stunned silence had sealed her fate—who would believe Mrs. Baxter Jackson, if not her best friend? “I didn’t get that from walking into a door,” she said, her voice bitter and bleak. And she lowered her shirt.
I scrambled to apologize. Tried to explain I’d simply been shocked. I asked questions, begged for more information. How long had this been happening? How often? How could I help? We had to go to the police, our pastor.
Somebody
.
But Linda waved away my
mea culpas
and growing indignation. Before my eyes the victim side of her that I’d never seen, would not have believed existed, pulled back into its shell. Linda’s buoyant expression and laugh returned. But after that I saw through them, realized the mask she’d perfected. And I would wonder,
Has Baxter hit her today? What might he do tomorrow?
If only I’d pushed harder, made Linda go to our pastor. But she wouldn’t hear of it. The last few weeks before her disappearance she couldn’t even hide the stress in her voice when we talked on the phone. Finally I threatened to go to Pastor Steve without her.
“
No
, Joanne. I’ll deny everything.”
“But—”
“It’s for Melissa. She needs a home. This will all work out. You’ll see.”
That had been the last time Linda and I spoke.
I blinked away the memories, startled to see Perry’s eyes boring into mine as if trying to laser into my thoughts. For a moment I wanted to blurt out everything. About Linda’s abuse and Hooded Man, my determined pursuit to finally see justice done. I had to bring Baxter’s horrible secrets to light. For Linda. For me. I’d let her down. I’d let her
die
.
The old sickening guilt washed through my stomach.
The moment passed. Perry was still staring at me. I couldn’t tell him his suspicions were wrong. Neither could I tell him the whole truth.
My head tilted. “You and I have lived over half a century, Perry. You’ve never seen anyone who surprised you? Who turned out to be something far different than what they claimed?
He gave a slow nod, as if acknowledging my underlying message. “Yeah. Sure I have. Like the Styx song.”
Styx.
I thought a moment. “ ‘The Grand Illusion.’”
“ ‘The Grand Illusion.’”
“Yeah. Like that.”
Perry pulled his head back, his jaw moving to one side as he digested my response. He’d apparently learned plenty from those detective novels, the way he was pulling reactions from me.
He gestured toward the newspaper rack. “That article. It’s the first time I heard how much life insurance Baxter had on Cherisse.”
“It was a rumor I’d heard.” Via Dineen at the law firm where she worked. One of the lawyers there was Baxter’s attorney, and somebody leaked the information around the water cooler. “It sounded plausible, since Baxter had the same amount on Linda. But I didn’t know for sure until I threw it at Chief Eddington and he didn’t deny it.”
“Half a million is a lot of money, even for Baxter Jackson. And right now, with real estate in the tank—”
The automatic door whooshed open behind me. I glanced over my shoulder to see a young mother and her little girl hurry into the store, hand in hand. They barely glanced our way and made a beeline for the bread aisle.
I looked back at Perry. “Gotta go.”
A crinkly rustle sounded as the mother picked up a package. She swiveled toward the counter, pulling her child along. “Come on.”
“Take care, Joanne.” Perry gave me a firm nod. “Do what you have to do.”
I blinked at him, my mouth opening to ask what he meant, but the mother-daughter duo approached. Perry shot me a meaningful look, then accepted the bread from the young woman. “Good morning. This be all?”
My body turned toward the door, my mind lingering on Perry. As I slid into my car I thought about Hooded Man, his possible cohorts, and wondered if Perry knew far more than he’d let on.
How different my house looked in daylight. Beleaguered and worn from the storm, yes. Some branches were down in my backyard, and water stood in puddles at low points in the grass. But inside the place was warm and lit, void of threat. It was hard to believe I’d sat trembling in the corner kitchen chair last night, waiting for the police.
How shadows horrify a mind.
I set down my purse and overnight bag, retreated into the garage to check the infamous rear door. Still locked and bolted. I opened it and looked outside, scanning the nearby ground for footprints. Nothing.
With the door locked once more I searched the garage for anything out of place. Again nothing.
My nerves bristled. Was it just from the memory of last night? Or a frisson at the thought I was overlooking something?
In the kitchen I pulled two fresh batteries from a drawer and replaced the old ones in Billy Bass. Switched him on to motion sensor. I waved my hand, and he went off, raising from his wood mount and singing. “Don’t Worry, Be Happy.” A picture of Tom flashed through my head. How he had laughed the first time he turned that thing on.
Stupid, wonderful song.
I took a shower, which helped wake me up. Had a bagel and cream cheese for breakfast, chased by strong coffee. I ate by rote, my thoughts churning. I needed to find Melissa
today
. Somehow convince her to talk to Chief Eddington. The thought of another long, unknowing night in my house—even
with
lights—made me shiver. After being awake for thirty-six hours by then, I’d need some serious sleep. But how could I close my eyes, knowing last night’s intruder might come back?
By 8:30 I was at my computer, copying my notes on the flash drive into the HM file. My fingers itched to call the Melissa Harkoff in Gilroy. She would either be the florist or my Melissa. If the former, I could hone in on the Melissa in San Jose.
It was a little early to call on a Sunday morning. I promised myself I’d wait until 9:00.
My mind flashed on Perry, his parting words to me. What did he know?
I drained another cup of coffee. My nerves had begun to twitch. Too much caffeine on too little sleep. I couldn’t even eat Jelly Bellies. The sugar would send me completely over the top. Nor could I listen to music. Sounds were too loud—the ticking of the kitchen clock, a car passing on Stillton. A buzz saw in the distance. Agitation rocked my stomach.
In the kitchen I sliced some cheese, drank a glass of milk for protein. Maybe as it digested I would feel better. At the moment it proved no help. I took a water bottle with me into the office, ducking to avoid setting off Billy Bass.
Back at the computer I ran my two SSNs for Melissa Harkoff through some public records databases on Skiptrace One. Most importantly I wanted to see if either the Gilroy or San Jose Melissa came up in criminal court proceedings or a marriage license. If Melissa had a new last name, I’d have to generate leads all over again. And if she were in jail I’d have a whole new situation on my hands.
Once when I’d just started skip tracing I spent days resulting in dead ends on a skip only to discover he had died. Wouldn’t hurt to check death certificates either.
The results came up empty—no court proceedings, marriage, no death.
I ran a few other searches until I was satisfied the two Melissas I was tracking remained the most promising.
Nine o’clock arrived. I ran two pretexts in my mind for the phone call to Melissa in Gilroy. Which scenario I used would depend on the sound of the answering voice. I picked up the phone to dial—and saw my hands shake.
Stupid. I’d done plenty of these calls in the past.
But my own safety had never before depended on finding a skip.
I replaced the phone, took a drink from the water bottle. Massaged my fingers. When I was sure my voice wouldn’t tremble, I dialed the number.
The third ring cut off in the middle. “Hello.” An older woman, certainly not in her younger twenties.
“Hi, my name is Mary Sawyer. I’m trying to find the florist Melissa Harkoff—who owns Bluefly Flowers and Gifts in Gilroy?”
“Yes, that’s me.” Her voice sounded pleasant, patient. It fit with the picture on her website. I felt myself relax a little.
“Oh, hi. Sorry to call you at home. I’m in the area and I need a bouquet for an event tomorrow morning. I saw from your website that you open at ten. If I came down then, would I be able to have something made up at your shop right away?”
“Sure. As long as you’re a little flexible and I can use things on hand.”
“No problem. Thanks so much, I appreciate your time. I’ll see you then.” I paused, then chuckled. “There’s another Melissa Harkoff in San Jose—do you know her? I almost called her first. Glad I didn’t.”
“Really? No, I don’t know her. No relation to me.”
Not surprising news. “Well, thanks again.”
I hung up and slumped back in my chair with a sigh. My heart beat too hard. But I’d done it. One lead eliminated.
On to the next.
A door slammed outside. I jerked toward the window. In my peripheral vision I caught movement in my driveway. I leaned forward, peering through the blinds.
Baxter Jackson headed toward my front door.
JUNE 2004
Halfway down the Jacksons’ hardwood stairs, Melissa stopped to erase all suspicion and righteous indignation from her face.
From the kitchen wafted sounds of Linda. Making breakfast for her man.
Mouth firmed, Melissa continued on down.
Linda was fork-whipping eggs in a bowl. She stood at the counter by the refrigerator, her back to Melissa. Dressed in designer jeans and a satiny blue top.
Melissa padded up to the counter to stand on her right. “Good morning.”
“Oh!” Linda gasped, her fork halting midair. “Melissa. Hi.” She did not turn her head. “What are you doing up so early?”
Melissa examined her profile. Linda had already applied makeup for the day. Her one visible cheek looked normal. Melissa shrugged. “Just…couldn’t sleep, I guess. You want some help?”
“No, no, I’m fine.” Linda sidestepped to her left and placed the fork in the sink. She turned away from Melissa and busied herself at the cabinet beneath the cook-top island. Pans banged. She straightened, a small skillet in hand. With utmost concentration she placed it on a burner and turned on the gas. Reached for a spatula in the island’s top drawer and used the utensil to cut a slab of soft butter from a nearby dish. The butter went into the pan. She would not look at Melissa.