Edge of Midnight (23 page)

Fighting her way past the leaves or fronds or whatever they were called, she got back to the dirt road and immediately felt that itchy feeling between her shoulder blades of being watched. Looking around, she realized how isolated this house was. Trees—she had no idea what kind—grew across the rear. The grass had died from the heat. She wiped the sweat off her face with a handkerchief and stuck it in her pocket.

Shielding her eyes, she looked at the buildings behind the barn. She went to the house, climbed the porch steps, and rapped on the door. No answer. Kelby wasn't home, or wasn't coming to the door. The edginess of wanting to help somebody who doesn't want your help left Ida frustrated. She walked to the back and looked in the screen porch. Two wicker chairs, a small table, and an old wooden rocker. The screen door was unlatched.

Taking in a breath of hot sticky air, she followed the flagstone path to the barn. A glance over her shoulder, and she rolled the big door open. Dust suspended in the air. A car. Honda, newish. Smiley face drawn in the dust on the rear window. She memorized the license plate number. The air smelled musty, like old hay. Not that she knew what old hay smelled like. The loft held bales of it. Who owned this place before Kelby moved in? She'd ask Osey.

Outside, she squinted in the bright sunshine, and followed the path past a tractor shed, chicken coop, another small shed, and came to an octagonal silo—crumbling wood and maybe forty feet high. Sometimes, according to Osey, when farmers sold out, they simply left the grain inside. She wondered if grain left in this one had drawn the big blackbirds. He also told her rats got in to eat the grain and snakes got in to eat the rats. She decided to leave the snakes and rats and grain to their own business and get back to hers.

A smell of decay was everywhere, elusive. The wind, blowing strong, scattered the scent to the corners of everywhere, and made getting a fix on it impossible. On the far side of the silo, she found it, the source of the smell. Animal carcass, probably a calf from the size, covered with squirming maggots. The path continued to a grove of trees. It angled down the slope to a creek with an old wooden bridge. Trickling water, one of those sounds that erased words from your mind, flowed under the bridge. She made her way down the bank and squatted on a large boulder.

The sound of a car broke the spell. Jumping up, she clambered up the bank and ran along the path. Just as she rounded the corner toward the front of the house, she saw the car disappear down the drive and turn right onto the road. She sprinted toward the road, but she was too late to get more than a glimpse of the driver. Male, dark hair. The car was black, Honda or Camry maybe. How long had she sat by the creek soothing her spirit?

When she went back to the patrol car, she spotted the bouquet on the porch and trotted up the steps. A dozen red roses in a vase with a big, red bow. Boyfriend? Kelby's problem? The reason she was so terrified? A small white envelope was stuck in the bow. Open the card and see who sent the flowers. What could it hurt? Nobody would know. Her evil twin urged her to see what the card said. She looked at it, sighed, and rose to her feet. Okay, she was going to leave it alone, but she had noticed the name of the florist. No harm in finding out who bought the roses.

She parked at Angelo's Newspapers and Magazines and went in to get something cold to drink. From the refrigerated case, she pulled a Coke and took it to the counter.

“Miss Ida. Sweet as apple cida.” Angelo, midsixties with cropped gray hair, came from the back.

“If you don't stop calling me that I might have to arrest you.”

“For you it is free.”

Ida dropped a five on the counter. “Forget it. You think I want to go through life beholden to the likes of you?”

“Aw, if only…” He placed his hand on his heart, took the bill, dropped it in the cash drawer, and handed her the change. “So, what's up, Miss Ida?”

“Just thirsty.” She popped the tab and took a sip.

“Naw. I know you, you got questions on your mind. What is it this time?”

Actually, she had come in just for a Coke, but as long as he expected questions. “You know Kelby Oliver? She's not been here long.”

“Sure I know her. She was just here. Stopped in on her way home from work. Nice lady.”

“You say that about all the ladies.”

“And why not?” He smiled. “It's true.” He gave Ida a shrewd look. “And why are you asking about her? Is she in trouble?”

Ida shrugged. “She's new in town. Just wondered about her. Cops, you know. Always wondering.”

“Oh, sure, of course. Yeah, you wonder.” He made a soft snort. “I used to deliver her newspapers when she first moved here.
San Francisco Chronicle
and
Oakland Tribune
. Told us to just leave them on her porch. Wouldn't even open the door. Thought that was kind of strange, but people have their ways.”

“You ever see anybody with her?”

“Nope. Never even saw her till she started working over there for Dr. Farley. She's started stopping in and buying the papers now. She in any trouble?”

“Not that I know of. Why?”

“You're not the first person to ask about her.”

“Who else was asking?”

“Some man. Wanted to know her name, where she lived.”

“You tell him?”

“Why would I talk about my customers?”

“What'd he look like?”
I knew it,
Ida thought. Kelby is in some kind of trouble. This man is trying to find her. The description was so vague it could have been any male. Late forties, thin, tired.

Ida wanted to call Kelby's sister and see what the sister knew. What could it hurt to just call and talk? Maybe ask why Kelby didn't wear glasses when she obviously had a vision problem, find out why she was so terrified.

 

30

House key in hand, Cary turned a complete circle in small increments, dipping and tipping her head, trying to catch movement with her small spot of sight. Anybody watching would think she'd lost her mind. There were so many hiding places. The barn, two small outbuildings, the trees, the cornfield. Oh, God, the cornfield. Wind tossed the stalks and kicked up dust, just like footfalls from a person walking through. Grit blew in her face and brought with it the smell of corn and the sickly sweet odor of decay.

Heart tripping in a drum roll, she tried the door. Still locked.
He could have kicked in the back door or broken a window
. She went around the house, peering at windows, bobbing her head like an old lady with new bifocals. Windows all seemed okay from her position on the ground. The rear door was still locked. With a shaky hand, she unlocked it. The kitchen was just as she'd left it that morning.

It was nearly seven and still stifling hot, but she went through the house checking locks. She left the windows closed. All the slips of paper she'd placed in strategic places were just where she'd put them. Except the torn one in the front door. She pulled in a shaky breath.

Despair settled over her like a dirty cotton blanket. She couldn't breathe, or fight her way out. She'd fled halfway across the country and nothing had changed. He was still terrifying her. No matter what she did, she couldn't get free. She might as well just give in now, he was going to win, no matter how hard she fought.

The clock on the wall ticked, the wind moaned, and her heart beat louder than both. Give up. She'd never get away. Why prolong her terror? Why not just open the door and yell, “Come and get me!”

A shot splintered through her fright.
Mitch! Oh my God!
Wildly, she looked around for some place to hide. Maybe she should run. Out the kitchen door.
She could hide in the cornfield—

A fist pounded on the door.

*   *   *

Ida was rolling through campus when dispatch sent her to investigate reports of a gunshot. Overheads flickering, she drove to the Oliver place and banged on the door.

“Ms. Oliver?”

It took the woman so long to respond that Ida had adrenaline ready to charge, in case Kelby had been shot. When Kelby finally opened the door, Ida pushed through.

“Are you all right?”

“Fine,” Kelby said. “Just fine.”

She didn't look fine, Ida thought. She looked the color of cooked noodles, and about as sturdy. “We got a report of a shot fired. You hear a shot?”

Kelby nodded. “A shot, yes.”

“Who fired it?”

A weird expression came over Kelby's face. Ida didn't know what it meant. Guilt? Fear? “Do you own a gun, Ms. Oliver?”

“No. I—no. I don't own a gun.”

“Uh-huh.” Then why look so guilty?

“A man was seen here earlier.” Ida didn't mention she was the one doing the seeing and she'd only seen him driving away. She wasn't even positive he'd been here. “I want to make sure nothing is missing.”

“What did he look like?” Kelby was nearly trembling with terror. Her eyes didn't seem to be tracking either.

Ida repeated the vague description she'd gotten from the clerk at the flower shop. “Sound like someone you know?”

Kelby shook her head.

Ida couldn't tell whether or not she was lying, but the description was so vague it could be anybody. “I'll check out the house. Make sure everything is all right.”

“That's not necessary. I—”

Ida was already moving. With Cary like a shadow behind her, Ida went up stairs, looked in all three rooms, went down to the basement and shined her flashlight into dim corners. Something was definitely not right here, but she couldn't see anything that pointed at what it was.

She fished out a business card, told Kelby to call if she needed anything, and opened the door to leave. A big blackbird oozed blood on the porch steps. She squatted over it. Dead, apparently shot. She retrieved an evidence bag from the car, scooped in the bird, and threw it in the trunk with the riot gear. By that time the scorching sun was finally settling down behind the low hills, painting the horizon vivid colors of orange and pink and purple.

*   *   *

As night slowly crept in over the shreds of daylight, Ida made the rounds of neighbors. The closest weren't all that close, the equivalent of a city block spread between Kelby's house and the nearest. Several people heard the shot, but no one had seen anything, or anybody suspicious. Typical.

They didn't seem to know all that much about Kelby either, and that struck Ida as odd. They only knew someone had moved in because they saw the moving van, then lights and the delivery van from Erle's Market bringing groceries. That was six months ago. When they knocked they got no answer. They watched her drive by now and then, but she never stopped to talk or just be friendly. Lately, she'd changed. Went by on foot sometimes now, always looking around, up and down, like she thinks somebody's hiding in the trees, or she isn't quite all there.

Pearl Wyatt gave Ida the opinion that Kelby was stuck-up. Several times Pearl had waved and Kelby ignored her. The time Pearl made a cake and carried it all the way over there, Kelby wouldn't even answer the door.

“Well that did it, let me tell you. See if I bake that woman any more cakes!” She invited Ida in out of the heat. The house was so cool goose bumps popped up on Ida's sweaty skin.

“Isn't this weather just something awful? I don't know when we had such a hot spell for such a long time. Have a seat, I'll get us something cold to drink.” Pearl bustled off to the kitchen, a middle-aged woman, somewhat overweight, who seemed pleased to have company. Pictures of small children—grandchildren, Ida assumed—lined the mantle. An embroidered plaque hung by the door asking God to bless this house and watch over all who lived here. Ida sat on the couch and leaned against the brightly colored Afghan spread over the back.

Pearl returned with two tall glasses of lemonade and handed one to Ida, then plopped down into an easy chair. “I heard the shot. Did old man Lundstrom get away again? Crazy old coot. They really ought to lock him up. He was over that way the last time he got out.”

Pearl shook her head. “I saw her—Kelby, you know—lugging stuff around over there. Had a mind to go and see if she needed a hand.” After a hefty swallow of lemonade, she went on. “Didn't see her for three or four days or so afterward. I figured he probably scared her to death with all his whoopin' and hollerin' and carryin' on about Nazis.”

“Is she a good neighbor?”

Pearl gave a ladylike humph. “Well, doesn't cause any trouble, you know. I introduced myself when she moved in. But let me tell you, there was something real sneaky about her moving in like she did. Middle of the night. Had my own eye on that property, I don't mind telling you. Wanted it for my son. Just waiting till that skinflint Otis came down in price.”

Pearl folded her arms across her ample bosom. “And before I know it, she swoops in and grabs it. I was fit to be tied. But what do you expect? She's from Caly-forn-ya.”

She shook her head at the unfairness of it all. “That place would have been perfect for Al, and there that woman just goes and snaps it up from right under my nose.”

A loss that still rankled.

“I heard she's taking care of Dr. Farley now.” Pearl took a swallow of lemonade. “Darla Cleary, over at Erle's Market, told me. Did you know she had a stroke?”

Ida looked interested and Pearl kept going. “I didn't talk to Kelby but the one time. Just seemed to want to be by herself. I see her walking by almost every day now.”

“Does she get many visitors?”

“Not that I've seen. I just wonder why she's walking in this heat instead of driving. Once or twice I started to go out and ask if the car broke down and did she need a ride, but she just waved and kept on. So, I guess she didn't want anything.”

Ida thanked her for the lemonade and went out to the cruiser. Why did somebody who hid out in the house for six months suddenly start showing herself?