Vicki frowned. “Stealing?”
“The register has seemed light lately, hasn't it? I think he's been skimming a little. I'm sure it has to do with his other troubles and he doesn't mean anything by it. And I don't think you should say anything to him; I already did. But you should keep an eye on him just in case he's doing it.” I looked down at my feet. “I thought you should know.”
Vicki was silent for a long moment before saying, “Okay, thanks.”
I didn't know how to interpret that, and didn't care to think too hard about it. I so wasn't the confrontational type. Every time I tried, I ended up getting myself into trouble, or making a fool out of myself. Actually, I usually end up doing both.
Vicki went back out into the store, a troubled look on her face. I wanted to stick around and make sure everything ran smoothly, especially with Mike, but I really wanted to get to Cherry Valley before Penelope's Restorations closed for the day. I should have asked Vicki about her key, and still could, but I decided I'd put enough on her for the day. I could always ask her tomorrow.
Mike watched me, almost sulkily, as I headed for the door. Lena gave me a reassuring nod, as if telling me I'd done the right thing. Vicki was standing beside her, staring out at nothing. I guess I could indeed ruin her good mood.
“See you all tomorrow!” I called, putting as much cheer into my voice as I could. All it earned me was three half-hearted waves. Knowing it was likely all I'd get, I turned and headed out the door.
25
Cherry Valley wasn't much different than Pine Hills. They were about the same size, though Cherry Valley felt larger due to the fast-food restaurants and the large shopping mall downtown. Many of the houses I passed coming into town were cozy and white, with well-tended lawns. It was the kind of place you'd imagine retiring to, where everyone knew everyone else, where shopping was close by but didn't overrun the area. It felt as if it came straight out of one of those old television shows like
Leave It to Beaver.
A pair of women walked dogs with curly fur that matched the women's own permed white hair. They waved as I drove past, smiling as if nothing in the world could bother them.
I'm not sure what I'd expected to find in Cherry Valley. A part of me thought it would be full of old houses with paint peeling from the siding, windows broken and boarded over, a road with potholes large enough to swallow an entire car. Maybe it was the fact that David was living under a presumed name, so I automatically thought of an inner city where something like that might be more common. Instead, I found myself in a place I might actually like to visit every now and againâjust as long as it wasn't full of murderers.
I continued on through the town, taking in the scenery. I passed by more tidy little houses and bumped over a set of old railroad tracks that no longer appeared to be in use. The houses here were a little older, a little more run-down, but it wasn't as drastic as it could have been. This wasn't the stereotypical “wrong side of the tracks.” In fact, despite the older homes and businesses, I didn't feel threatened here at all.
Penelope's Restorations was on the far end of town. It sat between a pair of empty-looking warehouses that didn't appear derelict as they could have. The small bike repair shop was squashed between them. A half-dozen motorcycles sat outside, none with riders evident. The building itself could have used a fresh coat of paint. The old red, white, and blue had faded and chipped away long ago, though it still didn't look as derelict as you might expect. The garage door that led into the area where the restorations took place was up, and I could see someone crouched next to a bike that looked as if it had seen better days.
I pulled into the parking lot and came to a stop next to the motorcycles. I felt out of place here, knowing nothing about motorcycles or the type of people that rode them. And if the people who worked here were anything like the bikers on TV, I was pretty sure they wouldn't appreciate my showing up and asking questions.
I gathered my purse, not trusting to leave it unattended in the car, locked or not, and got out. As soon as I closed the door, the figure in the shop rose and turned my way. As it happens, it was a woman.
“Can I help you?” she asked. Her voice was surprisingly sweet, something I wouldn't have expected out of someone who worked on motorcycles. She stepped out of the shadows cast by the garage, and I saw that she was pretty. Her face was smeared with grease, as was her brownish blond hair, yet I could see through it to the delicate features that would normally put her on a runway rather than under tons of machinery. She even had the figure for it, the curves that spoke of someone who could easily have become a seductress. She wore dark blue coveralls with the arms torn off, exposing biceps that would make quite a few men feel inadequate.
“Um, yeah. I'm looking for Penelope, I think?” It came out as a question.
She chuckled. “You think?” Before I could answer, she went on. “I'm Penelope. And you are?”
“Kristina Hancock, but everyone calls me Krissy.”
Penelope wiped her hands on a rag she pulled from her back pocket. The thing looked as if she had dunked it in oil before using it, so it did little to remove the grime on her hands. She looked at the dirt and grease under her fingernails, shrugged, and then held out a hand. I took it and shook.
“What can I do for you, Krissy?” she asked. As she pulled her hand back, she wiped her arm across her brow, smearing what appeared to be motor oil across her forehead. I tried hard not to stare.
“I have a few questions about a man named Caleb Jenkins.”
“Yeah?” she said. “And why would I know him?”
That took me a little aback. “Your website says he worked here at one point. I figured you could tell me something about him.”
“Does it, now?” She bit her lower lip and looked over my head as if she could see the website somewhere in the clouds. “I don't really recall the name.”
My heart sank. If Caleb hadn't worked here long, it would be easy to forget him.
“What about David Smith? Does that ring a bell?”
Penelope shook her head slowly. “No, but now that I'm thinking about it, I think there was a Caleb who worked here for about a week before he up and quit on me.”
“Do you remember why he quit?”
She laughed. “Honey, if I could remember that far back, I wouldn't keep misplacing my wrench every damn time I set it down.” She grinned. “I hire enough people here that I can hardly recall who still works here and who doesn't on most days. There's a lot of people looking for work, what with the economy and all. I tend to get people who breeze into town and work for a month or so before moving on down the road. The only reason I remember Caleb now was because he actually seemed to know a little something about bikes.”
I thought back to the photos on Facebook. I supposed a scooter was close enough to a motorcycle, though I imagine there were also major differences. Maybe he knew something about both. I didn't know what he did for a living in Idaho, so I supposed it was possible he could have worked at a repair shop there as well.
“What more can you tell me about him?” I asked, hoping she could remember something else.
Penelope gave me a long look as she shoved the rag into her back pocket. “What's this about, anyway?”
I hated being the one to break the bad news but saw no way around it, not if I wanted to get anything out of her. Penelope seemed like one of those people who would talk only if they felt they could trust you. Lying was no way to earn trust.
“Caleb was murdered a few nights ago.”
Penelope winced but didn't say anything.
“I was hoping you could tell me a little about him. When he came to Pine Hills, he was going under a different name, making it harder to pinpoint who he was, where he lived, and so on.”
Penelope eyed me, a frown creeping over her pretty features. There was a hint of distrust there, for which I didn't blame her. I was a stranger here, asking about someone she'd barely known. She had no reason to trust me, and I hadn't given her any reason to.
She ran her fingers through her hair, darkening it with the grease and oil still on her hands. “You a cop?” She asked it in a way that made me think she might turn around and walk away if I was.
“Nope,” I told her with what I hoped was a reassuring smile.
“A dick?”
“Uh, a what?”
“A PI? You know, investigator or something.”
“Not exactly,” I said. “I've helped on a murder case before, but this time I'm doing it on my own time. He died in my shop, and well . . . I'd really like to know why.”
“Ah, that's cool, then.” Penelope rubbed at her chin as if considering what to tell me before turning away. “Wait here a sec.”
I did as she requested. I was anxious to hear what she had to say, hoping she would know something about the man I didn't already know. Even if she just had a different perspective, it might help me understand who he really was.
A dog barked in the distance, sounding angry. The shadows began to lengthen as the sun neared setting. I had maybe an hour of daylight left, which was fine by me. Once I was done here, I was going to head back to a McDonald's I'd seen on my way in. I was craving a Big Mac something fierce, having gone without for so long. It would go to my hips, I was sure, but I could deal with that. I still couldn't get past the fact there were no fast-food places in Pine Hills. It was a tragedy, to be sure.
Penelope returned ten minutes later, a dirty manila folder in hand. She opened it as she neared. “Not much I can tell ya,” she said.
“Anything you have could help.”
“Caleb came in from out of state, asked for a job, and I gave it to him. About two days in, some chick rolled in, asking for him. He saw her coming and begged me to tell her he wasn't around, so that's what I did. Completely forgot about the little incident until now.”
“Who was she?” I asked, interested. Had David, as Caleb, been running from someone? It would be a good reason to change your name and try to move on. It's harder to find someone if you didn't know what to look for.
“Just some girl who was upset about her man running out on her, I figure. I didn't much care for her type, I can tell you that. She was all dolled up, acting like she farted rainbows, demanding I tell her where Caleb had gone. Called him Cal, I think.”
“Do you have a name?”
“Nah. I told her to beat it and threatened to wipe my hands down her pretty pink dress. She glared at me from the safety of her little convertible before wheeling it on out of town. Think she's long gone by now.”
I racked my brain but couldn't remember seeing a convertible or a girl who matched the vague description Penelope had given me. If she'd come to Pine Hills to kill Caleb, she did so without my noticing, which really wasn't all that hard to do, to be honest. I didn't keep tabs on everyone who popped in and out.
“Was that the only incident involving Caleb, then?” I asked, hoping for a tale about some rough character showing up, looking for him sometime in the last week.
“Pretty much,” Penelope said, dashing that hope. “A few days after she left, Caleb didn't show up again. I figured he'd simply moved on. Happens all the time.”
Well, crap. While the story was interesting and all, it didn't help me much. I was starting to feel like I'd made a mistake coming here, when Penelope spoke.
“I do have one thing that you might be interested in.” She stepped up next to me and turned the folder my way so I could see it better. There was a scanned picture of Caleb's driver's license, the same one I had in my possession. Beneath that, written in a decidedly girly scrawl, was a local address.
It looked like my trip wasn't wasted after all.
Penelope let me have the entire folder, which contained very little else. Since Caleb was dead and not coming back, she didn't need it any longer. I carried it to my car like a trophy from a hard-fought match. It was the best lead I'd had in a long time. I'd been worried I'd have to question half of the town to find out where Caleb had lived.
I got back into my car and waved once to Penelope, who was watching me as I backed out. The address she'd given me didn't mean much at the moment, since I had no idea where anything was in Cherry Valley. Good thing I was hungry. It would give me some time to look up a few things on my phone.
I headed for the McD's and pulled into the parking lot. I snatched the page with the address out of the folder and headed inside. A sign on the door proclaimed free Wi-Fi, which was another good reason to do my research here. I ordered my Big Mac with large fries. Grudgingly, I ordered a Diet Coke to offset the calorie and fat intake, knowing it was a futile exercise. Water would have been better for me but far less tasty.
I carried my food to a corner table, pulled out my phone, and brought up Google Maps. From there, it was a few simple clicks, a little typing with grease-stained fingers, and ta-da! I checked the route, memorized it as best I could so I wouldn't have to keep looking at my phone as I drove, and then put it away, satisfied I knew where I was going.
And then I dug in, relishing every last bite.
26
Night had fallen by the time I found Caleb's house in the maze of unfamiliar roads. Streetlights lit up much of the road, including where I sat in my car. Small, leafy trees lined the sidewalk, casting periodic shadows across it. Houses, spaced evenly apart, ran down either side of the street. They were all pretty well maintained, and that included the cute little cottage I was looking at.
I don't know why, but I fully expected to find the house in shambles, a wreck of a place that had been taken over by the homeless, or at least nature. I thought I'd find knee-high grass, shingles drooping on a roof ready to collapse.
Instead, the house was a near pristine white with a small front porch, a painted white swing hanging from the ceiling. A mailbox sat near the sidewalk, standing straight up and seemingly empty, telling me either he received no mail or someone was getting it for him. There were no lights on inside, but that meant little if he was living with someone who went to bed early.
I glanced at the clock on the dash. It was a little past nine, so I guess it wasn't really
that
early. I'd seen a pair of teenagers walking down the street the other way just before I parked, but I had seen no one else since arriving. No cars had drifted by, and no curious faces appeared at a window. It was eerily quiet in this suburban bliss.
I shut off the engine and listened. I was parked across the street, between a silver Cadillac and a blue Chevy. Both looked well tended. No sounds were immediately evident, which was unnerving in itself. I expected a dog to be barking or the sound of someone's television blaring too loud.
I checked my rearview mirror for about the twentieth time since I'd arrived ten minutes prior. I hadn't seen anyone, but my brain kept warning me that Buchannan could be lurking out there somewhere, waiting for me to make my move. If he were to catch me snooping around Caleb's house in the middle of the night, there was no way he would let me off easily. I might as well book the downstairs cell for the next few months.
But I hadn't seen or heard any indication that Buchannan had followed me. Trust me, I'd checked.
“It's now or never, Krissy,” I said, focusing on the house again. I could sit here forever, but where would that get me? If I wanted to find out something about Caleb before he'd become David, this was my best chance.
I sat there a few minutes more to calm my nerves. I was hoping David had lived with someone and they'd be willing to tell me something about the man, something that would help me understand why he'd been killed. After a few deep breaths, I shoved my purse under the seat as far as I could, just in case.
I opened the car door, quickly stepped out, and closed it as quietly as I could, hoping the sound of the dinging and the clunk of the door closing hadn't drawn anyone's attention. I might only be there to talk, but that didn't mean I wanted everyone in the neighborhood to know I was there, especially if the killer happened to be around. The street was quiet, but that meant little if there was someone silently watching me from behind a tree.
The thought didn't help. I glanced wildly around, almost positive I'd catch sight of Buchannan's grinning face or, worse, a gun aimed at my head. If anyone was out there, however, they were doing a good job of keeping out of sight.
“Stop being so paranoid,” I whispered, hoping the sound of my voice would calm me down. It didn't.
I crossed the street and headed straight for David's front doorâI decided I was going to call him that from now on. This whole David or Caleb thing would drive me batty. Four steps led to the covered porch, which helped shield me from easy view, thanks to the lack of light. I moved to the outer screen door and knocked.
As I waited, I looked behind me, just in case someone was creeping up on me. No one was. I turned back to the door and knocked again.
Still no answer.
“Well, darn,” I muttered. Either David lived alone, or whoever lived here with him wasn't home or was dead to the world.
If not flat-out dead.
I shuddered at the thought. Maybe what I was dealing with here went beyond a book club or relationship gone bad. Could he have been involved in something that got more than one person killed?
I looked at the door and willed it to open. I'd come all this way, and I didn't want to turn around and head back home empty-handed. I knew that there had to be something inside the house that would help me. I needed a way inside.
I glanced around the front porch. There were no flowerpots sitting around in which a spare key might be hidden, so I headed back down the stairs and checked the mailbox instead. A neighbor I once knew kept her spare key taped to the inside, on the top, at the far back. I hoped David would have done the same, but the mailbox was empty.
And as I'd assumed earlier, there was no mail inside, either.
A nagging voice in the back of my head warned me that David might not even own this place anymore. I hadn't done any real research to check, not that I would know how to. For all I knew, he'd sold the place almost as soon as he'd bought it. I could be poking around some old man's property.
But I had to find out. I couldn't just walk away now, not when I was so close.
The front of the house was a bust, but that didn't mean I couldn't find another way in. Not everyone was careful about locking up, especially if they had someone else coming to take care of their mail for them, which I hoped was the case here.
I headed for the side of the house, shoulders hunched. I wasn't quite sure when I'd decided I was going to break in and have a look around, but that's exactly what I planned to do. It might be the only way I'd learn anything. I just hoped I wouldn't end up sitting in another jail cell, this time where I didn't know anyone.
It was practically pitch black between David's house and his neighbor's, which worked just fine for me. The ground sloped slightly downward here, away from David's property, causing the footing to be suspect. I stood on my tiptoes but couldn't quite see into the two windows that were there.
But I could still reach them. I tried the first, pushing up on it gently. It didn't budge, though dirt and debris rained down into my face just as I breathed in. I very nearly started sneezing as I sucked the dirt up my nose. I pranced around, eyes squeezed shut, as I tried not to give myself away in a sneezing fit. The urge passed, though tears filled my eyes, making them sting.
I was more careful with the next window. I stood on my tiptoes and pushed upward on the frame. It actually moved an inch before getting stuck. Determined, I shoved harder, knowing that if I wasn't careful, I could break the glass. With a grind, the window broke free of its paint trap and started to rise.
Allowing myself a silent whoop of joy, I grabbed the windowsill and tried to hoist myself up. I lifted off the ground all of six inches, feet scrabbling at the side of the house, before letting go. There was no way I was going to be able to drag myself up there without help. I looked around and found a metal trash can near the back porch. Bugs ran up and down the sides of it, and a horrible rotten smell was coming from inside. Proof that David had lived here alone? Or simply that whoever lived here now wasn't too careful about cleaning out his trash can?
I didn't know, and right then I didn't care. I grabbed the trash can and carefully carried it back to the window, holding it out in front of me as far as I could. I set it down with a slight squeal as a bug ran up my hand and onto my bare wrist. I shook it free with a shudder.
I was making far too much noise. Someone had to have heard me by now, though I prayed they wouldn't investigate. I knew if I wanted to do this, I needed to get inside, and I needed to do it fast. Ignoring the bugs, I put my weight onto the lid of the trash can. It seemed as if it might hold, so I grabbed the windowsill and pulled myself upright. Once standing, I pushed the window open the rest of the way, leaned inward, and pulled myself inside, somehow not kicking over the trash can in the process.
Instead, I fell into a sink.
All of the air gushed out of me as my stomach met the faucet. I rolled away, bucked my hip off the counter, and then tumbled to the kitchen floor with a heavy thump.
I lay there, stunned, for a long minute. I didn't think anything was broken, but my hip felt as if it were residing somewhere in my kneecap. I sucked in deep breaths until it felt as if I could move without pain. Once I felt steady, I pushed myself up off the floor, feeling good about myself.
It might not have been the most graceful of entrances, but I was inside. And no one had come running to investigate all the noise I'd made. I'd call that a win.
The kitchen was one of those eat-in jobs, cute and tidy. The sink was thankfully empty, or else I would have made a much louder racket, and probably impaled myself on a knife in the process. A table sat against the far wall, two chairs pushed in beneath it. A stack of mail sat on the table, unopened, further assurance that David had someone bringing in his mail for him and that no one else lived here.
The house wasn't as dark as I thought it might be, thanks to light trickling in through the windows. All of the curtains were parted, which was fortunate. I hadn't thought to bring a flashlight, so this was going to be tricky. It would be hard to make out much of anything with the limited moonlight sifting in.
I checked the mail first, not touching anything. My eyebrows rose in surprise when I noted the letters were addressed to David Smith, not Caleb Jenkins.
“Interesting,” I whispered as I moved from the kitchen into the living room. He must have changed his name but didn't change his address. I was also thankful that I had confirmation that he still owned the place and I wasn't about to walk in on a couple of strangers.
A couch and chair faced a large television hanging from the wall. A coffee table rested in front of the couch. Nothing sat atop it but dust. The end table by the chair was likewise empty. There were no pictures on the walls, no paintings. I got a vague impression that David hadn't spent a lot of time here. The house didn't feel lived in, almost as if I were looking at a mock-up of a house rather than the real thing. I wasn't sure what that told me. As far as I knew, David had spent all his time at Sara's place.
A set of stairs led up to the second level. I took them carefully, running my hand over the banister, just in case a step was loose or an unseen cat lay sprawled across one of them. I'd had my share of tumbles thanks to Misfit, and I didn't want to repeat the process here, even if it meant I might leave a print or two. It wasn't like I planned on stealing anything, so as long as I was careful, no one would know I was even there.
I reached the top of the stairs without trouble and paused to listen. I was pretty sure I was in the house alone but couldn't be positive. It was dark up here, though I could make out three doors, all of them open. No snoring came from any of the rooms. There were no sounds at all, in fact. There was nothing to do but move forward.
The first room was a bathroom. There were no windows, making it as dark as a tomb. I decided to risk it, knowing that if I was going to find anything, I'd need the light. I flipped the switch. Soft white light illuminated a sink that held only the most basic of supplies, and a tub and toilet that looked practically unused.
I turned and headed to the room across the hall. It was set up to be an office, I think. There was a desk with one of those short-backed office chairs pushed beneath it. A banker's lamp sat on the edge of the desk. It was currently off and I had no intention of turning it on.
I crossed the room and opened the desk drawer, but all I found were a couple of pencils that rolled around loosely inside. There wasn't even a pad of paper to write on as far as I could tell. When I checked the closet, some old rolls of wallpaper fell out, startling me, but that was all.
I was beginning to feel as if the trip was a waste of time. I went into the final room, David's bedroom, with little hope of finding anything useful. The bedroom held a dresser and a bed, but nothing else. The bed was made and looked as if it had never been slept in. I went to the dresser first and opened the drawers. I wasn't in the least bit surprised to find only a couple pairs of socks, a pair of jeans, and two pairs of tighty-whities. Moving to the closet, I found only four or five shirts sagging on hangers.
I turned, frustrated. There was nothing here, not one scrap of evidence that would help me learn who David Smith really was, or who might have reason to kill him. It looked like it might have something to do with the book club after all, something I didn't relish one bit.
I was about to leave when I thought of one more place I hadn't checked. I turned, got down onto my hands and knees, and peered under the bed.
And there it was, sitting pressed up against the wall beneath the bed: a shoebox. As far as I knew, it contained nothing but a pair of dirty old sneakers, but my pulse ratcheted up a level and my head started swimming. Could this be my big break? Something about how the box sat there, seemingly innocent, convinced me that this was exactly what I'd come all of this way for.
I reached across and dragged over the box. I scrambled to my feet, anxious to see what was inside, and hurried to the bathroom where I had some more light. I set the box onto the counter and then opened the lid.
Jackpot.
First I found at least a dozen different IDs. All of them had David's face smiling at me. Or perhaps it was Caleb's. Or perhaps it was Jerry, or Calvin, or Stegman. Each ID had a different name, a different home address. There was one from Maryland, one from Indiana, another from South Carolina. I sorted through them quickly, my interest growing.
Who was this man, really? Some sort of criminal mastermind who changed his personality every week? A secret agent who needed all of the IDs to keep his cover? Or was he just some guy with a troubled past who was determined never to be found?