In Plain Sight (14 page)

I thought I knew the answer to that last question. She’d been overweight when she was married, and the husband was running around with “bombshell redheads.” She’d grimly decided to get rid of the excess weight, and she’d done it. And wasn’t about to let it homestead her hips again.

I’d had to deal with leftovers too, of course. As carefully as I’d tried to calculate the proper amount of food to prepare for Leslie, it was impossible to figure it down to the last carrot. As Cass said, you could never tell if Leslie was going to eat like a pig or a hummingbird. I’d sometimes finished off a few bites of leftovers, but mostly I’d just tossed them. Leslie had never asked what I did with them. But maybe she checked the garbage can to be sure they were there.

“Did she call the police?” (Word
police
brings trio of child shrieks of sirens.)

“I don’t think so. I mean, Leslie can get up in arms over most anything. She jumped all over one poor gardener for accidentally cutting down some ugly old bush she liked and made him replace it. But I guess even she drew the line at involving the police with leftovers.”

“Were you working there when the neighbor rammed the gate with his pickup?” (Little boy on knees heads for bathroom, zoom-zooming toy truck with him.)

“Oh, yeah. We both heard this awful noise and ran out, and there he was, barreling right through the gate. I thought he was going to run us both down.” Sounding reluctant, as if she hated to say anything even minimally nice about Leslie, she added, “Next to that weirdo creep, even Leslie seemed almost normal. He really scared me.”

“Did he do anything else?”

“Before the gate incident he came to the house several times, haranguing her about using her boat landing and dock. Once we found red paint sprayed all over the boathouse door, and I was pretty sure he did it. But I don’t think she called the police then. She just had a guy come and paint over it.”

Thinking of the question Sgt. Yates had asked me, I asked it of Cass. “How did you feel about getting fired?”

“I wanted to shove her head in the toilet. And when I came home and told Al, he was ready to roar over there and do it. I think if I hadn’t hung on to the car keys until he calmed down, he would have. We had a really hard time financially for a while there, when we were both out of work. We’re still catching up on bills.”

(Little boy returns, turns toy truck into attack plane, and crashes into small girl’s head.)

“Are you?” I asked. “Still mad about it, I mean.”

“Oh, a little, I guess. But I believe in the Lord, and forgiveness is part of believing, so I’ve tried to just let it go. But Al, he’s not much on forgiveness. Especially when she only paid me half of what I had coming for my last week there. He’s still mad about that. Every once in a while he mutters something about getting her to pay up.” Hastily she added, as if she wanted to make sure I didn’t get a wrong impression of her husband, “But Al’s really the greatest, most generous guy in the world.”

“She shorted me a few dollars too.”

“In a way I feel sorry for her,” Cass went on as she folded a raggedy towel. “I mean, she has that big house and all that money, but you have to wonder what’s lacking in a person’s life if she can get in such a tizzy about leftovers.”

I was about done with the dishes, and I was thinking I’d thank Cass for the information and head on home. But just then one of the kids whopped the other on the jaw with the police car. A yowl exploded and then all three were bawling. Cass looked ready to cry too.

“How about you go relax in a hot bath, and I’ll watch the kids for a while?” I said impulsively. I turned to the kids. “Hey, anyone want to read the story about the fish and the moon?”

The crying stopped, and Cass looked at me as if I’d just handed her a winning lottery ticket. Without a word of polite demurral she grabbed a freshly folded towel from the table and headed for the bathroom. The kids stared at me expectantly, and I wondered what I’d let myself in for. Maybe they had some predetermined attack-the-babysitter plan in readiness. Maybe Cass had no intention of coming out of the bathroom until husband Al got home.

The kids and I settled on the sofa.
The Fish That Jumped
over the Moon
turned out to be a nice little story about a fish and the reflection of the moon in the water, and then I told them one about Jonah and the whale. They responded with a garbled version of Joseph’s coat of many colors, which they’d heard in a Sunday school class. Cass did come out about an hour later, hair damp and fresh and toenails fully painted, and by that time the kids were sprawled on sofa and floor in peaceful naps.

And I had a rat, a big black and white one, snuggled under my left armpit. Which actually wasn’t as bad as it sounds. I gently extracted the creature and nestled her beside a sleeping child.

I had no doubt the kids would soon be up to their live-wire tricks, but Cass looked relaxed and better able to cope now. And then I thought,
Hey, I enjoyed this. Why don’t I volunteer
at church to help out in the nursery?

On the way home I waved at Hanson Watkins, out in the yard washing his mother’s motor home. It looked like an older model, not nearly as large as Magnolia and Geoff’s behemoth, smaller, actually, than Mac’s modest home on wheels as well. And a different style, with a section for what must be the bed extending over the cab. Offhand, I wondered what one like that was worth.

By the time I got home, however, my thoughts were back to my absent whistle. I could easily buy another one, probably for less than a dollar. But this one was special. Silver-plated. Although silver plating wasn’t why it was valuable to me. I cherished it because it was a last gift from Thea, my longtime friend back on Madison Street. Thea was gone now, lying beside her husband back there in Parkdale Heights cemetery, but whenever I fingered the whistle, I felt the strength and warmth of our long, sisterly friendship.

I wanted my special whistle back.

I watched for Leslie on the trail, planning to intercept her and tell her firmly that I needed to come over and retrieve my whistle. I didn’t see her, but it was late enough in the day that she may have already finished her run.

That evening I tried to call Leslie. Sandy had another gymnastics practice, but I had a few minutes before it was time to pick her up at the studio and could drive over and get the whistle during that time.

I felt unexpectedly jittery dialing the unlisted number. Leslie wasn’t above throwing what Cass Diedrich had called a “hissy fit” over the phone. But I intended to persist. I let the phone ring five, six, seven times. No answer. Which meant … what? That she’d gone out of town again? Or, just as likely, that she simply wasn’t answering the phone. She could glance at a ringing phone and then, either less curious or stronger willed than I am, just let it ring. Another of her peculiarities was that, although she must be a technological genius with that computer—I once saw her physically open it up and do something with its innards—she didn’t even own an answering machine. She’d never explained any of this to me, of course, but I wondered now if her odd attitude about the phone was connected to the ex-husband and the failed company they’d been in together.

I took a walk the following afternoon at about the time Leslie usually jogged. Again she didn’t show. I was puzzled. Could she feel uncomfortable enough about encountering me on the trail that she’d change her jogging route? Unlikely. She was capable of running right by me—or over me—with never a glance. Yet, as I’d already observed, Leslie was a woman of odd contradictions.

Once more I tried calling her that evening. Again, no answer. I doubted she considered avoiding me important enough to stop answering the phone completely. So I was back to wondering if she was out of town.

On Saturday afternoon, when I still didn’t see her on the trail, I debated about going into town and buying another whistle. I didn’t like being without one. But I still wanted
my
whistle.

And I was, I decided, going after it.

I marched out to the Thunderbird, which, indifferent to my determined mind-set, refused to start. It had, in fact, been grumpy about starting several times lately. Battery or ignition problems? Nonspecific old-age debilities? Or just general stubbornness? I gave it a few minutes to pout, tried again, and this time it started cheerfully. I gave the dashboard an appreciative pat. “Good girl.”

The gate at 2742 Vintage Road was closed when I reached it, of course, and I now had no remote control with which to open it. I parked the T-bird off to the side of the driveway and crawled through the board fence.

I started out walking briskly down the driveway, but I hadn’t gone more than a dozen steps when my feet slowed. I wasn’t certain why. Because I dreaded what might well be an unpleasant confrontation with Leslie? Or because the place felt … odd? I hesitated, trying to analyze that oddness. A feeling of emptiness? Yes. Spooky? Somewhat. Scary?

Don’t be ridiculous.
I’d had a similar feeling of oddness the morning I came to the house when Leslie was away overnight, and nothing was wrong then. Nothing was wrong now.

I resumed walking, deciding I’d go to the back door I’d always used.

That was when I saw the flash of movement. Something … no,
someone
, moving fast—ducking into the heavy underbrush that separated house and road. A thud and muffled grunt as the person apparently crashed into a tree or stump.

Then … silence.

I stood still, frozen in midstep. The person couldn’t have continued through the wooded tangle without making noise of some kind. Which meant he was still in there.

Who? What was he doing? Or what had he already done? I took a step in the direction of the sounds, head cocked to listen for any rustle of movement.

Caution suddenly overcame curiosity. He could be hiding from me … or waiting to pounce on me. Whatever, his sneaky actions said plainer than words that whatever he was up to, it was no good.

In sudden panic I turned and ran, clambered through the fence so fast I clunked my funny bone. I was frantically trying to jam my key in the car door and massage my elbow at the same time I heard more thudding and crashing in the brush. Was he coming after me? I blessed the old T-bird when it started like a race car raring to go.

I thought I’d feel foolish for my panic in broad daylight. If I’d hung around, perhaps I’d have seen the intruder crash out of the brush and thus could have identified him.

But no feeling of foolishness materialized even when I was several miles away from Vintage Road. My heart was still in overdrive. The steering wheel felt slippery under my perspiring hands. I couldn’t swallow past what felt like the Diedrich kids’ toy truck caught in my throat.

All I could think was,
Thank you, Lord, thank you for getting
me out of there.

14

I drove on home slowly. So who was it, hiding there in the brush? A burglar checking to see if anyone was home? Or something more personal, perhaps the ex-husband or the man with binoculars whom Leslie seemed to think was someone named Michael? I hadn’t seen a car, so maybe it was the “weird creep” neighbor. Or someone else Leslie had had a run-in with, since hostile clashes seemed a frequent occurrence in her life.

At home I again tried to call Leslie, now thinking I should warn her that someone was skulking around her place. Again, no answer.

Should I call Sgt. Yates to tell him what I’d seen? I had to admit a reluctance to do that, because the first thing he’d surely ask would be, “What are you doing skulking around Leslie’s place?” And my answer, I wanted my whistle, sounded both petty and ridiculous.

Reluctantly, however, I decided it was my duty as a good citizen to report skulking. But when I called the county sher– iff’s office I learned Sgt. Yates was off duty for the weekend. I dug out the card he’d given me, which had his home and cell phone numbers, and debated with myself. Should I interrupt his time off? After a few minutes of indecision I concluded that wasn’t necessary. All that crashing in the brush suggested the intruder was as anxious to get away as I was. He was no doubt long gone now. So calling Sgt. Yates could wait until Monday when he was back on duty.

A decision I’d later regret. Although it was probably too late even then.