“Can you expound on that a little?” I ask.
Chad smiles at me, sets his bottle on the side of the table.
“Sandra thinks that the world revolves around her. We were in school together and all through it she was the best in everything: sports, schoolwork, and drama club. She always had to be front and center. And if she wasn’t, well, it wasn’t pretty.”
“What do you mean?”
Chad is silent for a minute, staring out toward the street. The group playing darts groans collectively, then one of the men slaps another on the back. The woman yells something I don’t hear and a few guys laugh.
Chad takes another swig of beer, then watches me over the top of his bottle. His eyes rove from my face to feet and back again but not in a way that feels overtly creepy. Rather, it’s flattering. Or am I just so desperate for attention that I’m finding it that way?
His voice interrupts my thoughts, thankfully.
“Once she hired the school bully to beat up a kid who she thought was harassing her. He was a little, skinny dude, had a crush on her. Sandra didn’t like it, thought it ruined her image. So she paid this guy to beat the crap out of this kid after school.
“Another time one of her competitors for the role in a school play broke her arm in a school skiing accident. There were rumors, you know. She just happened to have an accident after the tryout results were posted.”
“Sandra didn’t have the lead role?”
Chad shakes his head. “Nope. For the first time in all our four years of high school, someone else had gotten it. But not for long. She ended up being re-cast, Sandra, as the lead. Big surprise.”
“People change,” I say.
Chad shakes his head again, takes another pull from the bottle. “Not her.”
“What about with Mark? She said they’ve been dating for only a short time. What did he think about her?”
Chad takes another swallow of beer. “Mark and Sandra? No, uh-uh. They weren’t dating.”
Pause.
“Why didn’t you mention this to me before?” I ask. “Anyway, it’s possible they were without your knowing.”
“No way. Mark thought she was nuts. He was seriously considering moving to another gym just so he wouldn’t have to see her. Said she was stalking him.”
“He told you that?” I ask.
“Well, he was joking. But I wonder—”
“If he was serious?”
“I was going to say that I wonder if he left town because of it. Seems a little extreme though.”
I chew the inside of my cheek again, wonder what Sandra’s deal is. And what about what she’d said about Chad? A convicted drug dealer—if that was true how reliable was what he was telling me now? If I could just get a better feel for Mark as a person ...An idea springs to mind faster than a cat on a field mouse.
“I’ll let you get back to your game,” I say to Chad. “Thanks for talking with me. And please, give me a call if you hear anything from Mark, okay?”
“Sure,” Chad says. He gives me a slow grin and turns back to the pool table. I wonder if he will or if he’s just trying to get rid of me.
“Do you play?” he calls over his shoulder while lining up a shot.
“Pool? No, not really.”
“If you ever want to learn, I’m here most Tuesday and Thursday nights. Stop in sometime.” I glance back over my shoulder.
“Thanks,” I say. “I’ll keep it in mind.”
He gives me a nod and a wolfish smile as another ball smacks satisfyingly. Is he flirting with me? Stepping out of the door, a blast of icy air shakes the smile from my face. I hunker my shoulders down into my coat. I need to get into Mark’s apartment.
If I can’t trust Sandra ... or maybe she is the one I can trust, and it’s Chad who’s lying. Either way, I need to know who is telling the truth.
Breaking and entering is a crime. If I were a private investigator, I’d lose my license.
Good thing I’m not.
Chapter Eight
Mark Chester lives in an apartment house that’s big and white and at one point was probably a single-family home. Like most of the houses in this area of the city, has been converted into multiple apartment units. I park a block away and walk.
According to the information from Sandra, Mark lives in number four. The front door to the building is unlocked and leads to a dim hallway, a stairway on the right. Small mailboxes line the hallway wall, one for each of the four units. Since units one and two are on the lower level, I take the stairs. Number four is at the end of another short hallway, unfortunately directly across from unit three where I can hear the faint strains of a game show through the door.
Should I knock on Mark’s door? Chances are he hasn’t been hiding out in there for a week. Still, how awkward will it be if I jimmy the lock only to find him surfing the internet on a laptop in his underwear?
Despite my unease, I decide to try to open the door on my own. A knock will only notify the next door neighbor that someone is out here; something I’d rather not do. I check the doorknob. It’s old and brown and round, maybe made of metal or even ceramic. There is a deadbolt above it. Scratch that. There are three deadbolts above the knob. Either Mark really is scared of someone, or he’s dealing drugs.
I try the old credit card in the latch trick three times with no positive results. The last time I try, my card bends so far I’m afraid it will snap and I’ll leave evidence of my visit lodged in his door. I pull out my little lockpicking kit. I’ve just gotten the first tool into the first lock when my cell phone rings shrilly. I gasp, nearly drop the entire kit on the ground. Glancing at the door nearby, I grab my stuff and hightail it back down the stairs as quietly as I can. I glance at the upper floor window as I answer the phone. A curtain moves, and then a white-haired lady peeks out. I duck behind a privacy hedge and follow it along the rear of the neighbor’s property.
“Hello,” my voice is irritated when I answer.
“Hello? This is Reba.”
Reba. Reba. My brain whirls and I try to pull my thoughts back to the present, shaking off images of lock picking. Reba. The woman from the Sunflower Special phone. I yank the cellphone away from my ear. I must have grabbed both of them when I left the office.
“Yes, uh-huh. How can I help?” I say, walking back toward my car.
“I can’t talk about it now, not over the phone,” she says. “Can you meet me somewhere private? Two hours and come alone, okay?”
“Well, I’m sort of in the middle of—”
“Please,” there is a gasp at the end of the word, like a prayer. “Meet me at the bike path, you know it? I’ll be on a bench near mile thirteen marker. Please.”
I look longingly back at the apartment building, doing some quick math in my head.
“You’ll come?” she repeats. “I’m desperate, please.”
“Fine, yes, I’ll be there.”
“Thank you.”
She ends the call without saying goodbye, so I stand there for a minute, phone pressed against my ear. I’m gnawing on the inside of my cheek again, a bad habit I’m trying to quit. I give myself a mental shake. My stomach growls. No wonder I’m nibbling I think and head back to my car.
Back at my office, I dig a dark wig and my theater makeup set out of the closet. Sunflower Specials require a different look, something to camouflage me from my real life. Imagine how awkward it would be to show up to meet a client for the first time and realize it’s a friend of my mom’s or an old grade schoolteacher? I want to go no-fuss today, so use the makeup sparingly, adding just enough shadows and fake moles to age me. I tug the wig into place and grin at myself. Yikes. I look like a blend of Cruella Deville and the Wicked Witch of the West.
Next, I drive up to Main Street and order a big smoothie and a couple of raw crepes from a perky blond girl at the Smoothie Bar. I don’t know about all this healthy eating. My head hurts. I’m hungry all the time. Or rather, I’m craving deep fried foods, meat and chips all the t
ime which gives me a headache. Or maybe it’s caffeine withdrawal? Whatever it is, it’s not making my life happier.
Drinking the smoothie, I wait for my main dish. It comes a few minutes later, some brownish-looking things filled with strawberries and blueberries and drizzled with a sort of whipped cream and chocolate sauce. They don’t look too bad. I push away the image of a Magic Moose sub from Big Daddy’s Deli Delight and try a forkful of the fruity concoction. It’s pretty good. Inhaling the rest of my lunch, I polish off the smoothie and smile a thanks at Perky Girl while depositing my dishes into a gray bus boy bin. The makeup pulls at my cheeks. I check my watch. Forty minutes to get to the Rail Trail spot.
I get there early and park in an area designated for visitors of the Rail Trail. Formerly a railroad line, it was converted into a walking/biking path years ago. It’s lined with crushed stone and follows some of the prettiest countryside in Franklin County. Motorized vehicles aren’t allowed, except this time of the year when it’s used by snowmobilers. There won’t be any out today though, as just a light dusting of snow barely covers the ground.
The air is sharp and cold when I get out of the car. Grabbing a woolen hat from the back seat, I push it down on my head, mashing the curls of the wig slightly. I check my appearance one more time in the side mirror before heading off down the trail. How embarrassing would it be if one of my moles were falling off?
I like the sound my boots make on the half-frozen gravel. Other than that, the only thing I hear is the caw-caw-caw of a pair of crows in a nearby field and the quieter chatter of chickadees in the bare branches of a tree overhead. The air smells like winter: a mix of snow, pine, and other earthy-things hibernating.
There is a figure on the bench as I approach the marker for mile thirteen. I walk as though I have a purpose, like I’m one of those people out getting my daily dose of fresh air and multiplying endorphins. As I get closer, I see that it’s a woman sitting on the bench. She has pale and eyes. I’d guess she’s in her mid-thirties, small and round.
“Hello,” I say slowing. “Are you Reba?”
“Yes. Thank you for coming.” She pats the bench next to her.
“Do you mind if we walk?” I ask. “We’ll stay warmer.”
She nods, points away from the direction I just came.
We fall in step; Reba’s legs aren’t much shorter than mine. I can smell wood smoke and another scent that I can’t place coming off of her clothes.
“I’m sorry that it took so long to get ahold of me,” I say. “It’s been really busy.” Plus, I’m a bit of a coward. I clear my throat. “So, you said that your daughter was in some sort of trouble?”
Reba nods. “Leanne. My daughter’s thirteen. She ....” The woman’s voice fades out for a minute. A tiny chickadee in a tree nearby says, Chick-a-dee-dee-dee. “She’s a good girl, she never causes trouble, my Leanne. Good grades in school, well-behaved girl.”
I wait for the “but” like a bad punchline. But she’s pregnant and we want you to kill the father. But she started using drugs. But she ran away to become an actress and ended up on the streets.
“We work on a farm in Enosburg, it’s a big place. More than three-hundred head of cow. My husband and me work in the barn during the day while the kids are in school, you know? We have three kids, Leanne and two younger boys. Leanne, she started working for the farmer, in the house. She works after school until dinner time. But now ...” Reba pauses again and when I glance over, she’s biting her lip, tears welling in her eyes. “Now I’m scared. I don’t want her go there anymore.”
“Why not?” I ask, though a sinking feeling in my gut tells me I already know.
“The farmer—he’s a good man. Well known, community guy you know? But I think he likes her too much. At first, he told us that she was like a daughter to him, he never had a daughter. But that’s not how he looks at her. Last week I went to the house even though we’re not supposed to. There was a problem with the pipes in the barn that brings water to the cows. I knocked but no one answered. I went inside.
“The farmer, he had his hands on Leanne. He had pushed her up against the wall and was trying to touch her. She was fighting him and when she saw me, she started to cry. He turned around and his face got real still. Then he told me to get out. I said, ‘No, not without Leanne.’ Then he got real red. He was so mad he was shaking. He walked to the barn, so fast we couldn’t keep up. And then he threatened my husband, told him we’d all lose our jobs if he caught me at the house again. Said I misunderstood, didn’t see what I thought I had.”
“What did your husband say?”
She shrugs, looks toward the ground. “Not much. He said I shouldn’t rock the boat, should mind my own business.”
“Even after you told him what the farmer was doing to Leanne?” The hair on the back of my neck is standing up.
“My husband...he was mad, really angry, you know? But he said that we can’t risk it.”
I stop walking.
“I’m sorry. You lost me here. He doesn’t think that letting his daughter get assaulted by his boss is a risk?”
“No. I mean, yes. But my husband can’t...he can’t help. And then he feels mad, so he tells me to mind my own business. He loves Leanne, he really does. But he’s scared, too, you know?”
Wheels in my brain have been churning and finally spit something out that makes sense.
“Because you’re not working at the farm legally.”
Reba nods.
We start walking again, Reba extracting a tissue from her jacket and wiping at her eyes, her running nose.
“My husband’s been in jail. Federal prison. He served his time, but no one will hire an ex-con. He was out of work for more than a year after he got released. I worked as a waitress but it wasn’t enough to make ends meet. Plus, we were already in hot water because I couldn’t keep up with all the bills while he was in the pen. Farming is what he grew up doing, so he went back to it. But the farmer doesn’t want anyone to know that my husband works there, thinks it would be bad for his reputation. So, he pays us under the table. We get housing—if you can call it that—and cash. It’s just for now.”
“Well, the famer—you never told me his name,” I say.
“It is Emerson. Emerson Prescott.”
I nearly trip over a root poking out of the hard gravel.
“Emerson Prescott?” I sound like a parrot. Reba doesn’t seem to notice and just nods in agreement.
Holy crap. Are you kidding me? is what I want to say. Instead, I murmur a sound that hopefully comes off as positive acknowledgement. Why didn’t I think to ask Reba who this man was before now? Why do I always forget seemingly small details which turn into mountainous problems?
The Prescotts have been farming the fields in Franklin County for years. No, scratch that, centuries. They are well-known because they are successful at it. No matter what hit the other farms take every year—hail storms or drought, an infestation of locusts, for pity’s sake—the Prescotts remain seemingly untouched.
On top of that, Emerson Prescott is known for his upstanding community involvement. He’s worked with the various schools in the area, volunteers on more than one nonprofit board and sponsors many fundraisers throughout the year. “Prescott Acres Farm” appears on banners in everything from the Enosburg Dairy Days to the St. Albans Maple Festival parade and many other events in between.
Crap.
Double crap.
I nearly blurt out, Are you sure of what you saw? and then realize how demoralizing that would be. Of course, Reba is sure. The stakes for her are high and the ferocity of a mother’s love is like a bear’s. I imagine what it must be like to see your adolescent daughter manhandled by your boss and landlord.
“I understand your situation, Reba, but how exactly could I help?” I ask gently.
She sighs and we turn and begin retracing our steps.
“My friend’s friend told me about your Sunflower Specials. She said you helped her. We have some money
saved up—I’ve been putting a little aside. My husband doesn’t know I’m talking to you.” Reba dabs at her eyes again. “I just want to keep Leanne safe. I want Mr. Prescott leave her alone.”
“Can’t you just tell him that she’s not allowed to work at the house anymore?”
“No. I talked to my husband and he talked to Mr. Prescott. He needs Leanne there, to help with housecleaning and some cooking. His wife left him—maybe two months ago? I’ve been going with Leanne—he doesn’t like it—but I told him it’s the only way. The thing is that with chores, I can’t always be up there at the same time she is. He said he needs help until he finds a housekeeper to come work full-time.”
“And if you refuse to let Leanne go—”
“He says we’ll lose our jobs, that we’ll all be out on the street. I told my husband we should call the police, but he refuses. No one will believe us over Prescott, that’s what he says.” She frowns. “He’s probably right, least of all the cops.”
I rub a hand over my forehead, then remember my makeup and let it drop back to my side.
“So, you want me to...hurt Prescott?”
“Not hurt, exactly,” Reba says. “Just get him to leave Leanne alone.”
And just how am I supposed to do that?
Chapter Nine
When I pull into the parking lot off Lake Street later, the sun is nearly setting over the lake. The air is colder, the temperature dropping quickly. I’m thinking about Reba and Leanne and Prescott as I hurry up the stairs and don’t bother turning the light on. I stopped by to grab the bills I’d paid but forgotten to put in the mail earlier. Tucking the small stack into my coat pocket, I turn to leave when the phone rings.
There is nothing like the sound of a ringing telephone or a screeching teakettle. Either sound says deal with me now! in a way that other noises can’t. Answer it or let it go to voicemail? My skin tingles. Another creepy anonymous call?
I reach across the desk.
“T.R. Waters Securities, this is Tayt.”
Hear No Evil Page 5