Not understanding a word he said, I nodded to look intelligent. “If I wanted to see people inside a mine shaft where there’s no light, could I do that with these?”
“Yeah, sure.” He popped his gum and picked up a pair of binoculars, displaying tattoos of serpents cavorting the length of his arm. “That’s what thermal imaging does, picks up body heat. Doesn’t matter how dark it is.”
Zora Jane stood beside me without speaking. Her expression gave no clue to her thoughts.
“How much are they?”
He snapped his gum and crossed his arms. “Depends. Which model?”
How should I know? I raised my eyebrows and shook my head slightly.
From the sigh he heaved, I gathered that he considered my lack of sophistication regarding military equipment to be a huge nuisance. “They range anywhere from two hundred dollars to three thousand dollars.”
“Oh, my.” I glanced at Zora Jane. I didn’t want to invest quite that much in this venture. “Well, could I get something
good enough to see inside a cave for somewhere in the lower end of that range?”
“Scope, binoculars, or goggles?”
“What’s the difference?”
He rolled his eyes. “Scopes are single lenses mounted on your weapon or held in your hand. Binoculars have two eyepieces, a single lens or stereo lenses, just like the old fashioned binoculars. Goggles are binoculars you wear on your head to free up your hands.” He threw around model numbers and specifications to prove expertise in this field, which only served to confuse me further.
With my head spinning, I selected a pair of binoculars made in Taiwan. They had stereo lenses and a sturdy leather strap to hang around my neck. We left the store with our purchase, raced back to the car, and headed toward Nevada City. I didn’t ask Zora Jane’s opinion about whether I’d made a frivolous purchase or not.
But she came up with her own comment. “Christine, honey, we planned to drop off boxes, shop, and eat lunch. Who’d have thought we’d end up buying binoculars and oversized flip flops?” She giggled.
I tossed her a dark glance.
A few moments later we rolled up behind the black limo parked next to Morgan House. Too long to fit in the parking space, it blocked part of Broad Street. The Cadillac limo could comfortably hold seven passengers. This one held none.
I rang the impressive Victorian doorbell beside the door and stepped back to enjoy its sonorous tones.
In seconds, a tall woman wearing a long lace apron opened the door. “Yes?”
With an Ahem, I straightened. Maybe she wouldn’t notice my disheveled state if I used good posture. “We have an appointment with Constance Boyd.”
The tall woman frowned and hesitated.
“We made an appointment with Miss Boyd at the Union Hotel but we were detained and didn’t get back at the proper time. This meeting concerns an important matter. We really must speak with her.”
The woman made no attempt to conceal her appraisal of my unorthodox appearance. After looking me up and down, she moved to Zora Jane. Her expression softened. “Miss Boyd is not here.” She managed at last. “Her assistant came to make arrangements.”
Zora Jane stepped up. “May we please speak with the assistant then?”
The woman looked toward the end of the hallway and then made a face when she looked back at me. How bad could I look? I glanced down at my exposed toes. The two big ones had polish smeared with red clay.
“Please wait there.”
The ornate door crashed shut.
I glanced at Zora Jane. She stood staring at her brown leather flats which were speckled with red Nevada County mud. “Perhaps we should have freshened up a tad before our appointment.”
I smiled at her. Her curly reddish hair seemed a bit windblown. I could only imagine what mine must look like. I brushed a piece of dried mud off my face, wondering how much more I hadn’t attended to.
After a few minutes, the door reopened to Constance Boyd’s assistant, Rebecca. She didn’t look happy to see us. “May I help you?”
“We had an appointment with Miss Boyd—” I started.
“But you did not show up.”
My shoulders tensed. “Where is she?”
“Miss Boyd has many obligations. She simply cannot wait for people who are not punctual.”
What could I say to that? “No. Of course not. She must be very busy.”
Rebecca crossed her arms over her chest.
Zora Jane stepped forward. “We’re sorry to bother you about this, but…”
Was she going to say it? “My friend got sucked into quicksand…”
“… we had a bit of an accident and were late for the appointment. Please tell us about Miss Boyd’s return to our community. Is she here to continue research for her broadcast about Baxter Dunn?”
Rebecca’s stern scrutiny switched to Zora Jane. “I’m not about to lay out our agenda for you. That is my business.” Not yours was to be understood.
“Perhaps Miss Stuart is available. The producer?”
Rebecca shook her head. “I’m afraid not.”
Zora Jane tilted her head. “We have information that may help her uncover the truth.”
Rebecca paused a moment, blinking her eyes. Then she reached to grab the door. “I’ll tell her you stopped by.”
“No, please.” I pushed in front of Zora Jane. “We need to speak with her.”
The closing door halted. “If you wish to leave your name and number, I’ll give her the message.”
Lacking any better idea how to get an interview,
I scribbled my name and phone number on the piece of paper the assistant provided.
My spirits sank lower than the Lusitania while we drove home. I hadn’t thought we’d have Miss Boyd to contend with again so soon. I felt as if I’d been chasing horses on a carousel, racing in circles without making the slightest progress toward finding truth, digging deeper into the mire and obscuring the facts instead of finding clarity. How fitting that I’d fallen into a mud pit.
I didn’t express my brooding thoughts, but Zora Jane, being her natural compassionate self, tuned into my expression. “We’ll find a way to speak to her, don’t worry.”
I nodded, eyes fixed on the road.
“God is still in control. He already knows how He’s going to work this out.” She reached over to pat my arm. “You mustn’t get discouraged.”
“What else can we do?” I met her eyes. “What if there isn’t anything else we can do? What if we never find out what happened to Molly? What if Baxter’s murder never gets solved? Or Mary’s?”
She set her lips firmly and shook her head. “Then God has a reason for allowing that. We have to trust Him, Christine. His Word promises that He is good and that He is able to bring good out of bad.”
“Bad things happen all the time. Bad people get away with doing evil and innocent people get hurt. What good comes out of it? Why does God allow it? Don’t you ever question what God’s up to?”
“I know Him.” Her smile had an angelic quality. “I know He’s trustworthy. He is always faithful. That’s His nature. He can’t be anything else.”
I couldn’t see the light of God’s presence just then. I did consent to bowing my head when we got to her house while she prayed for encouragement, asking for help accepting God’s will and that He would make a way for us to speak with Miss Boyd.
Since I’d already begun to feel like my night vision binocular purchase had been a bit impulsive, I asked Zora Jane to keep them so I wouldn’t have to explain my stupidity to Jesse. I just didn’t have the strength to listen to his reprimand. Zora Jane promised to store them in her trunk until I needed them.
Truth be told, I was simply exhausted. During the two months since Baxter’s death, my safe little retirement routine had been completely obliterated. I didn’t sleep much at night and lacked the energy to exercise. Unless you counted hiking hills, moving stones, extricating oneself from a mud pit, and running from
soldiers with guns and dogs. We’d been so busy, we tended to eat on the run or catch a quick meal whenever we could so even my healthy eating habits had suffered. Not to mention the intense stress of losing Molly, Mary’s death, and being falsely accused.
As I walked up the steps to my front door, I realized that my fatigue extended deeper than any tiredness I’d ever experienced before. I felt tired clear to my soul. Exhausted and totally discouraged.
Jesse stood beside the kitchen island, making a meatloaf sandwich. When he saw the bedraggled state of my appearance, he stopped in surprise. “What happened to you?”
I fell into his arms and released a torrent of pent-up tears.
With his strong arms around me, he let me cry until I stopped, rocking slightly. When my wailing subsided, he pulled back and pushed a few strands of hair out of my damp face. “Tell me what happened.”
Haltingly, I recited the day’s adventure. When I got to the part about losing my shoe in the mud, he started to chuckle.
I gave him my fiercest warning look.
“I’m sorry.” He struggled to compose himself. “You didn’t belong out at that old mine. I sent you to deliver clothes to the
Salvation Army this morning and—” He grinned and shook his head. “This could only happen to you, Christine.”
“Oh, I knew you’d say that.” With one hand, I wiped my nose. “Then I had no shoe so we had to find a way to get the mud off and buy a new pair and by the time we got back to see Constance Boyd, she was gone. Oh, Jesse, we’re never going to get Molly back and we’re never going to find out what really happened to Baxter or Mary, and that woman is going to tell a pack of lies to the whole world on public television and—”
“Shh.” With surprising gentleness, he placed his finger on my mouth. “You’re getting all worked up. You know what you need?”
I shook my head.
“You need a nice hot bath.”
My shoulders slumped. To Jesse, all of life’s problems could be solved with a hot bath and a good night’s sleep.
“Seriously.” He pulled me back an arm’s length away. “I’ll get the tub ready for milady.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “Come into the bathroom in a few minutes. It’ll make you feel better. Trust me.”
When I reached the bathroom, my favorite aromatic candles glowed and scented the room. From the Bose CD player, Sarah Brightman and Andrea Bocelli filled the air with lilting strains of “Con Te Partiró.” A fluffy oversized towel lay within easy reach of the tub. Jesse welcomed me in and gently helped me remove the mud stained clothing.
I lay in the perfectly heated water with soothing lavender bubbles folded around me and closed my eyes. He was right again. Weeks of tension melted away. I drifted between sleep and wakefulness, wrapped in blissful comfort. Nonsensical disjointed thoughts swirled around my head like visions of sugar plums, a single tennis shoe bobbing in a mud pit, muddy boot prints, a black fringed purse stuck in the mud, Baxter’s patrol car dragged out of the mud.
My eyes blinked open and I gasped, sitting straight in the tub. Tracks. What about tire tracks? Baxter’s assailants would have needed more than one car. Had the investigators made casts of all the tracks found in the area? Maybe the murderers left tracks in the mud at Rawlins Lake, tracks that could identify them.
Good clue. With a sigh, I slid back into the tub. I’d have to share this insight with Detective Rogers, just as soon as I finished my bath and got a good night’s sleep.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Jesse allowed no more talk about the investigation until after I ate and had a long sleep. He was right about that, too. Tuesday morning I jumped out of my comfy bed ready to venture into the world again. First thing after breakfast, I called Detective Rogers.
The dispatcher put me on hold, but I barely started pacing before I heard the detective’s even voice.
“It’s Christine Sterling. I thought of something about the patrol car, the one they pulled out of Rawlins Lake.”
“What about it?”
“Did they take impressions of the tire tracks they found out there? All the tracks? Because if someone dumped the patrol car, they would need a way to get out of there. There had to be another vehicle. So there should be other tire tracks. Maybe the tracks could be matched to the black van.”
A moment’s silence made me wonder if we’d been disconnected. Then he spoke. “That is a logical assumption.”
“Did they find other tracks?”
Another lengthy silence followed before he spoke. “I appreciate your assistance.”
He didn’t seem the least bit interested in my insight. What else could I give him? “Also Constance Boyd’s back in town digging up gossip. She’s going to broadcast a bunch of lies about Baxter. Isn’t there something you can do about that?
“Thank you. I’m in a meeting just now. I’ll call you later today.”
In a meeting? Why’d they even connect me? I hung up, feeling quite disgruntled. How much longer did Molly have? Unless some headway was made on these murders, I might never find her. I needed answers and wanted them now, not later today. Rogers said he would call, but what was I going to do in the meantime? Turn the mattress? Clean the lint filter on the dryer? Learn French? Nothing seemed important except having the murder investigations resolved and bringing Molly home.
I’d just started upstairs, with my cat trotting at my heels meowing for attention, when the phone rang again. I hurried to my office to pick up, hoping Detective Rogers had finished his meeting. “Hello.”
The blaring background noise sounded disorderly. Machines clinking and banging, people’s voices, boisterous music. No one spoke.
“Hello?” I said again louder.
A small muffled voice. “Mrs. Sterling?”
“Who is this?”
The muffled static got worse, as if the small-voiced person had put a hand over the mouthpiece and yelled at someone else before returning to the phone.
“Are you there?” I frowned. “Is this a crank call?”
“No, no. Please don’t hang up.”
“What do you want then?”
“It’s Amanda. Amanda Colter. Do you remember me?”
Surprised, I plopped into my desk chair. “Amanda. Of
course, I remember. You rode back from Nevada City with us. What can I do for you?”
“You gave me your number. Said to call if—”
A strident noise drowned out the end of her sentence. She muffled the receiver again and yelled at someone. I couldn’t understand the words. Roy jumped onto the desk and waltzed in front of me waiting to be petted.
After the disturbance died down, I asked, “Amanda? Do you need help, dear? I could meet you somewhere.”
“Where?”
“Where are you now?”
The noise continued, but not as loud. The music could be coming from a jukebox. Maybe she was calling from a bar. But she wasn’t old enough for that and besides bars weren’t usually full of people at this hour. I didn’t know where Grass Valley kids hung out. Maybe an arcade.
“Amanda?”
“The Laundromat behind Kmart. In an hour.” She clicked off.
Roy waltzed across the desk again, tail pointed upward, purring like a motorboat. I ran my hand the length of his silken body. He nuzzled my face with his nose. “What do you suppose that was about, Roy? What does Amanda want to talk about? Do you think I should go alone?” I knew what Jesse would say. I let out a dramatic sigh. I’d have to tell him.
Jesse was working in the art studio above the garage, pieces of sculpting clay spread across his table. He bent over a sculpture of a lanky cowboy partly clad in chaps, but glanced up when the screen door shut behind me. “Who called just now?”
“Amanda Colter.”
One eyebrow arched. “Oh?”
“She wants me to meet her at Kmart.”
“Why?”
“Don’t know. Guess she wants to talk. Do you mind if I go?”
He frowned and set his
carving tool on the table. “She didn’t say what she wants?”
I shook my head.
Jesse brushed clay crumbs off his lap. “I better go with you.”
By the time we changed our clothes, grabbed a Diet Pepsi for Jesse out of the refrigerator, and drove into town, the better part of an hour had passed. Jesse parked the Jeep outside the rundown Laundromat north of Kmart, but since the morning chill hadn’t dissipated, he left the engine running so we’d have heat while we waited. We peered through the windshield at the rows of washers and dryers inside. No sign of Amanda.
Jesse looked toward Kmart. “Are you sure she said to come here?”
I nodded. “Think so.”
Jesse finished guzzling his Diet Pepsi and screwed the lid back on. “Well, she isn’t here.” He burst into song, drumming the steering wheel with the empty bottle to keep time.
Come and love your daddy,
Come and love your daddy all night long.
Come and see what you been missing.
Oh, baby. …
The minute hand of the dashboard clock didn’t seem to be moving.
Jesse stopped singing, but continued to drum the steering wheel, a nervous habit he commenced whenever he had to wait. It drove me nuts.
Five minutes passed. Five long minutes punctuated only by his incessant drumming of the plastic bottle on the steering
wheel. I wanted to grab the bottle out of his hand and flatten it, but that wouldn’t be nice.
“How long do you think we should—?”
Before he completed his question, we heard running feet and Amanda raced from the back of the building. Jumping in the back seat, she hunched on the floor as if hiding from someone. “Step on it.”
Jesse shoved the gearshift into reverse and backed out. “I assume you’ll let me know where to turn once I leave the parking lot.” He glanced into the rear view mirror, but she’d scrunched so low I doubt if he could see her.
Her drama made me giggle. “Why are you doing that?”
She tilted her head to shoot me a long-suffering look. “I don’t want anyone to see us together.”
“Oh? Why not?”
The Dunn Deal Page 20