“This is my car,” I said. I sounded grumpy. “I bought it new in 1989 in Seattle and I've had it ever since.” Well, there’s a telling detail, said a sarcastic inner voice. That will certainly put him in his place.
He shook his head. “No, sorry, this is my car. See, my jacket is on the passenger seat.”
I glanced into the car and saw the jacket, and at the same moment remembered I had left my dog Emily Ann in my car. Certainly no sign of her here, unless she had magically morphed into a tan poplin jacket. I looked around and spotted my own car—identical to the one I was trying to unlock— parked two spaces further along, nearly hidden by an enormous SUV. Thousands of tan Honda Civic hatchbacks from the late eighties may still be on the road, since they refuse to die and get great gas mileage to boot. But I'd never before confused mine with another.
“Heavens, you’re right, this isn’t my car,” I exclaimed. I felt my cheeks warming. “Mine is over here—they look the same.” I took a couple of steps closer to it and saw Emily Ann wagging at me through the back window.
“Hey, natural mistake,” he said, his voice friendlier now. I noticed nice crinkles by his hazel eyes. “Sorry I yelled at you. No way could you see your car behind that behemoth.” He was about my age, on the shady side of fifty, with a fair amount of gray in his brown hair. “The first week I had mine, I lost it in a parking lot and it turned out to be hidden by a Subaru.”
“I know. I once toyed with the idea of carrying a can of helium in the car so I could float a balloon whenever I parked in a big lot.”
He nodded. “I tried that for a while, but small children kept stopping and demanding balloons.”
A laugh burst out of me. “Oh, that would never do,” I said. “Cars this small are considered choking hazards for children under the age of three.”
We stepped closer to my car, and this time the key turned in the lock as it had always done before. Emily Ann hopped onto the driver’s seat. When I opened the door she descended to the sidewalk and moved to the man’s black dog. She ignored me as I grabbed for the leash attached to her collar.
Both tails started wagging. The dogs did their ritual greetings, circling and sniffing. His dog sported a long body, short legs, an exaggerated snout, and long droopy ears, clothed in shiny black hair. “What kind of mix is he?” I couldn’t help asking. Dog lovers never can.
“I suspect he’s a cross between a black lab and a basset.” His voice was a smooth baritone, attractive and curiously soothing. “I always wonder how they know they’re both dogs,” he added, his eyes on the two animals.
“I know,” I agreed, “It must be body language.” Certainly the two dogs could not have been more dissimilar physically. Emily Ann is very tall, with a smooth dark gray coat.
They say that people look like their dogs, that we choose pets that reflect us. I think our pets reflect what we find attractive. Emily Ann is a runway-model type—long legs, narrow body, huge eyes and a big smile. Which would also describe this man, who was tall and thin and moved with the same sort of diffident grace. His dog, on the other hand, had that long body and short legs and exhibited not the slightest trace of elegance. And while I’m okay for everyday use, I must admit that I’m long waisted and a bit short legged. My nose is on the small side though, and my ears are definitely not droopy.
“I bet he was a really funny puppy,” I said, smiling at the sight of his dog stretched out in a play bow with his ears brushing the ground. The bad mood I'd brought out of the lawyer’s office had disappeared.
“I imagine he was, but he came to me a gentleman of mature years,” Bob said. “I'm Bob Richardson, by the way, and this is Jack.” He slung the small backpack he was holding over his shoulder and held out his hand.
“Louisa McGuire,” I told him, “and this is Emily Ann.” I shook his hand; it was warm and smooth and held mine with just the right amount of pressure.
“And did you get Emily Ann as a pup?”
“No, she spent her early life as a racer. But she didn’t make enough money so when she was two her owners turned her over to a rescue group. I've had her about six months.”
“Jack’s been with me just a few weeks, but I suspect we must have known each other in another life. He felt permanent the first time I met him. You said you bought your car in Seattle, is that where you’re from?”
I shook my head. “I grew up here, and moved to Washington when I married. I came back last spring. And you? I don’t remember you from high school.”
“I've just moved here from High Cross.” He looked at his watch. “Two weeks tomorrow. I don’t know anyone yet. I bought groceries on Friday so I could chat with the clerks at the grocery store. Pathetic, really. I don’t suppose you’re actually a grocery clerk in your spare time?”
I shook my head. “Not guilty.”
“Any chance you’d take pity and have coffee with me and tell me what I need to know about this place? Do you have time?”
I looked at him. He didn’t in any way match my idea of an ax murderer, and he did have a very nice dog. “Well, sure, I don’t see why not. Do you know the Bluebird Café around the corner at Third and Maple? They have some outdoor tables where we can have the dogs with us.”
“Sounds perfect. What street is this, First? I could toddle a couple of blocks. Do you need to float a balloon or anything?”
“Not this time,” I assured him, and turned back to my car. I put the briefcase with its load of unwelcome paperwork behind the seat, slammed the door, and secured it with my key, which turned sweetly in the lock.
Chapter Four
The Food Right where Bob had left me in his car was an older store that had never been remodeled into a giant warehouse where you needed either hiking boots or roller blades to facilitate your grocery shopping. One of the fluorescent tubes over the bags of charcoal briquettes near the door flickered a bit, almost but not quite keeping time to the luxurious music that washed through the air. It took a moment to recognize it as a string version of the theme song from the old Yogi Bear cartoon show.
I looked down each aisle as I passed, and again as I walked back to the checkout area. It was a slow evening. I saw only two customers in the store: a short woman in her eighties in a pink sweat suit and jogging shoes who swayed to the music as she squinted at the labels on a tuna can, and a young man selecting lettuce, tattoos running out of his sleeveless blue t-shirt to his wrist.
At the front of the store one checkout line was open, inhabited by a clerk in her mid thirties with café au lait skin smoothed over lush curves. Her cheeks were rounded and dimpled, and her eyes nearly disappeared when she smiled at me. She had dozens of long braids that danced as she moved her head. Lounging at the end of the counter was a teenage bag boy. He was so slight I couldn’t imagine him lifting full bags into anyone’s trunk. He appeared young enough to be working illegally, but was evidently of an age to appreciate the charms of the checker. His eyes were glued to her and while he was not actually drooling, he did appear slightly slack-jawed. But perhaps that was a reaction to the music, which had segued into an elevator version of “Blue Bayou.”
The woman gave me her dazzling smile. “Hey, hon,” she said, “you need help finding something?”
“Well, sort of,” I admitted. “Did either of you notice a tall man in here a little while ago? Brown hair, middle age? He was wearing a plaid shirt and a blue sweater and jeans and high-topped tennis shoes? I was, um, supposed to pick him up and I can't find him.”
“Sorry,” she said, “I didn’t see him. They all run together after a while, you know?”
I nodded. “They do, don’t they?” I turned to the boy. “Did you see him?”
He screwed his face up and looked toward the ceiling. “Well, I did see a guy in high tops, which is what I noticed about him? But he wasn’t alone, he was with a lady? She was real dressed up and they didn’t look like they belonged together? But they went out at the same time so I guess they were.”
I thanked them bo
th and left the store. Strains of a relentlessly upbeat-tempo’d “Hey, Jude” followed me into the night. A muddy pickup passed as I stepped off the curb into the parking lot. Bob was not waiting here for me to find him. I could do nothing about him right now. But he had been buying dog food, which meant Jack was hungry. Whatever had happened to Bob, the dog needed to be taken care of. And maybe—why hadn’t I thought of this before?—Bob and the blonde had gone to his house. They hadn't been going in that direction, but they could have circled around. They could already be there.
Thickening fog helped the row of dark evergreen trees hide Bob’s house from the road. I drove slowly down the long driveway that turned off near the Willow Creek. The only glimmer of light came from the small fixture by the front door and a dim glow through white curtains. No gray Mercedes could be seen.
I'd been here a couple of days earlier to take Bob and Jack to the dog park. In the morning sunshine the place had been charming, but now it seemed positively haunted. I expected to hear movie-soundtrack ooohing sounds from the wisps of fog drifting by the gray stone walls. If it hadn’t been for Jack, nothing could have gotten me out of the car. But I heard his absurdly deep bark from inside the house, so I parked as close to the porch as I could, pulled Bob’s keys from the ignition, and climbed out.
Bob had a number ofkeys on his ring. The car key looked like mine, of course, but I had to try several to find the house key. By the time the right one turned in the lock, Jack had stopped barking and was whining and snuffling at the base of the door.
Jack’s gladness to see me took the form of circles: he became a whirling dervish of a dog, bucking as he turned. Five times around and then he stopped abruptly, panting and wagging furiously at me.
“Hey, Jack, how’s the sweet boy?” I knelt to rumple his baggy coat and receive a small kiss on the earlobe. “Any sign of Bob? No? Well, wait just a minute while I get your leash so we can go out.” Oops, I shouldn’t have said the O word. He started whirling again.
Bob kept Jack’s leash on the knob of the back door. I stepped from the tiny entry into the living room, which was dimly lit by a small lamp on the mantel. Dark blue draperies at the big front window were open, but sheer under-curtains held back the night. I walked past built-in bookcases flanking the fireplace, through an arched doorway to the dining room, and into the kitchen. Another light glowed here, giving enough illumination that I didn’t bother to turn on any others. Jack’s behavior convinced me that no one else was in the house.
The light came from the hood over the stove. On the counter nearby I saw a red message light blinking on a telephone with a built-in answering machine. Normally I would never listen to someone else’s messages. Really. But you could hardly call this evening normal. I punched a button.
The caller had started talking before the beep. “…you’re there pick up the phone, I need to talk to you now. Damn. Damn damn damn. Listen, they may have spotted you. I don’t know if someone tipped them off or if it was just stupid luck. Be careful. I'll call later.” The machine beeped, then gave the time of the call as 6:47.
My heart started beating faster. “Who was that on the phone?” I asked the dog. “Did you recognize the voice?”
He wagged in reply, which was not much help. The message convinced me Bob had not left me marooned on a whim. Maybe it would change Officer Johnson’s professional opinion about what had happened. I would call the police station and leave him a message.
I picked up the phone and started to dial 911. Stopped. Was this an emergency? And did 911 calls go to the local station, or somewhere else? Maybe it would be better to call the regular line. I looked around for a phone book. It stood with a short row of neatly arranged cookbooks on the counter, supported by two sturdy bookends decorated with carved wooden owls. I looked up the police station number by the light from the stove hood, and dialed quickly before I lost my nerve.
“Willow Falls Police.” I recognized the deep voice that had so annoyed me a short time ago. He hadn't wasted any time getting back to the police station. Did he do everything down there?
“Officer Johnson? This is Louisa McGuire.”
“Ah, yes, Mrs. McGuire. How can I help you?” I could hear patience in his voice, which irritated me. A lot.
“I'm at Bob’s house. Bob Richardson’s. I came to pick up his dog. Jack. So he wouldn’t go hungry.” I'm babbling, I thought. At least I hadn't burbled anything about not wanting Jack to be forced to pee in the house. Yet.
“Yes?”
“I really do think Bob has been kidnapped. He hasn’t come home, and I found a weird message on his phone machine.”
“Weird in what way? Can you play it back for me?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. I avoid electronic equipment when I can, especially phones. “Will it play while I'm talking on the phone?”
“Push whichever button points to the right.” A suspicion of a sigh came over the line.
I squinted at the machine. “Okay, let me try this.” I pushed a button.
The machine announced in a metallic voice, “Message erased. There are no further messages.”
“Uh oh.” I peered more closely at the machine and saw ‘Delete’ in tiny letters on the button I had pushed.
“What? Mrs. McGuire, did you erase the message?”
“Yes.” I really hate telephones.
He breathed at me. “Can you tell me what it said?”
I swallowed hard. “The—the person said that Bob needed to be careful because someone had spotted him.”
“Was that the whole message?”
“I think so.” I had listened to it only seconds ago but little had lodged in my memory. “They said they’d call again.”
“Was the caller a man or a woman?”
“I couldn’t tell. It was in that middle register that could be either.”
“Did you notice anything about the voice? An accent maybe, or a lisp or something?”
“No, nothing like that.”
“I see. So what did you want me to do?”
I felt my jaw tighten. “I want you to look for Bob.”
“I see.” Didn’t the man know any other phrases? “I can't act on a message that doesn’t exist. You should make sure the message machine is turned on and go home. Or you could stay in case the caller rings back, or Mr. Richardson returns. Personally, I think you should just go home.”
“That’s your personal opinion? Not a professional one?”
“In this case it's both. You’ve had an exciting evening and you should call it a night.” He was speaking slowly and evenly.
Did he think I was demented? Perhaps that I had made up this whole unlikely scenario? Crazed widow fakes kidnapping to get attention? The last thing I needed was any more attention of the variety that might include the press; my experience when Roger died was enough to last several lifetimes.
“Thank you, those are no doubt excellent suggestions,” I said. “I'm sorry to have bothered you. Good night.”
He had more to say. The receiver was squawking as I hung it up. I picked up the answering machine. I wanted very much to smash it on something hard. I swallowed, and held it closer to the light to ascertain that it was still set to take messages. As far as I could tell it was. I put it back where it had been.
“Come on, Jack,” I told him, grabbing his leash. “Let’s go for a ride. You can have some of Emily Ann’s food when we get to my house.”
Chapter Five
I locked the car door as soon as Jack and I were inside. I was in a mood to see phantoms rising out of the swirling fog, crouching just beyond the pool of light that preceded me as I drove back up the drive. I made a left and continued across the river, following the dark curve of the road as it headed west.
“Jack,” I said, “what’s going on here? Do you know who that blonde woman was?” I glanced over at his attentive face. “You want to know what she looked like? Well, if she were a dog she’d be a standard poodle,” I told him. “Groomed for the s
how ring.” I drove for a while, thinking. “You know what seemed really weird? That business of them getting in the same side of the car. Nobody does that anymore. Bucket seats must have ended that. I haven’t seen anyone do that since I was about seventeen years old and we know how long that’s been.”
Jack cocked his head to one side as though to ask, how long?
“Just do the math yourself,” I told him tartly. Not that I cared if anyone knew my age, let alone a dog, but I didn’t think I could do the math and drive at the same time, at least not tonight. “That car must have been old enough to have bench seats. It really was a classic.”
I glanced in the rear view mirror. Headlights. They felt too close. I slowed to make a right turn, then speeded up. The headlights maintained the same distance. “How long has that car been behind us?” I asked Jack. I told myself it was ridiculous to be worried, but at the next intersection I made another right turn, and so did the other car. I drove a few blocks and made a quick left into a residential area and floored the accelerator. I'd gone only half a block when a car turned from the street I'd been on.
Was I being followed, or was it a coincidence? A couple of random turns in this neighborhood of curving streets should tell me. I signaled and turned right. Damn it, I thought, stop with the signaling. I'd been law abiding for too long, no matter what Officer Johnson might think. I curled around the next bend before I saw if the other car turned or not.
In the middle of the block I noticed a house that had no lights on. I pulled into the driveway and doused my lights, hoping that no one was home to call the cops or get out the tea and cookies. I slid down in my seat so that my head was level with the headrest. Jack whined and nudged his short front legs into my lap, and I hugged him hard as we cowered in the dark.
My heart had time for only three or four quick thuds before headlights appeared at the end of the block and swung around the corner. As the car accelerated, I sat still as any cornered prey, hoping for invisibility. It worked. The other car swept past and disappeared around the next corner. It was black or some other dark color. The driver was alone in the vehicle. In a few seconds it was gone.
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