He grunted, withdrew the pick, and turned the doorknob, pulling the door open a few inches.
“Thank you so much,” she said with heartfelt gratitude. She indicated the suitcase he’d pushed to the side. “That guy who left without taking his things still hasn’t come back, so I have to store his suitcase for a while, in case he decides to come back for it.”
Mr. Harris glanced at the suitcase as he took the flashlight from her, turning it off and placing both it and the pick back in his toolbox. “That’s weird. What was he running from?”
“I think he wanted to avoid someone in the dining room.” Odd that the handyman had so swiftly picked tip on something that hadn’t immediately occurred to her. Initially, she’d just thought Layton was nuts. Maybe men were more naturally suspicious than women.
He grunted again, an acknowledgment of her comment. He dipped his head at the suitcase. “Anything unusual in there?”
“No. He left it sitting open. I packed his clothes and shoes, and put his toiletries in the kit.”
He stood and nudged the toolbox to the side, opening the door wide, then bent and picked up the suitcase. “Show me where you want to put it.”
“I can do that,” she protested.
“I know, but I’m already here.”
As she led the way up the steep staircase, Cate reflected that she’d probably heard him say more in the past ten minutes than she had in months, and it was certainly one of the few times she’d heard him titter an unsolicited comment. Usually he’d give a brief answer to a direct question, and that was it. Maybe he’d joined Toastmasters, or taken a loquacious pill.
The attic was hot and dusty, with that moldy smell abandoned possessions all seemed to have even when there wasn’t any mold present. Light from three dormer windows made it a surprisingly sunny place, but the walls were unfinished and the floor was made of bare planks that creaked with every step.
“Over here,” she said, indicating a bare spot against the outer wall.
He put the suitcase and Dopp Kit down, then glanced around. He saw the climbing gear and paused. “‘Whose is that?” he asked, pointing.
“Mine and my husband’s.”
“You both climbed?”
“That’s how we met, at a climbing club. I stopped climbing when I got pregnant.” But she hadn’t gotten rid of their gear. It was all still there, neatly arranged and stowed: the climbing shoes, the harnesses and chalk bags, the belaying and rappelling devices, the helmets, the coils of rope. She’d made certain direct sunlight never reached the ropes, even though she knew she’d never go climbing again. It just wasn’t in her to mistreat the equipment.
He hesitated, and she could see his face turning red again. Then he said, “I’ve done a little climbing. More mountaineering type stuff, though.”
He’d actually volunteered information about himself! Maybe he had decided she was as nonthreatening as the boys, so she was safe to talk to. She should note this day on her calendar and circle it in red, because any day that shy Mr. Harris began talking about himself had to be special.
“I just did rocks,” she said, trying to keep the conversation going. How long would he keep talking? “No mountaineering at all. Have you climbed any of the big ones?’”
“It wasn’t that type of mountaineering,” he mumbled, edging toward the top of the stairs, and she knew his unusual talkativeness was over. Just then, two stories below, she heard the sound of childish voices raised in an argument, and she knew her mother and the boys were home.
“Uh-oh. Sounds like trouble,” she said, bolting for the stairs.
She knew something was wrong just from the looks on their faces when she reached the bottom floor. All three looked angry. Her mother was holding the picnic basket, her mouth compressed, and she had the boys separated, with one on each side of her. The twins were red-faced with anger, and their clothes were dirty, as if they’d been rolling in the dirt.
‘“They’ve been fighting,” Sheila reported.
“Tannuh called me a bad name!” Tucker charged, his expression mulish.
Tanner glared at his brother. “You pushed me. Down!” His outrage was evident. Tanner didn’t like losing in any situation.
Cate held up her hand like a traffic cop, stopping both of them in the middle of continued explanation. Behind her, Mr. Harris came down the stairs, carrying his toolbox, and the boys began shifting in agitation; their hero was here, and they couldn’t swarm him as they usually did.
“Mimi will tell me what happened,” Cate said.
“Tanner got the last piece of orange, and Tucker wanted it. Tanner wouldn’t give it to him, so Tucker pushed him down. Tanner called Tucker a ‘damn idgit.’ Then they started rolling around and punching each other.” Sheila looked down at both of them, frowning. “They knocked my lemonade over and it soaked my clothes.”
Now that she looked, Cate could see the dark, wet patches on Sheila’s jeans. She crossed her arms and looked as stern as possible as she did her own frowning. “Tucker—” she began.
“It wasn’t my fault!” he burst out, clearly furious at being singled out first.
“You pushed Tanner first, didn’t you?”
If anything, he now looked even more mutinous. His little face turned red, and he was all but jumping up and down. “It was—it was Mimi’s fault!”
“Mimi!” Cate echoed, thunderstruck. Her mother looked just as stunned by this turn of events.
“She shoulda watched me better!”
“Tucker Nightingale!” Cate roared, galvanized by his blame-shifting. “You get upstairs and sit in the naughty chair right now! How dare you try to blame this on Mimi! I’m ashamed of the way you’re acting. A good man never, never blames someone else for something he did himself!”
He shot a pleading look for understanding and backup at Mr. Harris. Cate wheeled and gave the handyman a gimlet stare, just in case he was thinking of saying anything in the least sympathetic. Mr. Harris blinked, then looked at Tucker and slowly shook his head. “She’s right,” he mumbled.
Tucker’s little shoulders slumped and he began dragging himself up the stairs, each step as ponderous as a four-year-old could possibly make it. He began crying on the way up. At the top he paused and sobbed, “How long?”
“Long.” Cate said. She wouldn’t leave him up there any longer than half an hour, but that would seem like forever to someone with Tucker’s energy. Besides, Tanner would have to spend some time in the naughty chair, too, for calling his brother a “damn idgit.” Okay, this meant they both knew the word damn, and how to use it. Her children were swearing already.
She tucked her chin and scowled at Tanner. He sighed and sat down on the bottom stair, waiting his turn in the naughty chair. Nothing more had to be said.
Mr. Harris cleared his throat. “I’ll pick up a new lock tomorrow while I’m in town,” he said, and beat a path to the door.
Cate drew a deep breath and turned to her mother, who now seemed to be sucking really hard on her checks.
“Are you sure you want to take them for a visit?” Cate asked wearily.
Sheila, too, took a deep breath. “I’ll get back to you on that,” she said.
Chapter 7
Because of the time change, Goss and Toxtel arrived in Boise early in the evening. Goss figured the plane tickets had cost a fortune, purchased at the last minute as they were, but that wasn’t his problem. Rather than make the rest of the trip that night, which would have meant they’d have been driving the last leg on unfamiliar mountain roads when they were both tired, they booked into a hotel close to the airport.
In the morning they would procure weapons, then take a prop plane to an airstrip about fifty miles from their destination. The plane was a private hire, so they’d have no problems taking the weapons aboard. Faulkner had arranged for some model of four-wheel-drive vehicle to be waiting for them at the airstrip. They’d drive the rest of the way to Trail Stop, where he’d booked them a reservation at Nightingale’s Bed and Breakfast. Staying in the place they’d be searching was only logical, because that gave them a reason to be there.