“You did the right thing contacting me. Where will you be tomorrow?”
“Emerald Hills. Another day here and I’ll go nuts.”
“All right. I’ll see what I can find out. Call you if there’s any news.”
“Yeah, thanks.” Pause. “I don’t blame you. The kind of trouble Sheila must be in...” Another pause. “Shit,” he said.
Yes, I thought, and the pile keeps getting bigger. And I wish I knew where to find a shovel.
I couldn’t sleep.
I kept lying there with my eyes wide open, watching the dark and listening to Kerry’s even breathing and thinking mostly about Emily Hunter. Her mother had overheard part of her call to me, or found out about it some other way; that was why she hadn’t shown up at the riding academy. It was also why Sheila Hunter had decided to pack up the kid, ripping out ten years’ worth of roots, and haul her off to Christ knew where. Bad trouble, all right, but it wasn’t just the woman’s anymore. She’d made it her daughter’s as well. Ten years old, sensitive, bewildered... did Emily have any idea of what it was all about? If she did, it wasn’t because her mother had confided in her. The only secret-sharing Mrs. Hunter had done was with her late husband and co-conspirator. And yet the Hunters’ relationship couldn’t have been all that tightly bound after a decade, else both of them wouldn’t have been seeking solace in other people’s beds. How long had they been cheating on each other? Recent thing, or had the marriage begun to unravel long ago from too much guilt, too much fear?
Crazybone. The word was at or near the center of the Hunters’ secret, of Sheila’s panicked flight. But without some connection, some piece of the hidden past, there was no way to decipher it.
A nonsense jingle began to run around inside my head; kept on running until fatigue drove me down into a restless sleep. Crazybone connected to the shoulder bone, shoulder bone connected to the neck bone, neck bone connected to the crazybone, and little Emily’s gone away...
10
On a Sunday morning the sleepy country-village atmosphere of Greenwood was even more pronounced. The main drag and side streets were mostly deserted, and what cars I encountered and what people I saw seemed to he on their way to and from church. A large contingent of worshippers was exiting the one church I passed, all of them well dressed. It was good to see that the old-fashioned standard of Sunday wear still applied in places like this. A surprisingly large percentage of churchgoers these days thought nothing of attending services in jeans and sweatshirts and the like. Meaning no disrespect, just making the statement that they didn’t see any good reason to dress up for the occasion. God didn’t run a fashion agency, so did He really care what His flock was outfitted in when they offered up their prayers?
The new breed had a point, but as a member of the old breed I preferred the upholding of tradition. Hypocritical member of the old breed, it could be argued, since I seldom attended Mass anymore, but so be it. Besides, formalized religion and strict interpretation of biblical doctrine don’t necessarily make a good Christian — a fact some radical members of the Religious Right would do well to recognize. A person’s relationship with God is or ought to be a personal and private thing. If individuals want to worship in a group, fine; if they prefer to worship alone and in their own fashion, fine. The world would be a far better place if people would stop trying to tell others what to believe and how to believe in it, in religious and other matters.
A sharpening breeze created a rippling effect in Whiskey Flat Road’s tree tunnel, so that branches and trunks seemed to be flowing around the car as I drove through. The motile illusion bothered my eyes, even though I was wearing sunglasses. So did the bright sunlight down here, it being another perfect day in this pocket paradise. Too little sleep last night and too much eyestrain over the course of nearly sixty years. Kerry had been after me to make an appointment with an optometrist — and I kept putting it off because I was afraid he’d tell me I needed to wear glasses all the time instead of just for reading.
The gates were still open at the foot of the Hunters’ driveway, so I swung in between the pillars without slowing. The parking area above was tenanted by nothing more than a scatter of leaves. I parked among them, got out and stood for a few seconds looking around. Except for all the house windows being draped, blinded, or shuttered, everything appeared pretty much the same as on my first visit. And why shouldn’t it? I thought irritably. Abandonment didn’t change the outward look of things, just the feel of them.
A red light bloomed on a key plate set into the porch wall, an announcement that the alarm system was armed. Even if I yielded to an impulse to jimmy my way through a locked door or window, I couldn’t do it without setting off the alarm. That wouldn’t have stopped Samuel Leatherman: he’d have bulled his way inside, discovered an important clue in two or three minutes, and been long gone before a security patrol or police car showed up. But I wasn’t Samuel Leatherman, and glad of it in spite of dear old Cybil. Chances were, Sheila Hunter hadn’t left any clues behind anyway.
I walked around the house to her potting studio, more for the exercise than with any purpose. Locked up as tight as the house. No alarm system here, and none needed. This was where she’d come to get away from her troubles; she wouldn’t keep reminders of the past around. Just the same I took a quick look through the glass wall. Tuesday’s tableau minus Mrs. Hunter, the clay in the tubs as cold as her dead husband.
Back the way I’d come and across to the detached garage. The double doors were locked and so was a side door; the only window had a shade drawn so tightly over it I couldn’t see inside. Alarm system on the house, shade on the garage window, and weapons somewhere on the premises, no doubt. Suburban paranoia had nothing to do with it, either. Damn safe bet somebody, somewhere, really had been after the Hunters for the past ten years.
An idea occurred to me on the way to the car. I fired up the engine and coasted down to the foot of the drive. Whiskey Flat Road was deserted, so I set the brake and got out again and went to the mailbox, which was attached to the inside of one of the pillars; there was a slot on the outside so mail could be put through when the gates were shut. The box wasn’t locked and there was mail inside, all right — yesterday’s delivery, at least. I fished it out. Two catalogues, three pieces of junk, and a PG&E bill. So much for my brainstorm. Like a lot of my clever little ideas, it was a practical bust.
The wind made chuckling sounds in the trees as I returned to the car. Or maybe it was that rough, tough action hero, Sam Leatherman, laughing at me from somewhere up in pulp heaven.
As I drove toward the village, something began bothering me — a nagging little irritation at the back of my mind. It was not clear enough to identify, and I couldn’t seem to catch hold of it. Something I’d seen or hadn’t seen or should have seen at the Hunter place; something that was off in some small way. Might be significant and might not. I’d have to figure out what it was before I could tell.
Come to me sooner or later. Picking at it would only drive it in deeper.
Anita Purcell had returned from her trip to LA.; she was just opening her fine arts shop when I got there. She was short, gray-haired, energetic, and steely-eyed, and as I might have predicted, she didn’t want anything to do with me or my ilk. Those were almost her exact words when I introduced myself: “I want nothing to do with you or your ilk.”
I was tempted to ask her what she thought my ilk was. Instead I said, “Well, I’m sorry you feel that way, Ms. Purcell. But you may have information about Sheila Hunter—”