On the porch next to the flower pot sat a set of silver bowls, printed with cat silhouettes. One held water, but the food bowl was empty. I found a green plastic bin against the wall, with assorted cat food inside. I might feel helpless about Emma Jean, but at least I could take care of her cat. I grabbed one of the tins and popped the tab to open the lid.
At the ssssssssft sound and the fishy smell, the cat increased its orbits around my ankles. I feared it might launch itself right off the porch. I didn’t see a spoon, so I just dumped a bit of dry chow into the bowl, then scooped some wet food on top with my fingers. I wiped the salmon stink from my hand onto the front-door mat. Better there than on my slacks.
Suddenly, I heard a car engine slow on the street out front. Then came squeaks and rattles, as the vehicle jounced over Emma Jean’s unpaved drive. I crouched behind the cat food bin for cover, watching between the slats of the porch railing. Headlights moved up and down, coming closer.
“Shhh,’’ I whispered to the cat, which was ignoring me now that food filled its bowl. “None of that Siamese screeching, y’hear? As quiet as a mouse.’’
As the car drew near, I could see the outline of lights on the top. Then, the familiar blue-and-white markings of the Himmarshee Police Department. My breath whooshed out in relief. The cat lifted its head at me, then went right back to eating. Kind of like me, when I sit down to dinner.
The car rolled to a stop. The driver’s door opened. In the glow of the dome light, I thought I recognized a military-style haircut and pumped upper body. I was just about to stand up and call out, but I hesitated. I can’t really say why, except the events of the last few days had made me suspicious of everyone. I stayed put and kept watching from my little hiding spot.
Switching on his flashlight, the uniformed officer started for the backyard. I was glad I’d pulled the VW off to the side, behind the toolshed. I hadn’t wanted to advertise that I was snooping around, indulging my fantasy of rescuing Emma Jean.
I crept off the porch and past the rose bushes, where Mama had pinched off dead blooms. Night was coming fast. But I still could see the old pickup as I rounded the corner of the house. The flashlight beam traveled over the truck: Across the front seat, into the space of the extended cab, then out the rear window. Like an oversized firefly, it flitted from rear to front and down to the ground. It lit on the right front tire, staying for a good while.
As I got closer, I could see him reflected in the beam. His head was bent to the tire. He ran a hand over the tread.
“Hey, Donnie.’’ I spoke quietly, from about twenty feet away.
He jumped like the tire gave him a shock. His hand flew up, hovering just above the gun at his right hip.
I quickly called out, “It’s just me, Mace Bauer. No weapon.’’
He dropped his hand to his side and rocked forward onto his knees. “You should know better than to sneak up on somebody who’s armed, Mace. Mistakes can happen.’’
“I wasn’t sneaking. I came here to see if I could find Emma Jean. Then I saw you down on the ground out here. I got curious about what you were up to.’’
“It’s been all over the police radio about Emma Jean’s abandoned car.’’
“So the Toyota is hers? I’m the one who found it, out near my house.’’
“It’s hers, all right. I’m on overnight at the jail tonight. I thought I’d swing by here on my way in and see if anything looked unusual.’’
I thought I saw the slightest shift in his eyes. But I could have been mistaken. There wasn’t much light.
“It seems like you’d go first to Emma Jean’s door. Knock and see if she answers.’’
“I was gonna do that next,’’ Donnie said. “I came around back first to see if there were any other vehicles parked out here. The more you know about who might be inside a dark house, the safer you’ll be if you need to go in.’’
That made sense. But still. “You seem awful interested in that old pickup, Donnie.’’
We both looked at the truck. With a hand to the fender, Donnie boosted himself up.
“Truth be told, I’ve been staring extra hard at every truck I see since I got the accident investigator’s report about the night you landed in the canal. I feel bad I didn’t believe you. I thought maybe I could make it up by finding the truck that ran you off the road.’’
I wanted to rescue Emma Jean and find out who killed Jim Albert. Donnie wanted to hunt down the nutcase who forced me into the water. Heroina and hero.
“Do you think this truck is related?’’ I asked.
“I don’t know. But it’s worth checking out.’’
“Are you going inside the house?’’
Donnie brushed off grass, just as I’d done to my own knees that morning. “I’m gonna have a look around.’’ He shifted his heavy belt. “Not you, though, Mace. It’s police business.’’
Those words had a familiar ring.
“Well, I’ll wait then. I want to know what you find.’’
I followed Donnie to the back door. He looked into the window, then pounded on the wood frame with his heavy flashlight. “Emma Jean?’’ No answer. “Himmarshee Police. Anybody in there?’’
The silence was broken only by the crickets, tuning up for their evening serenade.
He tried the door. Locked. There used to be a time when doors were left open. But those days are mostly over, even in a small town like Himmarshee.
Donnie bent and lifted the mat. No key. He ran a hand on the jamb over the door. Nothing but dirt. He picked up a concrete cat statue from the grass. Success.
His flashlight beam led the way inside. I stayed put, like he told me to. But I could still watch through the kitchen window. He turned on the light switch at the wall.
“Everything looks just the same as it did this morning, when Mama and I stopped by,’’ I yelled into the house. “We were worried about Emma Jean. Those are the same dishes we saw in the sink. That’s the same newspaper on the counter.’’
“Stay outside,’’ Donnie yelled back. “Don’t even think of coming in.’’
More light spilled from the windows as Donnie moved through the little house, turning on lamps. I could hear him knocking, and opening and closing doors. I didn’t have long to wait. The whole search only took about five minutes. He retraced his steps, shut off the lights, and rejoined me on the back door stoop.
“No sign of a struggle,’’ he said.
He locked the door and slid the key back under the kitty. The real cat caught up with us at the birdbath, which had a concrete fairy dipping a wand into the waterless bowl.