Ellechor Publishing House
2431 NW Wessex Terrace, Hillsboro, OR 97124
Copyright © 2010 by Catherine Leggitt
2011 Ellechor Publishing House Paperback Edition
Payne & Misery / Catherine Leggitt.
ISBN: 9781937844936
All rights reserved. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. No portion of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any form without the written permission of the Publisher. Please purchase only authorized editions. For more information, contact:
Ellechor Publishing House
2431 NW Wessex Terrace
Hillsboro, OR 97124
[email protected]
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold” or “destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
Printed in the United States of America.
www.ellechorpublishing.com
To my three mothers:
Deloris “Pill” Rogers, the mother of my birth, for accepting and believing.
Dessie Williams, the mother of my childhood, my mentor and example.
Zora Jane Harman, my mother-in-law, for keeping the excitement alive.
How blessed am I to stand on such shoulders as I reach for the sky.
AUTHOR’S NOTE:
Although I used many actual street names and landmarks from scenic Nevada County, I took frequent liberties with their locations. Mixed with the real names, I also used names birthed solely in my imagination. I ask the readers’ kind indulgence and understanding. PAYNE & MISERY is a work of fiction and in no way depicts any actual events or people living or dead. I found my Grass Valley neighbors to be considerate, helpful individuals, and my memories of living there are sweet.
“Why is light given to those in misery, and life to the bitter of soul, to those who long for death that does not come, who search for it more than for hidden treasure, who are filled with gladness and rejoice when they reach the grave? Why is life given to a man whose way is hidden, whom God has hedged in? For sighing comes to me instead of food; my groans pour out like water. What I feared has come upon me; what I dreaded has happened to me.
I have no peace, no quietness; I have no rest, but only turmoil.”
Job 3:20–26 NIV
“When I pray, coincidences happen, and when I don’t pray, they don’t.”
William Temple
“We look upon prayer as a means of getting something for ourselves; the Bible idea of prayer is that we may get to know God Himself.”
Oswald Chambers
“Pain is inevitable but misery is a choice.”
1
CHAPTER ONE
Dark—the word fit him like a bad guy’s black hat—complexion, glasses, expression, knit cap pulled low over his ears, tufts of curls poking out underneath. I concentrated on memorizing his suspicious features as I observed him through the plate glass window of the Humpty-Dumpty Restaurant where my husband Jesse and I often ate brunch after Sunday morning church. The man’s lurking worried me.
“Maybe he’s an Arab.” Not that I’d know an Arab if I bumped into one on the streets. Except for Hispanics, Grass Valley, California, maintained a mostly snow-white population, much like most small towns in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada Mountains.
Around us, flatware scraped stoneware, glasses clinked, voices swelled and ebbed interspersed with occasional laughter swirling through the appetizing breakfast smells, but I couldn’t pry my eyes off the shady man in the parking lot. Nevertheless, I would guess Jesse didn’t so much as look up from his breakfast when he answered. “Who?”
“Out there.” I jabbed a finger toward the culprit.
“Where?”
I let out the anxious breath I’d been holding in and pointed again. “See the man hiding behind that forest green car?”
Jesse frowned as he chewed a few more bites of chili bean omelet. “Honestly, Christine. If he’s behind a car, how can I see him?”
“He keeps popping up. There he is! Look, look. Now.”
Jesse dutifully followed my pointer and then sustained a long stare before turning his attention back to his food. “Okay, I see him. So?”
“He staked out that car. He’s been waiting the whole time we’ve been here. He paces behind it, trying to stay out of sight. When the driver comes back, he’ll jump out and mug her—take her cash and jewelry and who knows what else. Bet he has a gun or a knife in that pocket where his hand is. Watch him.”
Jesse rolled his eyes. “Give it up, will you? You’re jumping to conclusions again. How do you know a woman drives that car? Even if there is a man driver, maybe he’s in a hurry to get home and his wife is taking too long in the restroom.”
“Then why doesn’t he unlock the car and get in?”
Jesse stopped chewing and blinked. Ha! I got him there. I went back to studying the perpetrator, in case I got called on to identify him in a line-up.
Jesse’s delayed answer mumbled out between chews. “Maybe his wife has the car keys.”
After being married to this man for thirty-five years, I should expect Jesse’s reaction to my gift of observation. He never took it seriously. “You’re going to be sorry when you read in tomorrow’s paper that some poor woman got murdered in the Humpty- Dumpty parking lot while you gobbled down a chili omelet.”
Jesse didn’t look up, just harrumphed and kept on eating.
I returned to surveillance, thankful for last year’s laser surgery, which had given my vision razor-edge clarity. The man stood in the shadow of an overhanging oak, but from the direction of his head, I could tell his eyes remained fixed on the front door of the restaurant. My stomach knotted into a pretzel. Danger! I narrowed my eyes. Would Jesse run out to save the woman when the man attacked her? Jesse, my hero, the love of my life. I’d be right behind him, swinging my heavy purse.
Just then, a woman in a leopard-print Spandex dress exited the restaurant and minced across the parking lot toward the man. I held my breath and then whispered, “Jesse!”
Neither of us moved while the woman’s rectangular bag flopped from side to side on its thin strap in rhythm with her swaying hips. Like a lamb to the slaughter, she sauntered closer to her fate without a trace of fear in her walk.
A gasp escaped my lips when the dark-complexioned man popped from the shadows directly in front of his victim. After a short verbal exchange, the woman opened the door of the green sedan and slid in. The mysterious villain hurried to the other side and settled in the passenger seat. Back-up lights flickered. The automobile reversed out of the parking space and sped away.
Without so much as a punch or a yell. He didn’t even grab her bag.
I leveled my gaze at Jesse and blinked.
He opened his mouth.
I held up one hand. “Don’t say it.”
Instead, he shook his head and grunted again before returning to his omelet.
I gulped coffee and fidgeted with my napkin. “He did look suspicious. You can’t deny that.”
Jesse buttered his biscuit, took a big bite, and chewed. I felt the lecture building in his brain like a sudden summer thunderstorm. He stared at me with a curious expression—as if I’d grown a second head—swiped his mouth with his napkin and sighed. “You never give up, do you? There’s something sinister happening everywhere we go. Face it, Chris. This is an ordinary small town in northern California. Good people live here. Bad things don’t happen. That’s why we retired here. Remember? Extremely low crime rate. But you insist on seeing evil everywhere we go. You won’t
stop snooping into other people’s affairs. Looking for …” His shoulders sagged and he waggled his head once more. “If it wasn’t so sad, it would be funny.”
“Funny? What would?” Do I dare ask?
“Your imagination.” He leaned forward and pointed his fork in my face. “Someday, that wild imagination of yours is going to get you into real trouble.”
2
CHAPTER TWO
“Singin’ joy to the world …”
Even as I listened to the nonsensical bullfrog song, I felt its inability to lighten my brooding thoughts. With a sigh, I scrubbed the guest room tub with more gusto. I never got that song anyway. What does a bullfrog know about making wine?
Using the back of my hand, I pushed a clump of hair off my sweaty forehead before reaching for the Bose system to click off the oldies station. Then I stood and stretched.
Joy? I sure wasn’t feeling it. Instead, I entertained a particularly bad mood—one I’d nurtured layer by layer since Sunday brunch at the Humpty-Dumpty. By midweek, it had taken on a life of its own, like a giant out-of-control snowball careening down a steep hill. Fed by festering resentment over Jesse’s new hobby, our short disagreement about the woman who might have gotten mugged in the parking lot lengthened into days of silence. I felt unappreciated and unloved. Jesse ignored me, spending his time riding Ranger, his jet-black Morgan stallion, and preparing his gear for the upcoming weekend shooting match. His preoccupation irritated me like a burr poking in my sock.
I found no comfort in the fact that up to now my life had been relatively blessed. What did I know about real suffering—the physical kind—living fifty-five years with relatively good health and prosperity? Never had a major illness or operation, always had enough money to do what we wanted. But heartache, relationship stuff—I’d had enough of that. No more. No, thank you. I glanced heavenward. Deliver me from trying to understand men—my husband in particular. I clenched my jaw. How could Jesse go away again? He’d already been gone two out of four weekends this month. He’d been so excited he hardly slept last night. He wouldn’t even miss me. Probably never did.
Hunching over the tub had produced a back kink. I pressed it hard with the tips of my fingers while I stretched. Oh, great! Now I had chronic back pain too, just like those biddies at church meetings who try to outdo each other with complaints about their health. On the positive side, I’d now have something to commiserate with them about.
Just then, a flicker of movement caught my eye as the back door of the house down the hill swung open with enough force to bounce it against the doorframe. I blinked out the window, feeling my forehead wrinkle.
Directly down our hill, a gray house squatted on the landscape like a homeless person on a city street. An empty house, so far as I knew. I’d seen lights in the windows at night, which I assumed must be on a timer. But during the two years we’d lived here, I’d never seen any kind of movement there.
Until now.
I climbed into the tub where I’d previously discovered the best observation post for spying on the offensive house. To achieve maximum viewing, I stood on tiptoes in the middle, hands braced on the windowsill above the tub, straining for a sight or a sound— assuming I could hear anything that far away through double-pane windows.
From the open doorway, a man in a dark ball cap and barn-red jacket edged out. When he stood and scanned the backyard, the man looked thin as a snake, his shoulders curved over a concave chest.
Who is that? And what’s he up to? I pressed my face into the glass to watch the man bend over something he attempted to wrestle free. When he stepped back to appraise his progress, I saw a box wedged in the doorway. A box that size would never fit through the doorframe, but he didn’t give up, jerking one side before tugging on the other. Several repetitions gained him little, but he persevered until he liberated it at last.
He tugged off his red jacket and flung it onto the porch, and then peered around once more before rolling up his shirtsleeves and tackling the box again. I imagined him grunting as he pushed and dragged it along the stoop to the edge. Next, he shuffled around the corner, disappearing from view.
I stared at the box. If only I could conjure up laser power to bore through the cardboard. What’s in there? Drugs? Stolen booty? What would be so heavy he couldn’t lift that box? Given his level of secrecy, it must be something illegal.
But why had he left it unprotected on the porch in full view of nosy neighbors? Could I be wrong? Probably a perfectly ordinary explanation would present itself if I watched a little longer.
Before I could shift to a more comfortable position, the man returned, bouncing on a tractor seat. When he reached the stoop, he scooped up the box with the tractor bucket and jounced away. I stretched my neck until it popped, straining for another sight of him. Nothing.
Maybe if I hoisted a roll of aluminum foil in one hand I’d get better reception.
Now that I’d actually seen a living person at that house, I didn’t dare move lest I miss something important. My imagination clicked into high gear. Questions battered my brain. What could he be up to? Why hadn’t I ever seen him before? What if he was hiding from the law? I shivered. Criminal activity right under my window? What kind of place had Jesse moved me to? Maybe we’d been wrong about the purported low crime rate. What if the Realtor lied? I suspected that possibility, when I read the front-page newspaper article crediting this part of the state with more lawbreakers per capita than any other area in California. Apparently, criminals found the dense tree cover helpful when hiding from the law. Suppose my skinny neighbor turned out to be a convicted child molester? Or an escaped rapist? Or—shudder—a murderer? I clicked my tongue. A person should be warned about such things.
Soon Mr. Ball Cap reappeared, bobbing on his tractor seat. Another hefty box rode in the bucket. Chalky instead of cardboard-brown, the shape also distinguished it from the first. I watched until the deck blocked my view.
I maintained my position in the tub until the pain in my toes became unbearable. At my age, a cramp in the foot didn’t take long. Maybe it would help if I flexed like a ballerina. Up, down, up, down. But in the down position, the railings on the deck outside blocked my view. That wouldn’t do. Standing on a chair might help. Couldn’t use my office chair; that one had wheels. Maybe a dining chair.
When I turned to go after one, I heard a faint sound—a grinding like a tired engine sputtering to life. Up on tiptoes, I spied the truck heading down the sloping driveway and out to the street.
Captivated once again, I pressed my face into the window. What could be in those boxes? A chill shimmied down my spine as the answer materialized in my imagination: a body. He’s getting rid of a body. But whose? Someone who hid in that house with him. His wife … or at least his woman. She complained about everything—a real shrew. Wanted out, but he couldn’t let her go. She’d run straight to the authorities. This morning, for the millionth time, she yammered about leaving him. Something inside him snapped and he reached for a gun. I cringed, hearing her shrill, mocking laughter. “What do you think you’re doing? Put that thing away before you hurt yourself.”
She grabbed his arm. The struggle escalated; the gun exploded. When the smoke cleared, she lay dead on the floor. He only meant to protect himself, to make her leave him alone. But no one would believe him. Not with his record. He had to get rid of the evidence. All of it. So he cut up the body and packed the pieces in those boxes to be buried in the woods. He’d gone … to town, of course. For bleach to clean away the evidence.
Enveloped in my imagination-cocoon, I didn’t notice Molly, my border collie, until she whimpered. When I jerked in her direction, Molly tilted her black-and-white head to one side, chocolate eyes frightened. I patted her silky fur. “Sorry. You’re right, of course. That’s a bit far-fetched.” Jesse had it right. That stuff only happened in mystery novels. Who did I think I was anyway, Miss Marple? I shook my head. I had too much time to read. Just because I couldn’t guess the “perfectl
y ordinary explanation” for what I’d seen didn’t mean there couldn’t be one.
I collected my rags and returned to cleaning but kept coming back to peer out the window, the fear in my chest multiplying with each visit. Maybe I’m having a premonition of coming danger. I pressed one hand over my palpitating heart. If I were in real danger, would Jesse rescue me? He’d have to. I smiled. That would be nice.
At length, I abandoned all pretense of cleaning and concentrated on surveillance. If only I possessed X-ray vision to penetrate those walls in search of the secrets lurking inside. Maybe I’d even see a female occupant—if she still lived.
The longer I watched the neighbor’s house, the more the puzzle gnawed at me. A couple more hours passed without another sign of the white truck. I paced without aim, biting my thumbnails while uneasiness grew.
He must be up to no good.
Blame it on my wild imagination if you must. Obsessive curiosity overtook my better judgment, insisting on immediate action. I would never rest again until I knew if a woman lived inside that house. And if she did, I needed concrete evidence that she was doing just fine, thank you very much, and not at all in need of my assistance.
Only one thing would allay my concern: I must see Mrs. Ball Cap with my own eyes.
3
CHAPTER THREE
“I’m not intruding. Not at all. I’m just a neighbor bearing gifts,” I said to Molly as I packed a get-acquainted basket with a few of my best homemade fruit jams nestled in a pile of raffia. I tied a red gingham bow on the handle to complete the appeal. Between the jars, I placed a card with my name and phone number.
“See?” I tipped the basket so Molly could look in. “A lovely gift that would delight anyone.” It made a perfect excuse for a visit. After months of watching that house for signs of life, I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of this before. Of course, I only put the basket together to excuse my snooping, but that didn’t bother me a bit.
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