Payne & Misery

by Catherine Leggitt

  Leaving the restaurant, I felt a bit unsettled—kind of like waiting for someone to finish a sentence but never hearing it. I would always wonder what that woman had been up to.

  Next stop: the Nevada County Sheriff’s Office. Deputy Colter was not at work. Nevertheless, the receptionist ushered us into a small cubicle with a desk crowded in so tightly, I wondered if they built the workspace around it. A monitor screen sat atop the desk alongside several stacks of official-looking papers and files and, of course, a telephone with lots of extra buttons. Two chairs faced the desk. We settled into those. Across from us, a woman in standard uniform worked, half-hidden by the computer monitor.

  While maintaining her humorless demeanor, the woman introduced herself as Deputy Laura Elliott. Coarse blond split ends stuck out from the thick curtain of hair that dropped to her back. Her ruddy complexion indicated an outdoorsy girl without time for make-up or fussing. “How can I help you?”

  Jesse described the situation briefly, referencing Deputy Colter.

  She picked up magnifying glasses—the skinny kind that allow for peeking over without lowering the head—and adjusted them on her nose. Retreating to her computer screen, she typed information. After a while, she paused to read what came up. “I see,” she said, without so much as a glance our way.

  She didn’t appear to be paying attention. I cleared my throat. “We want to file a missing-persons report on Lila Kliner. She’s been missing now for almost two weeks. No one is searching for her.”

  Deputy Elliott maintained her focus on the computer screen. “Please state the full name of the missing party.” Her fingers pecked the keyboard as we told her everything we knew about Lila, which was precious little.

  When she finished, with a flourish of authority she punched a button on the computer keyboard. A whirring sounded, and a paper emerged from a nearby printer. She retrieved the page and placed it on the desk in front of Jesse. “Please read and sign.”

  Jesse read and signed, although most of the form remained blank.

  “This will go out immediately.” She peered over the top of the magnifiers. “Thank you.” Then she focused on her monitor again. Apparently, we’d been dismissed.

  I wanted to complain about her lack of interest, but Jesse pressed my arm firmly and led me to the car without another word.

  After he settled into the driver’s seat of the Jeep and buckled his seatbelt, he faced me. “Okay. Let’s find the address of that house where Will went. Off Star Mine Road, you said.” He dazzled me with one of his radiant smiles, and off we sped.

  Passing once again through the business section, we made a Hollywood stop at the first stop sign. I usually complain when Jesse only taps the brakes as he rolls through the intersection, but after my royal treatment at the restaurant, I let it slide. We continued to the busy crossing on Brunswick, again ignoring the posted thirty- five-mile-per-hour speed limit.

  The Loma Rica barn still peeked through the trees to the left. We lingered patiently several minutes, waiting for a break in traffic. Rather, I maintained patience while Jesse whistled and thrummed the steering wheel with his fingers. I didn’t complain about that either. Patient or not, an opening appeared and we zipped across. A mile or so farther through the countryside, we began the gradual incline up Banner Mountain and soon came to Sierra Vista Road.

  I pointed to the second house on the left—the white clapboard with green trim—and we noted that Will’s white pickup once again rested in the driveway. Since Jesse had been so considerate, I thought he might allow me to peek in the windows again. I tugged on his sleeve and opened my mouth to ask, but he communicated a stern don’t-even-think-about-it look, so I didn’t press it.

  I recorded the address painted on the mailbox before we circled the end of the cul-de-sac and drove out without speaking, as if someone might hear us if we talked out loud.

  After we returned to the main street, I asked, “So, where to now?”

  Jesse didn’t answer until he finished navigating the curved onramp toward Nevada City. “Well, since we’re out for a drive anyway, why don’t we look at where they found the Buick?”

  Smiling my assent, I settled back for a pleasant drive.

  State Route 20 between Nevada City and Interstate 80 tops my list of favorite roads to travel in any season. In the fall and spring, its colorful foliage and flowers make for spectacular viewing. The highway held a special place in our family history as the scenic detour we discovered on our first visit to Grass Valley going home from Lake Tahoe one fall. The magnificent scenery along that highway led us to search for property in the area.

  The lush leafage along the cool, tree-lined corridor didn’t disappoint. We chatted about the children and grandchildren— especially the news of a new baby on the way, which I learned when I called our son—our hopes and dreams, and plans for the future. We made our way at last to the overlook point just before the turnoff to the tiny town of Washington.

  Jesse slowed the car to a crawl. “Look at that view!” Mountains and trees spread before us in awesome splendor. Dotted with autumn color, the sight birthed a flush of joy that spread from my chest. Satiated with the magnificent beauty of the scene, we didn’t speak again until Jesse rolled to a semi-stop beside a large meadow.

  He bent forward on the steering wheel and pointed. “Wish I could build a house just there near the trees.” Vast and lush, this place always brought out our pioneering spirit. I imagined Jesse peeling logs for a cabin nestled in that spot while I cleared brush for my vegetable garden.

  From Jesse’s favorite meadow, we continued up the hill and soon arrived at the interstate. Climbing ever higher into the Sierras, we passed through Truckee after another half hour and exited onto State Highway 257 on the north side. First, we passed an area of sprawling commercial development, but when we got as far as the Truckee- Tahoe Airport, we left all trappings of civilization behind.

  A large, flat space with trees around the fringes opened before us. A few houses huddled against the foot of the mountains, but mostly we saw only open spaces. About in the middle, a road veered to the left at a sign labeled Mantis Lake.

  A wave of anticipation washed over me. I leaned forward, aware of my heart beating faster. “There it is. Turn left, Jesse.”

  We followed the narrow, paved roadway along the outer edges of a dry lakebed. At least a mile and a half farther, a dirt road cut left at a signboard that read Sierra Meadows Campground. This road wound through tall pines until we came to the entrance. A tin sign bearing the single word Closed dangled from a thick rusty chain, which stretched across the roadway. One side of the chain dragged the pavement, low and wide enough to drive over without effort.

  Jesse parked the car and unbuckled his seat belt. “Let’s see what we can find.” From the back seat, he extracted his camera, zoom lens attached.

  I pointed at tire tracks in the dried mud. “Those look recent. At least they’ve been here since the rain.” Nearby, footprints clustered together, their individual characteristics blurred. “How many people have been here?”

  “Well, a hiker found the car. Then the tow-truck guy and maybe someone from the sheriff’s department, Lila—”

  “I see a lot of men’s shoeprints. But I don’t see anything small enough to be Lila’s.”

  “This must be where the Buick parked.” Jesse bent closer to inspect the tracks. “Maybe they stepped on her footprints.”

  “Terrible police procedure.” I tiptoed to a better observation spot, taking great care not to trample the prints. “Well, she got here way before anyone else. Maybe the tow guys messed up her prints before the officers came.”

  Sherlock Holmes would have approved of our deliberate examination of the area. The camera whirred and clicked as Jesse meticulously snapped pictures, adjusting the lens every few frames. He crouched for a closer view and then squinted up at me. “I see work boots in at least two sizes and another set that might be made by running shoes.”

  I followed in his
steps and bent to look over his shoulder. “Must be the tow people. They aren’t small enough to be Lila’s. See the dry patch between the tires?”

  He nodded. “That’s where the car sat during the rain. A bigger set of tires parked in front of the regular ones. Probably the tow truck.” Jesse took a few more pictures before he straightened.

  Unsure whether the sheriff’s department inspected this road before towing the car, we stepped lightly around the campground loop. I advanced with exaggerated caution inside Jesse’s prints. Heavy rain had fallen on Sunday night after Molly disappeared. If the Buick arrived Saturday night, as we supposed, it sat in the same spot through the rainstorm until towed away days later.

  As we ambled back to the Jeep, a piece of galvanized metal near the edge of the roadway caught my eye—a funnel discarded in a dense pile of pine needles.

  I stooped to look. “Evidence?”

  Jesse saw it too. “Don’t touch that. It might be important.” He snapped a couple more pictures. Then he used his Chuck Buck knife to cut a long branch from a nearby tree, strip off the twigs, and push one end into the funnel.

  Good technique. He carried his prize to the car without touching it.

  I didn’t get the significance of a funnel, though. “How would that connect to Lila?”

  “Don’t know.” Jesse bent to sniff the funnel before banging the back end of the Jeep shut. “But back in high school, we used to siphon gas out of a tank with a funnel and a hose.”

  “That would mean the car didn’t run out of gas but she tried to make it look like it did. How would she know how to do that? I wouldn’t. And why would she do that anyway?”

  Jesse shrugged.

  None of this made sense. “Then there’s the matter of the gas can. What did she do with it? Supposing Lila left the Buick here, she had to walk out.” I scanned miles of uninhabited meadows and mountains. “Where’d she go?”

  Jesse shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  These unanswered questions didn’t seem to gnaw at Jesse the way they did me. While we drove home in the late afternoon light, Jesse sang.

  Dream lover, where are youoo?

  I want a dream lover so I don’t have to dream alone.

  Hey mama don’t you treat me wrong.

  Come and love your daddy all night long…

  Seeing the place where Molly’s poor sweet body had lain inside that trunk brought the sadness rushing back. Why, why, why?A tear splashed onto my sweater. I sniffed back more, digging for Kleenexes in my purse. Why would Lila kill my wonderful dog?

  Maybe my judgment about Lila’s basic goodness and need for help had been swayed by my desire to rescue her. What kind of person would Lila turn out to be?

  24

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  When my eyes popped open, I remembered that Zora Jane had recruited me to help at the annual church bazaar. Despite the fact that I couldn’t muster enough enthusiasm to fill a thimble, I managed to arrive a few minutes after nine.

  Zora Jane did not exaggerate about the crowd. Parking lots overflowed. Scores of cars lined both sides of streets on every side of the church. After much searching, I squeezed into a parking space five blocks away.

  Booths covered the blacktop in front of the church, the welcoming center, the children’s center, and just about everywhere else on the campus. Hordes of shoppers milled about, many toting bags loaded with treasures already discovered. Displays held an amazing array of used appliances, furniture, bedding, sports equipment, and household items. I even saw an automotive section.

  Everything but the…

  I squelched that thought at the sight of a kitchen sink peeking from under a table.

  First, I stopped at the sporting goods booth for directions. From there, I was pointed to the children’s center for clothing and accessories and I headed off in search of Zora Jane.

  Inside the building, I soon spied her reddish hair bobbing above the mass of people. It’s good to be tall in a crowd. I headed straight for her, bumping into a lady carrying an armload of sweaters. “Sorry, didn’t see you there.” The lady didn’t stop to acknowledge my presence.

  Zora Jane scooted through the throng wearing a white, long-sleeved blouse with the collar turned up in the back. A wide purple bangle decorated her wrist. The blouse hung just the right length over the top of rolled-up jeans. A violet-checked apron protected her front. Purple flats with cork wedge heels snapped the floor as she hurried. Just like Garage Sale Barbie.

  Zora Jane grinned when she saw me. “You made it. Here, take these.” She dumped an armload of miscellaneous hats, scarves, mittens, and belts into my arms. “I’ll get the rest.” She pivoted and dashed away before I could react.

  A teenage boy elbowed me as he hurried by.

  “Wait!” I shouted above the hubbub, trying to rub my arm without dropping my load. “I don’t know where the booth is.”

  Not breaking stride, Zora Jane swept one arm toward the corner of the room where a small computer-generated sign read Accessories. I zigzagged between eager shoppers and finally arrived at the corner.

  A lady—older and less attractive than Zora Jane—stood behind the accessories table talking with a customer. Her pinched features reminded me of a squeezed lemon. Arms full, I waited for her to finish the transaction. When she concluded, she glanced at me and scrunched her face into a grimace.

  I smiled. “Hi. I’m Christine Sterling, Zora Jane’s friend. She said to bring these over here.” I spilled my armload onto the table.

  “Whatever.” She rubbed circles on her temple. “I’ve got a headache the size of Mount Everest. Come back here where you can sort those.”

  It sounded like an order, so I hurried where she pointed.

  Miss Lemon didn’t smile. “People started arriving before six. Can you believe it? Zora Jane and I had barely gotten here. Haven’t had free time since.” Two ladies approached the booth and one made an inquiry, so she went back to selling.

  Zora Jane returned with another armful of accessories, which she dumped atop mine. “What a madhouse! Didn’t I tell you? We haven’t had a chance to finish collecting all the stuff yet.” Her eyes sparkled like a kid at Disneyland. She nodded toward the other lady. “Did you meet Grace Woodson?”

  Grace? I suppressed a snicker. What a misnomer. But who would name their child Sourpuss? Even if the name fit.

  Another clump of eager shoppers descended on us, so conversation ceased. About an hour later, a short lull gave me a few minutes to catch my breath.

  While we sorted the pile of accessories, Zora Jane continued the introduction as if she hadn’t been interrupted. “Christine’s my neighbor. I prayed for a Christian to move into the neighborhood, and here she is.” She beamed at me.

  Grace grunted as she slipped off her shoe to rub one foot. “Don’t know why you want to live so far out there anyway. This is a crazy world. What if you have trouble? No one will get there for hours.”

  I glanced at Zora Jane. Maybe she knew how best to deal with this woman.

  “Oh, we have plenty of help. There’s a sheriff’s substation in Alta Sierra that’s manned most of the time. Besides, God is always with us. And it didn’t take long for the fire department to get there last week. Did it, Christine?”

  “No.” Why hadn’t I heard about the substation before? “The fireman came right away. Can’t say the same for the deputy, though.”

  Grace’s face puckered. She looked about ready to squeeze out lemon juice in anticipation of fresh gossip. “Deputy? What did the deputy come out for?”

  Zora Jane glanced at me. I waited to answer, unsure how much we wanted to stoke the rumor mill.

  Zora Jane’s eyes softened. “Our neighbor is missing.”

  My throat tightened and I blinked back tears. “And my dog … has been killed.” I hadn’t acknowledged that out loud since I told Jesse. Hadn’t spoken of it to Zora Jane yet.

  “Oh, my dear.” Zora Jane touched my arm and gazed into my eyes as I brokenly
explained Deputy Colter’s news. Then she gave me a hug.

  “Wait a second.” Grace divided her gaze between us. “Are you by any chance neighbors of Will Payne?”

  We nodded in unison.

  “I heard about him at the beauty parlor.” She patted her tightly curled coiffure. “Maxine does my hair …” She paused as if waiting for us to acknowledge the name drop.

  Zora Jane blinked and I shook my head.

  She tsked. “Maxine. She’s only the absolute top beautician in the county. Takes months to get in to see her.”

  We stared blankly.

  She rolled her eyes. “A Cut Above is simply the best beauty salon there is. Everyone around here knows that. Well, anyway, Maxine and the operator next to her chat while she cuts my hair. I think the other gal’s name is Cybil. Or Sylvia. Something like that. Anyway, last week they had plenty to say about William Payne, let me tell you. Cybil, or Sylvia, or whatever, she does Helen’s hair.”

  “Helen?” Zora Jane and I repeated in unison.

  Grace frowned as if she couldn’t believe we interrupted her in mid-gossip. “Yeah. Will’s sister. The one that lives in Nevada City. Helen Sterne.” She stopped to stare. “You don’t know his sister?”

  His sister! Why do I always think the worst about people? “Does she live on Sierra Vista at the top of Banner Mountain?”

  Grace shrugged. “I guess. Anyway, she went on and on, Will this and Will that. So when Maxine put me under the dryer I asked, ‘Will who?’ Maxine said, ‘Will Payne out in Alta Sierra.’” Grace crossed her arms and nodded, smug as Camilla Bowles after snagging Prince Charles.

  “What did they say about him?” I asked.

  Grace lowered her voice to confidential volume. We bent toward her and cupped our ears to hear above the din of the bazaar.