No Show

by Simon Wood

  “Sheriff Holman, what’s your point?”

  Holman straightened in his chair and leaned across his desk. “My point is, you don’t seem to know squat about your wife.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Terry walked out of the sheriff’s office. He chewed on Holman’s remarks and tried to convince himself that the sheriff’s doubts were unwarranted, but he failed. True, he didn’t know much about Sarah, but their marriage would change that. Whatever Holman thought about the relationship, the sheriff was still obliged to do his job. He had a duty to follow up on Terry’s report.

  He wandered along Solano Dam Road, Edenville’s main street. Sporadic traffic whistled along on the main thoroughfare on its way out of town. Although the look and feel wasn’t the same, he was reminded of many villages in England. Edenville felt self-contained. It had its own supermarket, restaurants, a couple of bars, a few stores, a gas station with a mechanic, two banks, and a farmers’ market on Saturdays. There was a little bit of everything for everyone. But Edenville, like every English village, would never become a boomtown. Although quaint in a rough-and-ready way, it was never going to be a destination town. Thanks to Solano Dam Road, it was easy to pass through Edenville without a second thought.

  Taxis were fine, but Terry needed wheels, so he rented a car from Edenville’s only rental center. It took some finagling since he didn’t have a California driver’s license, but he played the tourist card to swing it his way. He left the center in a Ford Focus. He took to driving on the wrong side of the road pretty well, thanks to Edenville’s simple network of roads.

  With the car, he had mobility. Wherever Sarah went, he could follow. He bought a map at a supermarket and opened it out across the hood of the car. He put himself in Sarah’s shoes. If she’d skipped town, it wasn’t like she had a large number of options. The US might be a big country compared to Britain, but for its size, it didn’t have a particularly complex or involved road system. Only a couple of roads led in and out of town and a limited number of freeways took you any distance. He could follow, but he stood little chance of catching Sarah. She had almost a week’s head start. Besides, Holman had the resources to cast a net far and wide. But who was to say she’d gone that far? She could be in the local area. The surrounding area got pretty rural, pretty quick. Terry could see her crashing in a hundred places within a twenty-mile radius of Edenville. Crashing brought up another possibility. What if she’d had an accident and hadn’t been found? He could check out the local area. He had to do this. He couldn’t let any possibility go unchecked.

  He worked on a twenty-mile radius as a search area, then broke that area into quadrants based on the direction of roads entering and leaving Edenville. He stopped to check every park, campsite, abandoned trailer, unused vacation home, and set of skid marks that left the road—with no success. When the dashboard light came on to tell him to refill the gas tank, he gave up on his search. He was hot, tired, and dehydrated. He was done for the day. He would start over the next day with a wider search. He turned the car around and aimed it back toward Edenville.

  His head was pounding and his mouth was so dry his tongue had glued itself to the roof of his mouth. Stuck in the car for hours, he’d boiled, even with the air-conditioning going full blast. He needed to get some liquid into him, but when he wanted a fast-food franchise, there wasn’t one to be seen. The only beacon on the horizon was a sign poking high above the walnut groves proclaiming THE GOLD RUSH ARCADE in black text on a gold background. It was punctuated by wagon wheels at either end, and followed by MINIGOLF AND AMUSEMENTS. FUN TIMES FOR ALL AGES. Just to illustrate the point, the rigging for an ancient mine peeked above the fields of walnut trees. The place was bound to have something, even if it was a vending machine.

  He parked and went inside. Pinball machines clanged and the latest shoot-’em-up video games wailed at him, which did nothing for his headache. But for all its noise, the Gold Rush wasn’t packed with people. It was a school day, and most of the arcade machines were busy playing themselves on demo cycles. He couldn’t see the place getting busy until after five. Still, a few teenagers putting the machines through their paces managed to give the Gold Rush an air of respectability.

  Terry weaved between the air hockey tables and a bank of NASCAR simulators to get to the combined ticket booth and snack bar. A friendly looking man in his late forties spotted Terry’s approach and put down his soda. He wasn’t fat, but he carried a hefty paunch, probably from too much soda and too little minigolfing. He looked down at Terry through half-moon glasses.

  “Can I get you something?” he asked with a smile.

  “The biggest Sprite you can pour and if you’ve got any headache medicine, that would be fantastic.”

  The attendant smiled at him in sympathy. “Rough day, huh? Tylenol do?”

  “Anything.”

  The attendant produced a bottle of pills from under the counter. “Working in a place like this, you need them.”

  By the time Terry had uncapped the bottle and shaken two pills from it, the attendant had placed the giant cup of Sprite on the counter. He tossed the pills back and washed them down with the soft drink. The pills would take their time dulling the pain, but the first taste of Sprite doused the throbbing in his skull.

  “Wanna add a round of minigolf?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “C’mon, it’ll do you good.”

  Despite the guy pushing the upsell, Terry decided he could do with some light relief. From the moment he’d stepped off the plane, circumstances had thrown him into a conflict. He’d done all he could for the moment, and he needed to take a step back and clear his head. A mindless round of minigolf would give him the opportunity to put his thoughts in order and plan his next move.

  “Why not? Sign me up.”

  “Good decision.” The attendant put a golf ball and a putter on the counter. “Ten bucks for the soda and game. The first hole is down the stairs next to the restrooms.”

  Terry paid.

  The Gold Rush had a neat gimmick. The first three holes were subterranean. Rough stucco, pickaxes, and shovels fixed to the walls, and lanterns hanging from the ceiling, helped create the look of a mine. All the aboveground holes possessed a mining motif to maintain the theme.

  The final hole was a test of skill, which required the player to strike the ball over an undulating course and into a tube not much wider than the ball. Terry lined up the ball and struck it solidly. The ball rode the undulations and carried enough momentum to fly down the tube. A bell rang and the red light flashed, but instead of Terry’s ball staying in the tube, it rolled back out of the tube and into the gutter trap.

  “When you’re on a streak, you’re on a streak,” he mumbled to himself.

  Terry returned his putter to the ticket booth.

  “Well done, you won a free pass,” the attendant said.

  “But the ball came back out.”

  “Well, the bell rang. That makes you a winner in my book.” The attendant put a winner’s pass on the counter. “You won a soda too. Sprite again?”

  “That’s good of you,” Terry said, pocketing his winner’s pass. “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Terry took his soda and found a booth seat in the restaurant area. He scooped out a handful of ice from his soda and massaged it into his neck. His skin was hot and tight. He’d have to get used to putting on sun block. The sun rarely reached this sort of intensity on a regular basis in the UK, where the need for the stuff was for special occasions only.

  “Do you mind if I join you?” The attendant slipped into the bench seat opposite Terry. “Because I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone as miserable as you walk through my doors.”

  There wasn’t a lot Terry could say in reply. His face must have shown it.

  “Sorry,” the attendant apologized. “I suppose I was a bit insensitive there. What I meant to say is you look like you need to get something off your chest.”

 
; “Is this a service you offer to all your customers?”

  “Nah,” the attendant said, shaking his head. “Most of my clients haven’t gotten past the Harry Potter stage yet. But you, you look like you know your ABCs.”

  “Finished learning them last week.”

  “There you go. See, I knew I could help. That’s a fancy accent you’ve got yourself. What is it? English? Australian?”

  “English.”

  “You’ve come a long way for a game of minigolf.”

  “Feels like it.”

  “So why are you here? I doubt you’re scouting for PGA locations.”

  “No, I’ve just moved here.”

  “Cool, when did you arrive?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “Yesterday. Wow, you did just arrive.” The attendant slurped his soda. “You here on some business gig or something?”

  “No. My wife’s American.”

  “You don’t sound too happy about it.”

  Terry had said my wife as if he was recounting how his dog had just died. “Yeah, well.”

  “Oh, I get it. That’s the reason for the long face. Just found out she’s no angel?”

  “No, just haven’t found her.”

  The attendant looked confused.

  Terry told the attendant about Sarah’s no show at SFO, his arrest, Pamela Dawson’s lack of compassion, and Holman’s reluctance to file a missing persons request. Although he wouldn’t have guessed it, it felt good to share his problems with this stranger. It was a lot easier than if he’d confided in a friend. And in shedding a load, he was gaining an ally at last.

  “Wow,” the attendant managed after a long moment. “You’ve done well for being here”—he checked his watch—“less than twenty-four hours. You’re the reason people have to buy insurance.”

  “Some people just have a knack, I suppose. I’m Terry Sheffield, by the way.”

  “I’m Oscar…Oscar Mayer.” Oscar ground out his name like he was reciting a foreign language. “I own this rattrap.”

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Oscar Mayer.” Terry offered his hand.

  “The name doesn’t mean anything to you?” Oscar said suspiciously, shaking Terry’s hand.

  “No.” Terry sucked on his straw. “Should it?”

  “You’ve never heard of Oscar Mayer?”

  “You’re the first I’ve met.”

  “Oh, I can see we’re going to be good friends.”

  Around midday, Terry returned home with his new friend’s telephone number and a healthy slice of optimism. Oscar was taking the day off from the Gold Rush tomorrow to act as a guide. Oscar’s offer to help Terry any way he could was unbelievably kind, especially seeing as Terry had only known the guy for a couple of hours. He was overcome by Oscar’s kindness. America wasn’t such a bad place after all. He parked the Ford in his driveway.

  As Terry got out of the car, a man pushing a lawn mower hailed him from across the street. Terry acknowledged the lawn mower man with a nod. The man switched off his mower and crossed the street.

  “Mr. Sheffield, isn’t it?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Terry replied.

  The neighbor felt like trouble. Terry didn’t know why he felt that way. Maybe it had something to do with the guy wearing both a belt and suspenders or the plastered-down comb-over he was sporting to cover a large bald spot.

  “Noah Osbourne,” lawn mower man said proffering a hand.

  Terry shook it. “Terry Sheffield.”

  “What’s that accent?”

  Terry had the feeling this was going to become a recurring question. “English.”

  “New to the country?”

  “Since yesterday.”

  “That is new.” Osbourne nodded with approval. “Anyway, I’m the president of the Sutter Drive Neighborhood Watch Committee.” Osbourne hooked his thumbs under his scarlet suspenders and twanged them. “We don’t just cover Sutter Drive, you understand, but a number of neighboring streets.”

  “Right.”

  “But it began on Sutter Drive, hence the name.”

  Terry couldn’t help staring at Osbourne’s hair. Whatever goop he’d used to smarm it down with had turned his hair black. This contrasted appallingly with the dusty-gray band of curls around the sides and back of his head. The clash of color and texture was most peculiar.

  “When I saw you climbing over the fence yesterday, I had no option but to call the sheriff.”

  Osbourne waited a moment. Terry guessed he was waiting for a pat on the head or a medal for carrying out his civic duty so diligently. He’d be waiting a bloody long time, in Terry’s estimation.

  “Well, I wanted to let you know it was me who called the sheriff’s department.”

  Terry didn’t say anything.

  “Sheriff Holman responds very quickly to calls coming from our neighborhood watch committee,” Osbourne said, impressed with his own importance.

  Terry still didn’t reply, and Osbourne’s face exhibited signs that he was realizing he wasn’t welcome.

  Breaking the silence, Terry said, “I was put in a cell.”

  “But it wasn’t for long,” Osbourne corrected, raising a finger. “You weren’t in overnight or anything. I saw Deputy Pittman bring you back.”

  “I’d been in the country five hours, and I wound up in jail.”

  “A holding cell, actually.”

  Osborne’s semantics failed to impress Terry, and he frowned.

  “You understand how the situation looked. I had no choice.”

  “You could have asked me what I was doing.”

  Now it was Osbourne’s turn to look unimpressed. “What? Ask you if you’re a burglar and could you come down from that fence? No way. I’m retired, and I would like to remain retired for some considerable time to come.”

  Terry could see Osbourne’s point, but he didn’t want to admit it. Osbourne was one of those annoying people who needed to feel important, and being chairman of the neighborhood watch committee satisfied that need. Admitting Osbourne had a point would only fuel his desperation to be needed, but Terry felt sorry for the guy and caved.

  “You might be right.”

  “Well, I wanted to come over and say sorry for the mix-up. We, the Sutter Drive Neighborhood Watch Committee, have your best interests at heart and would like to extend an invitation to you to join. We meet the second and fourth Tuesdays of the month. The meetings usually take place at my house, although we do like to rotate locations. Can I count on you being at our next meeting?”

  “I’m sorry, no. I have some important issues I need to attend to before I consider anything else. So if you’ll excuse me.”

  “Is it because of your wife?”

  “Yes…yes, it is. How did you know?”

  “Sheriff Holman alluded to something along those lines when he called me back to explain the misunderstanding.”

  “Have you met my wife?”

  “Oh, yes,” he said matter-of-factly, and then his manner changed. “She wasn’t very nice to me, Mr. Sheffield.”

  Osbourne paused. Terry guessed he was after an apology. He wasn’t getting one.

  “Quite rude, in fact,” Osbourne continued. “Saying she had no time for the neighborhood watch committee. But it hasn’t stopped me from keeping an eye out for her and you.”

  Terry had wanted to dismiss Osbourne without giving him a second thought, but now he changed his mind. The guy might be an interfering busybody, but sometimes an interfering busybody could be most valuable.

  “When was the last time you saw my wife?”

  Some neighborhood watch chairman, Terry thought. Osbourne hadn’t known anything useful. He wasn’t the omniscient curtain twitcher he claimed to be. But one piece of information came out of the forty minutes he had detained Terry. Osbourne remembered seeing Sarah about a week ago, which tied in with the stack of unread mail Terry had discovered.

  It wasn’t much, but it was something Terry could throw Holman’s way. He’d even to
ss in Osbourne’s name so that Edenville’s official and unofficial law-enforcement officers could share some personal time together. A mischievous smirk creased his mouth.

  From his living room, Terry watched Osbourne fire up his lawn mower. Osbourne tried to make it look like he was tending to his garden and not watching his neighbors. Terry smiled and left him to his work.

  He searched through Sarah’s home office, hoping to find something that explained her disappearance. Sifting through her things left him queasy. It reminded him of when he and his mother had sorted through his grandmother’s belongings after she died. But Sarah wasn’t dead. He couldn’t lose sight of that fact. Something had to be there to explain her absence.

  Sarah’s home office was pretty typical. She had arranged two desks in an L-shape with a PC on top. A couple of bookshelves lined one wall and file boxes filled the closet. The books didn’t reveal anything beyond Sarah’s reading taste. The files consisted of nothing but her assignments. His search would have been helped if Sarah had kept her office tidy. Nothing seemed to be in chronological order, and if Sarah put a book away the right way up, it was a miracle.

  The computer looked to be the best option, and he fired it up. While he waited for the Dell to boot up, he stared at the walls. Post-it notes clung to the surface, each carrying an abbreviated snippet of information that only Sarah could understand. Framed newspaper articles hung on the walls—past glories—boasting a glittering career Sarah had carved out for herself. There weren’t any Pulitzer prizes, but she had garnered a number of cover stories in a variety of newspapers and magazines. But only one framed picture interested him. It was a picture of them taken outside of the Luxor Las Vegas. The picture had been taken the day after their wedding.

  He found it hard to hold back tears. The photo confirmed what he’d always known—Sarah did love him. She hadn’t run out on him. She was in trouble and she needed help. The sheriff’s insinuations were dead wrong. The photo blew all his doubt away. If Sarah didn’t care, she wouldn’t have a picture of him above her computer, where she could look at him every time she went to work.