Deceit

“But it’s Baxter.”

I’d had the same reaction on that fateful day when Linda first told me things weren’t right in her home. One day during a visit—shortly before Melissa came to live with her and Baxter—Linda had seemed sad, weighted. It was so unlike her. I pressed her to tell me what was the matter. After a succession of feeble claims that she was “fine,” she gave in. She lifted up her shirt, showed me a large purple bruise on her back. I gaped at it, my mind refusing to grasp her silent message.

Never would I forget Linda’s reaction. Her eyes closed in pain, as if my stunned silence had sealed her fate —who would believe Mrs. Baxter Jackson, if not her best friend? “I didn’t get that from walking into a door,” she said, her voice bitter and bleak. And she lowered her shirt.

I scrambled to apologize. Tried to explain I’d simply been shocked. I asked questions, begged for more information. How long had this been happening? How often? How could I help? We had to go to the police, our pastor. Somebody.

But Linda waved away my mea culpas and growing indignation. Before my eyes the victim side of her that I’d never seen, would not have believed existed, pulled back into its shell. Linda’s buoyant expression and laugh returned. But after that I saw through them, realized the mask she’d perfected. And I would wonder, Has Baxter hit her today? What might he do tomorrow?

If only I’d pushed harder, made Linda go to our pastor. But she wouldn’t hear of it. The last few weeks before her disappearance she couldn’t even hide the stress in her voice when we talked on the phone. Finally I threatened to go to Pastor Steve without her.

“No, Joanne. I’ll deny everything.”

“But—”

“It’s for Melissa. She needs a home. This will all work out. You’ll see.”

That had been the last time Linda and I spoke.

I blinked away the memories, startled to see Perry’s eyes boring into mine as if trying to laser into my thoughts. For a moment I wanted to blurt out everything. About Linda’s abuse and Hooded Man, my determined pursuit to finally see justice done. I had to bring Baxter’s horrible secrets to light. For Linda. For me. I’d let her down. I’d let her die.

The old sickening guilt washed through my stomach.

The moment passed. Perry was still staring at me. I couldn’t tell him his suspicions were wrong. Neither could I tell him the whole truth.

My head tilted. “You and I have lived over half a century, Perry. You’ve never seen anyone who surprised you? Who turned out to be something far different than what they claimed?

He gave a slow nod, as if acknowledging my underlying message. “Yeah. Sure I have. Like the Styx song.”

Styx. I thought a moment. “ ‘The Grand Illusion.’”

“ ‘The Grand Illusion.’”

“Yeah. Like that.”

Perry pulled his head back, his jaw moving to one side as he digested my response. He’d apparently learned plenty from those detective novels, the way he was pulling reactions from me.

He gestured toward the newspaper rack. “That article. It’s the first time I heard how much life insurance Baxter had on Cherisse.”

“It was a rumor I’d heard.” Via Dineen at the law firm where she worked. One of the lawyers there was Baxter’s attorney, and somebody leaked the information around the water cooler. “It sounded plausible, since Baxter had the same amount on Linda. But I didn’t know for sure until I threw it at Chief Eddington and he didn’t deny it.”

“Half a million is a lot of money, even for Baxter Jackson. And right now, with real estate in the tank—”

The automatic door whooshed open behind me. I glanced over my shoulder to see a young mother and her little girl hurry into the store, hand in hand. They barely glanced our way and made a beeline for the bread aisle.

I looked back at Perry. “Gotta go.”

A crinkly rustle sounded as the mother picked up a package. She swiveled toward the counter, pulling her child along. “Come on.”

“Take care, Joanne.” Perry gave me a firm nod. “Do what you have to do.”

I blinked at him, my mouth opening to ask what he meant, but the mother-daughter duo approached. Perry shot me a meaningful look, then accepted the bread from the young woman. “Good morning. This be all?”

My body turned toward the door, my mind lingering on Perry. As I slid into my car I thought about Hooded Man, his possible cohorts, and wondered if Perry knew far more than he’d let on.

EIGHTEEN

How different my house looked in daylight. Beleaguered and worn from the storm, yes. Some branches were down in my backyard, and water stood in puddles at low points in the grass. But inside the place was warm and lit, void of threat. It was hard to believe I’d sat trembling in the corner kitchen chair last night, waiting for the police.

How shadows horrify a mind.

I set down my purse and overnight bag, retreated into the garage to check the infamous rear door. Still locked and bolted. I opened it and looked outside, scanning the nearby ground for footprints. Nothing.

With the door locked once more I searched the garage for anything out of place. Again nothing.

My nerves bristled. Was it just from the memory of last night? Or a frisson at the thought I was overlooking something?

In the kitchen I pulled two fresh batteries from a drawer and replaced the old ones in Billy Bass. Switched him on to motion sensor. I waved my hand, and he went off, raising from his wood mount and singing. “Don’t Worry, Be Happy.” A picture of Tom flashed through my head. How he had laughed the first time he turned that thing on.

Stupid, wonderful song.

I took a shower, which helped wake me up. Had a bagel and cream cheese for breakfast, chased by strong coffee. I ate by rote, my thoughts churning. I needed to find Melissa today. Somehow convince her to talk to Chief Eddington. The thought of another long, unknowing night in my house—even with lights—made me shiver. After being awake for thirty-six hours by then, I’d need some serious sleep. But how could I close my eyes, knowing last night’s intruder might come back?

By 8:30 I was at my computer, copying my notes on the flash drive into the HM file. My fingers itched to call the Melissa Harkoff in Gilroy. She would either be the florist or my Melissa. If the former, I could hone in on the Melissa in San Jose.

It was a little early to call on a Sunday morning. I promised myself I’d wait until 9:00.

My mind flashed on Perry, his parting words to me. What did he know?

I drained another cup of coffee. My nerves had begun to twitch. Too much caffeine on too little sleep. I couldn’t even eat Jelly Bellies. The sugar would send me completely over the top. Nor could I listen to music. Sounds were too loud—the ticking of the kitchen clock, a car passing on Stillton. A buzz saw in the distance. Agitation rocked my stomach.

In the kitchen I sliced some cheese, drank a glass of milk for protein. Maybe as it digested I would feel better. At the moment it proved no help. I took a water bottle with me into the office, ducking to avoid setting off Billy Bass.

Back at the computer I ran my two SSNs for Melissa Harkoff through some public records databases on Skiptrace One. Most importantly I wanted to see if either the Gilroy or San Jose Melissa came up in criminal court proceedings or a marriage license. If Melissa had a new last name, I’d have to generate leads all over again. And if she were in jail I’d have a whole new situation on my hands.

Once when I’d just started skip tracing I spent days resulting in dead ends on a skip only to discover he had died. Wouldn’t hurt to check death certificates either.