Edge of Midnight (16 page)

Mitch nodded and kept his face blank with effort. Cary never told him she sneaked off to have coffee with a group of ditzy broads. Why not? Because she had something to hide, that's why not.

“It would mean a lot to me.” He put a hopeful look on his face.

“Well, I suppose, but—”

“That day you saw her. If you could just tell me what she said.”

He could see Velma looking him over, trying to make up her mind. He didn't push it. Pushing would make her skittish and she'd show him the door. He simply stood there. If he had a hat, it'd be in his hand.

“Well…” She drew out the word, and he knew he had her. The old Black charm, worked every time. “I could make some coffee. But it can't be long. My neighbor watches the baby while I do the shopping. We trade off. It's a lot quicker and faster if you aren't dealing with a fussy little one. And you wouldn't believe the equipment you have to carry around. Diaper bag and extra pacifier, in case one gets lost, and diaper wipes, and plastic bags for dirty diapers, and…”

Jesus, that's more than he needed to know. “We were trying for a baby.” He put a hint of sorrow in his voice.

She gave him a look of sympathy. “You'll have to excuse the place. I didn't know I'd have company.” She took the items he handed her and shoved them in the refrigerator.

Divorced, he'd bet. She had the harried look of single parent.

“With the baby, I never seem to get on top of it.” She hustled around picking up baby clothes and tossing them in the basket under the table.

“Are you a real coffee drinker? I mean, some people grind the beans fresh and only use Peet's and—”

He smiled. “Don't you watch television? I'm a cop. We drink roofing tar.”

She smiled back and rummaged through cans and jars for coffee filters. If she had stuff organized, she wouldn't have to move everything to find what she wanted.

“Let me help you with that.” He spooned in grounds and poured water in the top of the coffee maker. “What did Cary talk about?”

“Oh, just—you know, what we all talk about. What we had to do that day. Pick up prescriptions at the pharmacy, do the laundry, that kind of stuff. I always talked about the baby. And made them look at the latest pictures.” She slid a box of crackers onto a cabinet shelf. “We just talked, you know? Nothing really.”

“Other stuff, too, right? Women always do.” He dredged up another smile. “Troubles, hopes. Ambitions.”

Velma got out two cups. “Actually, I didn't know her that well. She was reading some book—”

“Yeah. She was a great reader, always had a book in her hands.”

“A book about Kansas, I think.”

“Kansas,” he said, too sharp. She shot a look at him like he was a cat about to pounce and she was the mouse. “What was the name of the book?” He softened his tone and added that sad note.

“Oh, I don't remember, but she said she'd never been there before.”

“Was she planning to go?”

“Well, not that I recall, she just had this stack of books Arlette said had belonged to Kelby and they were all about Kansas, and then somebody else said all she knew about Kansas was that it was flat. And Arlette said it went on forever if you were driving across it.” Velma got up to get the pot and fill his cup. “Cream and sugar?”

“Black.” He sipped. Lousy coffee. He'd have to pace himself, drinking this shit could put him off coffee completely. “What's the name of her friend in Kansas?”

“Friend?” She looked sideways at the door, like she was maybe thinking it hadn't been such a good idea to invite him in. Stupid bitch. Women who invited strange males into their homes deserved what they got. Not that he would hurt her, but he felt like squeezing her pudgy neck.

“Yeah. I know she had one, but—” Mitch rubbed his forehead, like he was tired, and God knew that was true, not sleeping and having nightmares of Cary rotting in bed beside him. “I've been forgetful. Worry has me not thinking real sharp.”

Velma nodded sympathetically. “I'm so sorry, she didn't mention any friend.”

“What about Kelby?” Tell me about this son of a bitch who went to Kansas.

“Oh, well, I promised not to talk about that.”

Is that right. What if I slap you a time or two, would you talk then? “I understand. I wouldn't want you to betray a confidence, but I'm really worried about Cary. Anything you can tell me that might help find her—”

Tears welled up in her eyes. “I'm really sorry.”

What did she have to cry about. He was the one with a missing wife. “Where in Kansas did Kelby go?”

“I don't know.”

He looked at her.

“Really, I don't.”

He thanked her for the coffee and fished a card from his wallet. “If you think of anything she said, anything at all, please call me.”

She took the card and studied it like it came from a tarot deck. “Of course. I'm really so sorry, but there isn't anything I can tell you. I wish I could help, but she was just reading, you know, and…” A spark of intelligence came over her face.

“What? You remembered something.”

“Well no, not really. I mean, nothing that could help, or anything, it's just—”

That slap or two was looking better and better. “What?”

“Oh, nothing. I just remembered that Kelby said the town was ‘on the caw' and the house was in the middle of a cornfield.”

“What is a ‘caw'?”

Velma shook her head. “I have no idea.”

Mitch figured he'd gotten about all this stupid cow could tell him, and he needed to get out of here and away from her lousy coffee before he smacked her stupid face. He gave her a thin smile and thanks for the coffee.

Velma threw him another one of those stupid sheep looks. “Arlette might know. Kelby was really her friend.”

*   *   *

At home Mitch opened windows. The place smelled like nobody lived there. The dirty dishes in the sink didn't help either. What the fuck was a caw? He pulled out the dictionary from the bookshelf in the living room and looked up “caw.”
The harsh strident cry of a crow or raven
. What? Only the one definition. A code of some kind?

He tossed the book and yanked open the refrigerator door, snatched a beer and popped the tab. After a long swallow to wash away the taste of the vile coffee, he started throwing stuff from the refrigerator into the trash. Cheese with green mold, eggs past the pull date, bread that was hard, leftovers he couldn't identify. When he was done, he started on the cabinet shelves. He'd never paid much attention to what was on them. Cary did the shopping and put things away. If he needed anything, he just asked and she got it. Now he took down brown sugar and packages of spaghetti, boxes of cereal, boxes of crackers, a bag of flour.

The bag tore and flour scattered all over the floor. “God damn it!” He was headed for the garage and the broom when he noticed the small package that had spilled out with the flour. He picked it up. Birth control pills. Only two left. The bitch! She lied! All that time trying for a baby and her crying and saying how she wanted to be pregnant. He smashed a fist against a cabinet door. It splintered.

He stomped into the bedroom and threw himself on the bed. She lied about wanting a baby. What else did she lie about? Saying she was going to Sylvia's to exercise, lose weight. Monday, Wednesday, Friday. And the whole time she was having coffee with these broads. Lying and sneaking around. Meeting this Kelby. Kissing him. Sleeping with him. Going to Kansas.

He jumped up, retrieved his coat, and drove to the marina. In the bar at Hs Lordship's, he sat at a table by the window, sipped bourbon, and watched waves in the bay slap up against the rocks. He thought how the sound was the same as a palm striking a cheek. When they were first married, she liked to come out here. One time they'd come so he could apologize properly for hitting her. He'd given her roses and a black lacy thing, teddy or something.

One time he'd pushed her and she'd fallen down the stairs. Broke her wrist. She took off. He couldn't let her leave then and he wouldn't let her do it now. She belonged to him. He'd find out what caw meant, and he'd track her down. Tossing off the rest of the bourbon, he ordered another. How could she do this to him? Make him think she'd been abducted and murdered, or worse. Make him sob like a baby, mess up on the job. Waves rushed in to smash against the rocks, sending up a spume of spray, then receding, only to rush in again.

After another drink, he drove home and sprawled on the bed in the dark. Pictures drifted through his mind. Cary, smiling, radiant, in white lace at their wedding, smiling, confident and happy when they bought the house. Blank and shocked the first time he'd hit her. He couldn't remember why he'd lost his temper, she just would do stuff that pushed his buttons. Why wouldn't she learn not to do that? He shouldn't have hit her. He knew that. He was sorry. Didn't he tell her how sorry he was?

Sneaking behind his back. Telling him she was exercising and crawling into bed with somebody else. Laughing at him. All those months, he thought they were trying for a baby and she was using pills. Reading books, planning on running away. Making him think she was dead. Letting him sit in this empty house and look at her dead plants and smell her perfume on the clothes in the closet.

He took off his gun and put it on the lamp table. Countrywide bulletins had gone out on her. Calls had been made to hospitals, service stations. Triple A put a flag on her card. Highway patrols were alerted. He'd nudged traffic division himself. Airlines checked, car rental agencies contacted, credit card traces run. Bank records looked into. No trace of her. She had no money. Money in checking and savings hadn't been touched. Somebody had to pay for essentials like food and shelter. Some man was picking up the bills. Even if she had gotten too skinny, she was still pretty enough to look slant-eyed at a man and let him know she was hot. They were laughing at him while they lived it up.

Kansas. Halfway across the country from California, the last place that clown Mitch Black would think of looking. A town on the caw. He sat on the side of the bed. Their bed, where they made love and she told him how great it was, where they slept, side by side, where they tried for a baby. He pounded the mattress with his fist. Where she lied! Saying how much she wanted his baby and all the while taking the damn pills.

He picked up the Glock from the bedside table. Familiar and perfect in his hand. She was missing, maybe kidnapped, maybe murdered by some psycho like that creep who picked up Lily Farmer. You couldn't kill a dead woman. Find her, kill her, get rid of the body. The distraught husband couldn't be blamed. He was home grieving over her disappearance. Like two lovebirds, they were, he loved her so much. He'd kill the man, too. The son of a bitch she went away with.

First, he had to talk with Arlette.

 

19

On Sunday Cary woke early, bunched the pillow under her head, and rolled onto her back. Wind brushed the maple trees outside and leaves did a shadow dance across the ceiling in the translucent light of dawn. Except, with her eyesight, it was always the edge of midnight.

Why didn't Arlette call? All those things Cary kept telling herself—that Kelby went to see a friend, visit a sick relative, was seized by a sudden need for a vacation—were no longer possible to believe. If Kelby was simply away, why hadn't she called her sister? Unless she was totally irresponsible. Arlette wasn't the type to have an irresponsible friend.

Deep in her heart, Cary knew something bad had happened. Maybe an accident, maybe Kelby had gone somewhere and was taken ill, got hit by a bus, had emergency surgery. Amnesia. Ha, sure. How long before someone who knew Kelby would come by looking for her? Cary curled into a ball, arms hugging her knees. Could Mitch have known what she was planning? Know where she was going? Gotten here ahead of her? Could he have done something to Kelby?

Birds twittered outside with all the noise and busyness of starting a new day. She opened the curtain and sunlight slanted in. Grabbing Kelby's robe, she went to the kitchen and spooned grounds in the coffee maker, poured in water, and waited, watching the coffee drip through. If she told the police who she really was, and that Kelby was missing, she'd just have to face the consequences. But if Mitch found her … She felt like shrieking. Would there ever be a time when she could be herself? When she would be safe? Not a quivering bundle of fear?

With shaky hands she filled a mug with coffee and took it out on the screened porch. She could almost taste the heat and corn and dust. A cat ran along the fence, a small rodent dangling from its mouth. The hunter going home with the kill. Mitch was patient, like the cat, hunting, ready to grab her by the neck and shake her until it broke.

She took a sip of hot coffee. He'd never give up his search. Only upon looking back did she realize how much she had endured. How could she have just stayed, getting beaten, trembling like a scared rabbit? She peered closely at her watch. Still early, not yet six. Eight in California. She'd call again. Arlette had to be home at eight
A.M
. on Sunday morning.

After a shower, she dressed in blue pants and a white shirt. She was getting used to walking, it wasn't taking her as long or making her as tired, but people were beginning to recognize her. She could feel them watching. If they smiled or waved, it was lost in the dark around her tunnel of sight. At the public phone outside of Erle's Market, she thumbed in coins, pleading,
be there, be there, be there.
The phone rang four times and the answering machine clicked in. No! Damn it! Arlette, where are you?

“Got your paper ready,” the elderly man who ran the magazine store called to her from his doorway.

Startled, she turned with the guilty feeling of having been caught at something. “Oh great,” she said trying to sound like she hadn't been scared out of what few wits she possessed. “Thank you. And the
Hampstead Herald
, too, please.”