Edge of Midnight (19 page)

“Breakfast, then a bath.” Cary escaped to the kitchen before Elizabeth's attempt at comfort had her collapsing into tears.

She started coffee. While it was dripping through she scrambled eggs and made toast, then peeled an orange, arranged slices on a plate, and put everything on a tray. She laid a towel across Elizabeth's chest and offered a forkful of egg. Feeding another person was awkward and messy, but with a straw, at least coffee didn't dribble down her face.

When the food was gone, dishes washed, and Elizabeth bathed and dressed in a clean nightgown, Cary picked up the biography of Katharine Hepburn and read to her. The struggle with words was worse than usual. Cary's vision was blurred this morning, probably because of all the crying. Or her tunnel of sight had shrunk.

“Nooo.” Elizabeth shook her head.

“You want me to read something else?”

Elizabeth pointed to the bookcase against the wall opposite the foot of the bed.

“You want something from the bookcase?”

“Bbboot—tt…”

“Bottom shelf?” Cary crouched and started reading titles.

Elizabeth made exasperated, impatient noises. “Wh-wh … horse!”

“A book about horses?” Cary didn't see a book about horses. All the agitation Elizabeth was showing made Cary uneasy. With no training taking care of the sick, would she recognize symptoms that needed immediate medical attention?

Getting more and more frustrated, Elizabeth made stuttering noises Cary couldn't interpret. “Book book book!”

“Yes, book, I'm looking.” Cary worried that Elizabeth might have another stroke.

“Lit-el lit-el.”

“Lit-el,” Cary repeated.

With a doubled fist, Elizabeth hit the mattress at her side. “Lit el!”

Understanding dawned. “Little. A little book.”

Elizabeth nodded and said “lit-el” again, as though anybody with half a brain would have known.

“Smaller than little.” Paperback maybe? Cary ran a glance over the shelved books and saw a stack of pamphlets. She pointed. Elizabeth nodded. Cary pulled out the whole stack and carried it to the bed. She went through them one by one, showing each to Elizabeth. When she came to a pamphlet titled “Leading the Way,” Elizabeth jabbed at it with her clawed hand.

Cary read it from beginning to end, three pages. Miniature horses trained to lead the blind. Why did Elizabeth want her to read this? Trying to say she was so blind she needed a horse to lead her around? If she couldn't even read, what good was she? Take your blind eyes and go away, with or without a horse? Was she going to get Stephanie to find someone else? Someone who could read smoothly?

No, please no. Cary couldn't lose this job. Where would she get another one? She was keeping an accurate account of money she spent that belonged to Kelby. As soon as possible, she'd pay it back, every penny. How could she do that without a job?

With sounds and gestures, Elizabeth made known that she wanted to hear about Cary's friend. Cary hesitated. Because she had no one else and because she needed to talk about Arlette, Cary complied. Elizabeth couldn't speak beyond a struggling word or two. Putting together an understandable sentence was beyond her. Maybe her speech would return—it was getting better all the time—and maybe talking about Arlette wasn't smart, but Cary thought it should be okay, as long as Arlette's name wasn't mentioned.

When Elizabeth had dozed off, Cary poured herself another cup of coffee, took it to the living room, and sat on the couch reading a book of clinical psychology. Later, she fixed Elizabeth's supper, then got her settled for the night and put a movie in the VCR. When the film was ending, Stephanie arrived and Cary told Elizabeth she'd see her in the morning. Elizabeth jabbed a finger toward the bookshelf where the guide horse pamphlet was. Not knowing what that meant, Cary nodded and left for home.

Walking through the clinging heat, she thought about how she'd slid into Kelby's life and taken over everything. Name, money, clothes, even thought of Kelby's house as home. Identity theft. How much longer was she going to let this go on? Standing under one of the large trees, she watched the house. Whenever she returned, she had this clutch of fear that Mitch had found her, was inside hiding, waiting for her like a large, patient cat.

Shoulders hunched, she went up the steps to the rear porch, squinted closely at the piece of paper she'd slid between the door and frame to make sure it was still there, that no one had gone in while she was gone. She unlocked the kitchen door and went inside. She waited, listening. Heart beating fast, she went around checking each little piece of paper she'd placed at all the strategic points. All were just as she'd left them.

She kicked off her shoes, turned on the fan, and sat in the easy chair with a library book. Tucking her feet up, she tried to read, but her mind always found itself with Arlette. When the phone rang, she jumped. The answering machine kicked in and a woman said, “This is Faye. Your sister? Remember me? Call!”

Was it her fault, whatever happened to Kelby? Like Typhoid Mary, did she spread death wherever she went? How long was she going to let this go on? Call the police! She dug fingers into her hair. And say what, when they asked who she was, and why she was using Kelby's name and taking her money and living in her house? She bent over, hands clutching her shoulders. If Kelby hadn't agreed to help her, would she be here in her own living room sitting on her own couch?

Car coming up the driveway! Run! Before she could get herself into motion, a knock sounded on the door. With her heart tripping away like crazy, she crept into the entry way. “Who is it?”

“Ida. Talk to you a minute?”

Ida, the young woman she'd met on the bus. She opened the door and saw a police officer. Oh, God, Ida was a police officer! What had she said to this young woman? The dark blue of the uniform got blurry and Ida's words fuzzed over.

Ida, thinking “Kelby” was going to keel over in a dead faint, stepped in to catch her, but she scuttled away like Ida had the plague or something. “Ms Oliver? Kelby? Are you all right?”

Cary sucked in a breath. “Yes, yes. I'm sorry. I got up too quickly and felt a little light-headed.”

Ida eyed her. Right. The woman was terrified. What was she hiding? Drug deals? Something else illegal? Ambling into the living room, Ida looked around. Nothing unusual in sight. Pile of books on the coffee table. “You have a sister?”

Again, this Kelby got a ghastly look, like Ida had come to haul her off to jail. Was she sick? Had a mental problem? The only people Ida knew with that kind of reaction to a cop were criminals. Okay, be careful here. The chief was not apt to give her any more chances. Mess up one more time and she was history. “Your sister—what's her name?”

Cary started to say something, caught herself, and said, “Faye. Her name is Faye.”

“She's worried about you. She called the department and asked us to check on you, make sure you're okay. Maybe you could call her. Let her know you're all right.”

“Yes. Okay. I will do that.”

Ida wanted to march this woman right over to the phone and have her call the sister now. Let's see what happened then, but that might be one of those impulsive acts the chief wanted her to stop doing. “Well, thank you for your time. You let me know, now, if you need anything.” She took one last look around the room and took herself out. It ruffled her feathers to just walk away, but beating up a citizen to get her to spill her trouble was probably another one of those things the chief had warned her about.

*   *   *

From the front window, Cary watched Ida get in her car. What an idiot, nearly dropping in a faint and stammering like a retard. What does this cop think? Obviously, she noticed something was wrong. Cary paced to the dining room, looked out at the corn-field whispering in the wind like a malignant presence, sat herself on the couch, and tried to read. At ten Cary turned on the news to see if there was any mention of Arlette's murder. Nothing in the national or local news. Earthquake near Los Angeles. Nobody hurt. California. The thought of home pulled at her. She shivered.

The beatings, the bruises and broken bones, thinking it was her fault. Arlette had made her see how sick that was, made her realize they had made a pact, she and Mitch. The first time he'd hit her and she didn't jump up and down and yell and scream and walk out, she and Mitch had decided that it was okay for him to beat her up. It wasn't okay any more. Only, he didn't know that.

*   *   *

Susan glanced at her watch. Nine o'clock. Time to pack it in. She shut down her computer and tried to think what work she needed to take home. Ida tapped on the open door. Oh Lord, what now? Had her rookie nearly gotten somebody else killed? Motioning with her fingers to come in, Susan told Ida to have a seat.

“I went to see Kelby Oliver.” Ida perched on the chair. “There's something wrong there.”

“Wrong how?”

Ida gave a quick shake of her head, like a dog bothered by a fly. “She nearly fainted when she saw me. And she wasn't scared of me when I first met her.”

Ida explained that she'd taken her car in to get the brakes fixed and took the bus to see her parents. On the way back, she'd met Kelby Oliver. “We talked a bit. She didn't say much, but she just seemed quiet, like she didn't want to call attention to herself. Today she was white with fear.”

Susan wondered if Ida had come storming in like a tornado. “Did you ask her what she was afraid of?”

“Yes. And I didn't do anything that might be scary. Honest.” Ida nodded to underscore the word. “She nearly dropped to the floor before I opened my mouth.”

Fatigue and a long day had Susan wanting to get home, take off her shoes, and stretch out on the couch with Bach in the CD player. Was this something she should look into, or was it simply a civilian opening the door and seeing a cop on the doorstep? First response, something happened to a loved one. “What did you say to her?”

“That her sister was worried and Kelby should call.”

A better approach would have been to ask about the sister first, before explaining why the visit.

“She said she would, but I got the feeling she only said that to get rid of me.” With one hand, Ida flipped hair up from her forehead. “Don't you think only a criminal would react like that?”

“Is that what you think?”

Ida took a breath. “She's afraid of something. And somehow cops play in.”

Susan told her to write up a report. When Ida left, Susan grabbed her shoulder bag, retrieved her keys, and headed out. A few hours' sleep unmarred by dreams and she'd be a hundred percent. Before she could escape, the phone buzzed. She snatched it. “Yes, Hazel.”

“Bad news. The hospital just called. Tim Baker, the boy in Monday's accident, died six minutes ago.”

 

24

God, it was hot. How did people live here? The heat must fry their brains. Leaning forward against the steering wheel, Mitch pulled the handkerchief from his rear pocket and swiped at his forehead, then stuffed the handkerchief back. He'd checked the phone book before leaving the motel. No listing for Kelby Oliver. Information told him the number was unlisted. What the hell kind of name was Kelby anyway? He drove around getting a feel for the place. This was some nowhere town. Main Street with a business section three blocks long, two blocks wide. The PD was one block over. He considered dropping in and telling them he was on their turf looking for this Oliver jerk-off in connection with a homicide back home. Might get him an unlisted number and an address. Naw. Too complicated. They'd want to accompany him, and that wouldn't fly. They might even check with Manny in Berkeley, or some shit like that.

He drove past a big-ass church made from some kind of sandstone. Churches could be good sources to look for a missing person. Depending. Not Cary, though. Her religion was worshipped in libraries. Books books books. All the time reading books. He should have dumped the piles at home before he left. Bring her back to the house with all her books gone. He grinned at the thought.

The library turned out to be new-looking, red brick and glass. He angled into a parking slot and went inside. Tables with old farts reading newspapers, kids—probably students—studying. At the checkout counter, he smiled at the frumpy broad who asked if she could help him. He went into a song and dance about looking for Kelby Oliver, old friend, lost the address, just passing through, wanted to say hello. The bitch gave him the fish eye and told him they weren't allowed to give out addresses or phone numbers.

This would be a lot easier if he could slap his ID in her face and demand answers, but he just nodded and got out of there. Even so, she'd remember him. That was the trouble with small towns, strangers stuck out. After the air-conditioning, the heat slapped him like a blast from hell. He rolled through town, up one block and down another, consulted the map, and took a drive down to the river, where he got out and stood on the sandy bank under some tall trees. Water moved along to wherever the hell water went. He didn't get this nature shit. Seen one river, you've seen them all. He got back in his car and meandered through the campus. Spotting a BBQ place, he stopped for lunch.

A waitress slipped him a menu and he asked for coffee. She brought a mug and a coffeepot, plunked down the mug, and filled it from the pot, then set down a saucer with little containers of cream. He pushed that aside and took a sip from the mug.

“Haven't seen you before. Here on business?”

“You could say that. What's good to eat?” With a badge he could just ask questions. Without it, the only way to go was play games and ease out answers.

“Can't go wrong with a burger.”

He nodded and told her to put cheese and bacon on it and add a side of fries.

She wrote on her pad. “You staying long?”

“Just going from here to there.” He put his arm along the back of the booth. “Being so close, I thought I'd stop and see a friend. Name's Kelby Oliver.”