In Plain Sight (5 page)

“Right, I’ll need that.” Sandy rummaged in a dresser drawer and came up with a blue plastic bottle.

“Is Skye going on the trip too?”

“No. I asked her, but she thought she’d be spending spring break with her mom in New York.”

“Which isn’t happening?”

“She said her mom had to fly over to Italy for some last-minute fashion shoot thing.”

“But she is going to go live with her mother before long?”

“Her mom’s been in New York since last fall. How long can it take to get ‘settled’? Skye thought she was going to New York at Christmas too, but then her mother had to go to London and sent a bunch of presents instead.”

Including an expensive watch, I suspected.

Sandy held up a pair of red thong sandals. Apparently they fell short on some rating standard that escaped me, and she tossed them aside.

“Skye’s older than you, isn’t she?” Their relationship rather surprised me. I’d thought older girls considered it beneath them to hang out with younger ones.

“I’m a freshman and she’s a junior. But all Woodston has is an elementary school and a four-year high school, so Skye and I have one class together.” Sandy hesitated, as if she was uncertain about confiding something to me, but finally she added, “Skye isn’t too popular with most of the kids.”

“She’s very pretty. And she has a car of her own.”

“But she’s always talking about how much better everything in California is, and how she’s going to be a model and everything. People would like her a lot better if she’d just … you know, be herself, instead of acting so phony and superior.”

I wondered if “being herself”
was
the problem, that what you saw with Skye, shallow and self-centered, was exactly what she was.

“Does she go out on dates?” Mike and DeeAnn weren’t letting Sandy date yet, but Skye was two years older.

“With any of the guys here in, as she calls it, Hillbilly Heaven?” Sandy scoffed. “She’d rather eat hog jowls, and you heard how she hates them.”

“Sounds as if she’s her own worst enemy.”

“She’s really not so bad, down underneath all the name-dropping and stuff,” Sandy said with what I thought was admirable compassion, given how Skye had trashed Sandy’s hometown of Woodston. “Mostly I think she’s just scared.”

“Scared?”

“Her folks toss her back and forth like a Frisbee. She’d never admit it, but I think she’s afraid that neither of them really wants her. So I’ve tried to be friends with her and tell her about Jesus. I try to make her feel … not so alone and shut out.”

I was ashamed of myself then. Fourteen-year-old Sandy had looked deeper into Skye than I had and was conscientiously trying to help her.

“And I like her. I mean, we’re not Velcroed or anything, but she can be fun. Though I’d like her better if she’d try a little harder with the other kids. And with her stepmother too.”

“The Dumpling?” I guessed.

“Right.”

“Maybe it’s because of the baby. Maybe the baby makes Skye feel insecure, or like an outsider.”

“Baby?” Sandy gave me a blank look. “What baby?”

“The stepmother’s baby. Skye said that first night I arrived that she had to go home to take care of the baby while her stepmother went to the health club.”

Sandy burst out laughing. “It isn’t a baby like with bottles and diapers. It’s Baby.”

“It’s not a baby, but it’s baby?” I was beginning to feel as if we were stumbling around in some old Three Stooges routine.

“Baby is—oh, you’ll just have to see Baby for yourself,” Sandy said, still laughing. “Just don’t try to put a diaper on him. Though he’s so sweet he probably wouldn’t mind.”

“Fine,” I muttered, feeling a bit miffed that I seemed to be out of the loop. “So, tell me more about the Dumpling. I assume she has a real name?”

“Tammi.”

“She and Skye don’t get along?”

“Skye doesn’t give Tammi much of a chance. I mean, Tammi can be a pain all right, but she really tries to be nice to Skye. She isn’t one of those evil stepmother types.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“Tammi’s, well, I guess you can tell from what Skye calls her, a little plump
—
”

“If plump is a crime, half the country would be guilty.”

“Tammi buys all these exercise and diet books. They’re scattered all over the house. She has a new one that must weigh ten pounds. And she has all these gadgets. Stretch bands you’re supposed to exercise with. A huge ball that you’re supposed to roll around on or something. A thing she calls a slantboard, and all kinds of weights and stuff.”

“If she wants to lose weight, exercise is important.”

“Right. But Tammi never actually
does
anything with all that stuff. It’s like she thinks she’s going to drop pounds just by reading the books and buying the equipment. It drives Skye crazy.”

“But the stepmother goes to a health club, doesn’t she? Maybe she does her real exercising there.”

“We sneaked in and watched her one time,” Sandy admitted. “She walked about ten minutes on the treadmill and then went out for a double latte.”

Not a program for successful weight loss, I had to agree. But still, hardly enough to warrant the level of Skye’s apparent antagonism. “That’s all Skye has against her? That she’s plump and doesn’t exercise enough?”

“Oh, Skye gripes about other stuff. Like all the eggplant and tofu Tammi is always trying to feed her. Tammi wants to be a vegetarian and make Skye one too, but then Tammi gets a burger attack and runs out and scarfs down about three double cheeseburgers. And Tammi wanted them to get matching outfits one time.” Sandy rolled her eyes, apparently sympathizing with Skye on that point. “And she is, well, you know … a stepmother. Skye doesn’t say it, but I think she wishes her folks would get back together.”

“I think many children of divorce feel that way.”

“But Tammi tries, and Skye won’t give her a chance. I’m sure she’s the one who talked Mr. Ridenour into letting Skye have the car.” She paused. “I think maybe she even paid for it. Skye said Tammi inherited a bundle of money from her grandmother.”

Two mothers competing to see who could buy Skye’s affection? I wondered if, perhaps subconsciously if not deliberately, Skye wasn’t playing the two women against each other to see what goodies she could collect from both sides.

Motherhood can be a rough game.

“Who makes the decisions on Skye’s wardrobe?” I asked.

“Well, uh, Skye mostly. Tammi’s pretty lenient.”

“Whatever became of that crocheted top you made?”

“Mom told me it required some, umm, alterations before I could wear it.” Sandy gave me an unexpected look and smile. “You’re really curious about people, aren’t you, Aunt Ivy?”

Oh dear, caught. “Any time I ask something that’s none of my business, you just tell me,” I said hastily.

The van came for Sandy and her gear Saturday morning. Before I could get lonely, however, a guy who identified himself as Jerry from the Christian rock band called to ask if they could come over and practice that afternoon. I said Sandy was gone for the week, and he apologized for calling. I had a few qualms, but I said, “Why don’t you come over anyway?” And they did.

Their basement music was loud enough to rattle my four-poster bed upstairs, but after the first few ear-splitting, floor-shaking minutes—and the shock of their trademark blue hair—I rather enjoyed them. And they seemed to enjoy the nachos I fixed. I invited them to come again.

Just after they packed up their instruments and left, a man I didn’t recognize arrived in a black pickup and rang the doorbell. I considered not answering. Could this be a Braxton scheme to lure me out? But that old mutant curiosity gene got me again. I couldn’t just let the doorbell ring. Although I did put my ear to the door and say “Who is it?” rather than just flinging it open.

“Mrs. Malone? Is that you? Sgt. Yates. I just thought I’d stop by and see if everything’s okay.”

I opened the door then. This was the deputy from the county sheriff’s office whom Mike had contacted to check up on Drake Braxton, although the deputy was in jeans, not a uniform, today. A long and lanky, brown-haired guy, fortyish but with a face that would have looked almost boyish if not for a nasty scar cutting through his right eyebrow. Bullet wound? Knife? Whatever, it gave him a tough, don’t-mess-with-me air that I found both intimidating and reassuring.

“Thank you. I appreciate your concern.”

“You’re getting along okay? Nothing suspicious going on? No strange cars or people in the neighborhood?”

“No …” I momentarily thought about telling him about the man with binoculars down on the dock, but the guy certainly hadn’t threatened me in any way, and I didn’t want Sgt. Yates thinking I saw boogeymen around every corner. And I didn’t want to cause some innocent guy problems. “Although there are a lot of people walking by on the trail, of course. Especially on weekends. And a couple of times cars have pulled into the driveway and just turned around and left.” I hadn’t thought much about the car incidents at the time, but who knows?

“I’ll just take a look around, then, if it’s okay with you.”

I followed as he circled the house. He paid special attention to the windows, parting the shrubs and bending them back so he could inspect the ground underneath. Looking for tracks, I supposed. Mike and DeeAnn used to have a lawn, but several years ago they’d taken out the grass and put in shrubs and decorative rock and bark for easier maintenance. It makes for a nice, woodsy ambiance, but the shrubs and bushes could also offer concealment for evil-intentioned Braxtons.

“Been getting any strange phone calls? Hang-ups, anything like that?” Sgt. Yates asked as he studied an indentation in the bark mulch.

“No. Nothing unusual. As you may know, Mike and DeeAnn had a security system installed.” Guiltily I realized I hadn’t set it since Sandy left. “They’ve called several times and really seem to like Hawaii.”

He checked the windows fronting the porch, tested the roll-up and side doors on the garage, and peered under the tarp covering the wood for the fireplace. When we were out front again, he said, “Well, I don’t think anyone’s been prowling around the house. Though it wouldn’t hurt to have some of those shrubs near the windows trimmed back.”

“I’ll see about that.”

“And give me a call if anything makes you uneasy, okay?” He handed me a card listing office, cell, and home phone numbers.

At the last minute, just as he was opening the pickup door, I changed my mind on holding back about the man on the dock. If the guy was up to something concerning Leslie Marcone, it would be unfair of me to keep quiet just because I didn’t want Sgt. Yates thinking I had a boogeyman complex.

So I told him what I’d seen. For the first time an innocent explanation of the man’s concentration on Leslie Marcone’s house occurred to me. “Of course, maybe he was just interested in the architecture of the house. It is a rather unusual place. Especially that matching boathouse.”

“Could be,” Sgt. Yates said with the skepticism of one who takes nothing for granted. He took out a well-worn black notebook and asked me to describe the man.

I couldn’t tell him much beyond the hayseedy clothes. The slouch hat had covered the color of the man’s hair and the sunglasses the color of his eyes. “But he was about medium height, with a stocky build. His face was rather narrow, and he had a really deep tan.”

“Would you know him if you saw him again?”

“I’m not sure,” I had to admit. “Maybe.”

“Did you see a vehicle?”

“No. Most people walking the trail leave their cars at the city park.”

“Anything else?”

“Nothing except that he seemed awfully nervous and jittery for a man who wasn’t … up to something.”

“Okay, we’ll keep him in mind in case anything unusual happens.” Sgt. Yates flipped the notebook shut and put it back in his pocket.

“Do you know the woman who owns that house?” I asked. “I often see her jogging on the trail, but she seems somewhat … aloof.”

“No social butterfly, from what I hear. But about all I really know about her is that she doesn’t have a criminal record.”

“You checked?” I asked, surprised.

“A neighbor across the road complained that she’d stopped him from using the boat landing on her place. The previous owner had always let him use it to put his boat in the water and tie up at the dock.”

“Was stopping him illegal?”

“Not as far as I know. We told him it was a civil not criminal matter and that if he thought he had rights to use the boat landing he should contact a lawyer. He got quite irate and had a number of uncomplimentary things to say about paying his taxes and not getting any service, bureaucrats feeding at the government trough, etc., etc.” Sgt. Yates’s smile was wry, as if neither complaint was unfamiliar.

“I wonder why she stopped him?”

“I suppose she figures it’s her boat landing and her dock, and she’s entitled to private use of it. But the neighbor said he suspected she was doing something illegal on the property, drugs or something, and the reason she wouldn’t let him in was because she didn’t want him to see what was going on there.”

That thought startled me. Could some illegal activity be why Leslie Marcone was so aloof and unfriendly? And why the man with binoculars was studying her house?