In Plain Sight (10 page)

Tammi was home at 9:50, coming in like a tornado of bubbles to first greet Baby as if she hadn’t seen him in a month and then to give me a hug.

“Oh, we had a marvelous time! I’m afraid I may have overdone it just a wee bit on the shrimp pasta.” She touched her tummy and rolled her eyes. “But I’ll make up for it with a zillion stomach crunches next week. Thank you so much. I can’t begin to tell you how much I appreciate this!”

“My pleasure,” I said. And it really was. Even at 260 pounds, Baby was still an adorable butterball. “Maybe I’ll have to fight Sandy for the privilege of sitting with Baby next time.”

Sandy returned home Sunday evening, bubbling with news of all they’d accomplished at the orphanage, plus their adventures with a blown transmission on the van, a bout of something called Montezuma’s Revenge, and her encounter with a scorpion. In which she was, blessedly, the victor. She now had a smattering of Spanish tucked in to her chatter. She also had a black and blue thumbnail courtesy of an encounter with a stray hammer, a glowing tan, and the email addresses of half a dozen new friends.

I had my news too, and she stared at me open-mouthed when I told her I was working for Leslie Marcone.

“She really seems quite nice.” That sounded a little lame, since Sandy’s expression said I may as well have started housekeeping for the creepy woman in that
Misery
movie “And she pays well. And promptly!”

“Yeah. Well, uh, that’s nice. I didn’t know you wanted a job.”

“I didn’t either. But then she offered, and I thought, why not? And then Tammi called and I also Baby-sat.”

Sandy’s faint scowl brightened. This met with her approval. “Oh, don’t you just love Baby?”

“Yes, and Tammi’s nice too. It’s too bad she and Skye aren’t closer.”

“Oh, that reminds me. I want to call Skye.”

Sandy dashed off to make the call, and I picked up the oblong of paper that blew off the counter as she rushed by. Mac’s postcard. I felt an unexpected twinge of regret. Okay, so he might have a skewed view of my intentions toward him, but it really would have been nice to see him again. We’d had fun at the Meteor Daze over in Clancy last summer.

At 9:00 on Monday, I was back at work. On this day a gardener came and industriously clipped and mowed on the grounds between house and lake. Leslie apparently liked the manicured look there rather than the tangle of au naturel jungle between house and road. Today I used my fifteen-minute break to stroll out on the dock, where I hadn’t ventured before.

Up close, the imitation Southern plantation boathouse looked even more pretentious and ridiculous than it did from the house. A brass padlock on a chain guarded the door. I peeked through a crack around the door and saw only a small boat, no bigger than Mike and DeeAnn’s skiff, inside. It was suspended above the water in a kind of webbed cradle. Like the lone Mercedes in the huge garage, it looked undersized and lonesome.

The water got deeper much faster here than it did on the other side of the lake, I realized as I peered into the greenish depths at the end of the dock. From here, I could pick out DeeAnn’s house on the far side of the lake. Someone was standing on the tiny dock there. Could it be the man with binoculars again?

I doubted that. He hadn’t liked my catching him spying; he wouldn’t use the dock for such purposes again. But I was still thinking about him when I was Windexing a smudge on the living room window a little later. Then I was surprised to see binoculars on a small table by the window. Had Leslie also been watching something?

There were plenty of things to watch, of course. Boats. Birds. Deer. Trail walkers. It was one of the benefits of lakeside living. Maybe she’d even been curious about me over there at the house. But Leslie didn’t strike me as having much curiosity about such mundane objects. Especially me.

It occurred to me that she might, however, be interested in the fact that someone had been studying her place. I’d thought a time or two about mentioning this to her, but she hadn’t encouraged conversation of any kind. Now Leslie’s own binoculars seemed an appropriate lead-in. I waited until she finished her midday meal, then broached it with her just before she returned to her office.

“I noticed the binoculars in there.” I motioned toward the living room. “Before I started working here, I happened to see a man down on the little dock in front of the house where I’m living—” Another wave, this time toward the house across the lake.

“You
live
at the Harrington house?” she interrupted before I could finish the sentence. She sounded surprised.

“Actually, DeeAnn is my niece. I’m staying there temporarily.” I rushed on, not wanting to blunder into the fact that I’d never actually been a housekeeper for anyone but Harley. “Anyway, this man had binoculars and appeared to be looking at this house.”

She hadn’t been interested, but now she turned so sharply that her shoe squeaked on the bare floor. “What sort of man? What did he look like?”

The unexpected intensity of her interest startled me. “Medium height. A stocky build, but a very narrow face, with sharp features. He was wearing hayseedy looking clothes, pants too short, with suspenders and a plaid shirt. But
he
didn’t look hayseedy, if you know what I mean.”

“I’m not sure I do. Please explain.”

“He had a really dark tan, and he suddenly got out a pair of mirrored sunglasses, some expensive designer brand, I’m sure, and put them on. He just didn’t … look as if he was from around here,” I finished a little lamely, thinking I sounded all too much like Skye.

“A dark tan can come from anywhere. Mexico. Hawaii. The Caribbean. Even a tanning bed. The local health club has a couple of them.” She spoke sharply, as if she were trying to convince one of us that a dark tan could have many sources.

“Oh. I didn’t think about that kind of tan.”

“Or there are all those tanning lotions. They’re much safer than actual tans.”

Irrelevant chitchat,
I thought. Very unlike Leslie.

“Did you talk to him?” she finally asked.

“I asked him if he was bird-watching. He kind of pretended he was, but I don’t think that’s what he was doing. I think he was looking at your house.”

“Lots of people are curious about the houses on this side of the lake. Sometimes people out on the water actually stop their boats to stare.”

“They’re all lovely homes.”
Ivy Malone wins the gold star for
vacuous remarks.

She turned and went into her office, and I thought that ended the subject, that she’d lost interest. But she didn’t close the door, and a minute later she returned. With a photograph.

10

She held the photograph out to me. “Does that look like the man you saw?”

I’d told Sgt. Yates I might not recognize the guy again, but I didn’t have to look twice to know this wasn’t him. This guy was too tall and husky, too square-jawed, a big-screen handsome guy with a smile that hinted at a daredevil recklessness.

But I certainly recognized the other person in the full-length photo. Leslie. In a white wedding gown and bridal veil.

“You’re married?” It came out in a surprised gasp.

“No. We’re divorced.” She dismissed the subject on a note of impatience as if annoyed that I chose to pick this detail out of the photograph.

“I’m sorry.” To me a failed marriage is a cause for sorrow.

She ignored my sympathies. Or perhaps she thought I was apologizing for my obvious curiosity.

“This photo was taken …” she paused, as if running some time line through her head, “about six years ago, so he’d look older now. His hair is probably shorter. And maybe darker, since he was bleaching it then.”

“You looked different then too.” Then I mentally kicked myself for the insensitive comment. But it was true. Even the beautiful wedding gown and veil couldn’t hide the fact that she was considerably heavier in the photo than she was now. “I didn’t see the hair of the man with binoculars,” I went on hastily. “He had a droopy old hat pulled down on his head. But this definitely isn’t him.”

“Did you see a car?”

“No. I figured he’d probably parked in the city park like almost everyone who walks on the trail does. You think your ex-husband may be in the area?” I added cautiously. I knew I was overstepping housekeeper bounds here, but I asked anyway.

Not that it did me any good. She ignored the question. “Describe the man you saw to me again.”

So I did. I wished my subconscious would toss up some helpful tidbit I’d missed before, but my subconscious must have been snoozing that day.

“Did he ask any questions?”

“Not a one. Actually, once he realized I’d seen him, he seemed anxious to get away as fast as possible.”

“Nothing unusual about his voice? No accent or anything?”

I considered that suggestion thoughtfully. Perhaps my subconscious hadn’t been totally asleep. “Now that you mention it, maybe a smidgen of British accent. But he didn’t say more than a half dozen words, so I can’t say for certain.”

I had the impression that my description of the man, skimpy as it was, meant something to her. Especially the deep tan and British accent details. I thought she might go back in the office and produce a different photo. Another husband? An unfortunate possibility, in these days of fast-food marriages. But she just stood there, frowning slightly as she tapped the wedding photo with the back of a forefinger.

“Does he sound like someone you might know?” I asked.

She didn’t ignore that question. She lifted her head and gave me a cool stare that put me in my place. I thought she was definitely annoyed by my curiosity, but she came out of her office just before 2:00, shortly after I heard the phone ring, and astonished me by handing me a key.

“I’ll be gone one night this week. I don’t know yet which night it may be, but the house will be locked when you arrive in the morning, so you’ll need a key to get in. I’ll expect you to put in the same hours as usual. If you have spare time, you can work on the books in the library.”

The door was indeed locked when I arrived Friday morning. I let myself in with the new key, rather looking forward to being on my own for the day. Not that I had all that much contact with Leslie on any day, and she certainly never hovered over me. But the day suddenly felt looser, like the freedom that came with removing an old fifties-era girdle.

Yet when I stepped inside, I stopped short. The house felt … odd. Not the silence. Leslie never had music from radio or CD player blaring. Not the lack of homey scents. Whatever Leslie ate for breakfast never left any lingering scent. Not the closed office door. It was always closed when I arrived. Not even the emptiness. Unless Leslie was in the same room with me, which wasn’t often, I was barely aware of her presence.

I rushed to the door that connected with the garage. Empty. The Mercedes was gone.

So, nothing strange here. Leslie had simply gone away overnight, as she’d clearly said she planned to do. What had I expected from the odd feeling of emptiness—a mystery-novel scenario? Her body dramatically sprawled on the curved staircase or draped over the satin bedspread? A kidnapper’s note?