On the Run (32 page)

“They got out!” Abilene gasped.

She jumped out of the motor home and unlocked the gate. The emus took off down the road. They couldn’t fly, but these two moved those scrawny legs as if they were trying out for the Emu Olympics. Which struck me as unappreciative, considering all Abilene had done for them.

I drove through the open gate, then got out to close and lock it behind the motor home so stray emus couldn’t wander out. Which wouldn’t keep them from wandering miles through the woods, of course, because the fence only ran along this front side of the property. The emu pen was empty when I drove into the yard, not an emu in sight anywhere. No Abilene either.

I was, I decided, rapidly advancing toward joining the “stupid birds” contingent of opinion.

“Abilene!” I shouted. “Where are you?”

She came out of the shed, carrying a bucket. “I’m going out to look for them,” she yelled back. “I’ll try to coax them back with feed.”

She had a rope in the other hand, apparently for use if feed-inducement didn’t work. We’d never tried leading the emus anywhere. I wondered how a rope around one of those long necks would work. About as well as lassoing a snake and trying to take it for a walk, I suspected.

But we had to do something. I looked down at my feet. I’d worn sandals and my toe ring to town, hardly suitable emu-hunting attire. “I’ll go change my shoes and come help,” I yelled.

I ran to the back kitchen door, which we always used as a main entrance, digging out the key as I ran. But when I stuck it in the keyhole I was surprised to find I didn’t need it. Apparently we hadn’t locked the door when we left. I chided myself for the laxity. I hadn’t been worrying much about Braxtons lately, but I doubted they’d given up their vow of vengeance, and carelessness could have dangerous consequences.

I hesitated with my hand on the knob, half-afraid some member of the mini-Mafia might lunge out to meet me. Unlikely, but . . .

I thrust open the door and stepped aside at the same time, just in case. No Braxtons burst out. I waited a minute, then cautiously poked my head inside. The kitchen looked exactly as we’d left it, coffee cups on the counter, frying pan on the stove. A scent of the sausage we’d had for breakfast still lingered. The folders I was working with were still piled at the far end of the dining room table, dark screen of the computer as inscrutable as always. The paintball gun looked out of place just inside the door, but Abilene had set it there last night before the storm.

Okay, nothing out of the usual here. I briskly stepped inside.

Then stopped. No particular reason. Nothing was “off” in the way of sight, sound, or smell. Yet something didn’t feel quite right. I strained, listening. A faint rustle.

I wasn’t alone!

I looked frantically for some weapon, anything.

Koop scuffled through some fallen papers as he wandered out from under the dining room table, stretched luxuriously, and, with his one good eye, looked at me curiously as I stood there with hand to my pounding heart. I put the paintball gun I’d grabbed back on the floor, not too gently.

“Never mind,” I muttered, annoyed that I’d let jitters make me mistake Koop for a threat. He wandered out the open door to the deck. “Make yourself useful,” I called after him. “Go find some lost emus.”

I went upstairs and changed to old jeans and solid shoes, but as I headed for the door again I noticed something I hadn’t before. The basement door was ajar. Odd. I didn’t recall being down there in the last day or two. But maybe Abilene had. I started to ignore it, then hesitated again and finally walked over and cautiously eased the door open.

The basement light was on. Neither of us would have left the light on, would we? Abilene was as thrifty as I was. She’d stoop to pick up a penny in the parking lot in town, same as I would. And then I heard a slight scraping noise . . .

Not Koop this time. He was outside.

I put a hand on the handrail and cautiously leaned way over to peer into the big basement room. Then I saw her. The bottom half of a woman in dark pants and sandals standing on the same stool I’d stood on down there. She was on tiptoe, apparently reaching up to do something in that section of shelves where I’d found the odd empty space, the space in which we suspected the Northcutts may have hidden gold coins.

Who was she? How had she gotten here? We hadn’t seen a car. Had she gotten inside the house because we’d left the door unlocked, or did she have a key? Was this the murderer/thief, come back to search for more gold?

And what happened if she spotted me? I straightened up, hoping my bones wouldn’t make a giveaway creak. First a prudent retreat, I decided, then I’d figure out what to do.

Another thought brought me to a halt: could this be the potential buyer Frank had mentioned, nosily but innocently inspecting the premises when she hadn’t found anyone home?

Then the woman moved, stepping backward off the stool, and I recognized the blond hair when I saw her upper half. Mikki!

I almost said her name.
Mikki, what in the world are you
doing down there?

I stopped before I made that mistake, because it was not a trivial question. What
was
she doing down there? Not something a grieving daughter-in-law and loving wife should be doing, I suspected. She was wearing gloves, I now saw.

What now? The basement door was lockable, but it was a dead-bolt lock that had to be locked with a key, and we hadn’t yet run across one that fit. But I could quietly close the door, shove a chair under the knob to keep her from getting out, call the police—

Big pothole in that plan. With this unexpected development, I was more certain than ever that Mikki had killed Jock and Jessie. Never mind the problem of that note with signatures; she’d figured out some way to finagle it. She’d then stolen their hoarded Kruggerands and was now back hunting for more gold she suspected or knew was hidden here. And no doubt in my mind now but that those blond hairs on the sofa were hers.

But when the police arrived, would Mikki tearfully admit she’d done it and helpfully explain how? No way. Not with the ruthless cleverness and lack of conscience she’d shown in murdering her in-laws.

I pictured the scene when deputies arrived: she’d openly identify herself as Mikki Northcutt, Frank’s wife, of course. She’d say . . . what? Probably that she’d come to take some of this oversupply of food stored in the basement down to the family in Texas. She’d be flabbergasted that I’d called the police, but she’d also be sympathetic and understanding about this elderly error. And they’d all exchange looks over my head, officials exasperated at being called all the way out here by this addled little old lady imagining boogeymen in the basement, Mikki pretending embarrassment about the misunderstanding. The gloves I saw as incriminating, a means to hide her fingerprints, they’d see as a practical guard against injuring her hands while loading supplies.

I needed something stronger to convince them she was not the innocent daughter-in-law gathering cans of powdered eggs and dried applesauce that she pretended to be. I leaned over again, to get a better look. She wasn’t, in fact, gathering anything. By now she’d knelt and started digging around on a bottom shelf, definitely looking for something as she shoved cans around.

But while I stood there thinking what to do the woman apparently sensed she was not alone. She turned her head, and I saw her face. She stood up slowly, wiping her hands on the dark pants. We stared at each other.

Not Mikki.

“Who are you?” I said. I could see now that blond hair was the only physical characteristic she shared with Mikki. This woman’s body was streamlined and fit, with none of Mikki’s lush softness, her cheekbones sharp, her jaw angular, her eyes large and dark. Pretty, in a feline sort of way.

“Who are you?” she demanded without answering my question.

“I’m the caretaker, Ivy Malone.”

“Oh. I’m . . .” She hesitated, as if she were momentarily reluctant to identify herself, but then added briskly, “Natalie, Frank’s former wife. The children’s mother. Frank told me I might as well take some of these supplies home to use. I was looking for boxes to put things in. I didn’t realize Frank had someone staying here.”

It seemed odd, if he’d okayed her taking things from the house, that he hadn’t mentioned to her that he had caretakers here. Odd, too, that she’d actually drive all the way up here to pick up a load of survival-type supplies I’d almost guarantee her kids wouldn’t eat. A trip also not exactly in character with the ambitious, high-powered real estate person Mikki had described.

Then I reminded myself that that was Mikki’s view of the ex-wife, probably not an unbiased view. “I believe we talked on the phone once,” I suggested.

“Oh?” Then she smiled with unexpected warmth. She stepped forward to get a better look at me. “Yes, we did, didn’t we? I remember now. You were so nice. I just didn’t realize you were staying on here.”

“Are the children with you?”

“They’re in school. I just decided to run up for the day.”

All the way from Dallas for powdered cheese and paper towels and maybe a few cans of foot fungus powder? I was skeptical. But this had definitely thrown a wrench into my Mikki-as-Murderer scenario. “Where’s your car?”

“I don’t have a key to the gate, so I hid it behind some brush off to the side of the road. You never know what kind of weirdos may be prowling around an isolated place like this. You’re brave for staying here alone, you know.”

I ignored the compliment and wondered,
Does “prowling
weirdos” include odd-acting ex-wives?
I also noted she was assuming I was here alone.

“But you have a key to the house?”

“Jock and Jessie gave me a house key one time. We were on very friendly terms, you know? I always liked them. Just because I divorced Frank didn’t mean I divorced
them
. The kids and I visited several times. I didn’t mean to alarm you,” she added. “I just didn’t realize anyone was around.”

All very plausible and normal sounding, and yet she was obviously nervous. She tucked a loose tail of her red blouse into the dark pants, slid a stray strand of blond hair behind an ear, and glanced at her watch.

Then I spotted something on the bottom step. A small, khaki-colored bag of a heavy, canvas-like material. I’d never seen it before, certainly had not set it there on the step myself. It was not, I could see by the shape, filled with bulky cans of survival food. In fact, if I were a betting woman, I’d take odds that it was filled with gold Kruggerands.

She saw me spot the bag.

“I-I found that,” she stammered, now sounding not quite so sure of herself. “I think Jock and Jessie must have hidden it down here. They did things like that, you know. Wonderful people, but a little . . . odd sometimes.”

“Did you look in it?”

She hesitated as if she might be going to deny peeking but apparently decided that wouldn’t ring true. “I think it’s full of gold coins.” She managed to sound both surprised and appalled by the discovery. “Can you imagine, hiding something that valuable down here?”

How come Abilene and I hadn’t run into this bag? I was certain there hadn’t been anything left in that empty space I’d found. Had the Northcutts scattered gold-filled bags in various hiding places, like Easter eggs?

There were a dozen questions I wanted to ask.
Did you kill
Jock and Jessie? Why? Did you preplan it just to get their hoard of
gold or was it a spur-of-the-moment thing? How did you manage
the signed note?

This did not seem a prudent time to ask any of those questions. Best to let her think I was taking all this at face value and had no suspicions of her. Because if she’d killed once already—

At the same time a jab of guilt jerked me up short. Five minutes ago I’d been convinced Mikki was a murderer. Wasn’t so quickly shifting my suspicions to ex-wife Natalie a little like some old game of eeny-meeny-miney-mo, I choose
you
as the murderer?

“Well, just leave the bag there, then,” I said, “and I’ll tell Frank about it. You should probably get your supplies loaded up now, if you’re going to get back to Dallas tonight. The powdered cheese isn’t bad.”

“Yes, uh, that’s a good idea. I think I saw some boxes on a shelf back here somewhere.”

She grabbed the stool and disappeared farther back in the basement, out of my sight. My first instinct was to run. But if I did, it would tell her I was suspicious or perhaps even knew something incriminating, and she’d come after me.

Given the fact that she ran marathons, I didn’t doubt but what she could run this LOL to the ground. But neither was I going to try to outfox her with some clever game of wits down there in the basement. So far, if she
was
a killer, she’d pretty much managed to outwit everyone.

A crash, a screech, and a yelped oath, followed by a muffled thunder like an avalanche of tumbling marshmallows. Then just whispery rustles as something rolled into view.

32

I got down on my knees and tried to see what was happening in the basement without taking a chance down there. What I saw were packages of toilet tissue, dozens of them, maybe even hundreds, gleefully rolling and bouncing across the basement floor as if they’d just been freed from hostage. Several of them landed at the foot of the stairs.

“What happened?” I called cautiously.

“The stool slipped when I climbed on it. I fell.”

“Are you okay?”

“I hurt my knee.”

I hesitated. Was that a ploy to get me down there so she could knock me in the head with a can of dehydrated bacon bits?

A brief self-consultation told me she probably didn’t yet realize I suspected her. Maybe she’d decided to sacrifice the bag of gold coins, and we’d play this out as if she really were here to get a carload of survival supplies. I’d help her load them, and she’d head for home, waving good-bye as if we were good buddies.

It was remotely possible, I conceded, that stocking up on toilet tissue and cans of powdered cheese was actually the reason she was here.

Cautiously I edged down the stairs.