Orchids and Stone (22 page)

At her truck, watching the three of them go to the rental car, Daphne remembered the way the kids’ hands felt in her palm four years ago, when they were hand-holders and huggy. Recalling the softness, she nodded. She imagined those hands—little kid hands no longer in her palm—and remembered managing to give them slipping-away, finger-light squeezes today. She remembered stroking Josie’s hair the night before.

Daphne glanced down at her empty palm, her fingers brushing nothing at all.

In the distance, Josie raised her chin at her dad, making an imp’s grin. “This is the best thing you could rent?”

Jed laughed at his sister. She flashed him a return smile and got into the backseat. Josie had been up front on the drive over. Fairness was crucial to Vic in how he treated his children. If they were driving several places, the kids took turns in the front seat, and on one-way rides, Vic seated them both in the back.

“It’s just a car,” Vic said, sounding tired. Then he smirked at his kids and said, “Yes, it’s the very best I could do.”

Daphne’s soft hand turned into a fist.

CHAPTER 21

Pulling in behind Vic’s rental car at home, Daphne paused, her hand on the ignition, letting the truck’s engine run. She watched the kids go up the steps, saw Vic watch her through the windshield. She moved her hand from the key to the shift lever and backed her truck out again.

Vic hurried to the street. “Where are you going?” he asked, leaning in her window.

“I’m just going,” Daphne said.

He looked ready to press her, to cajole her into hanging out with him and Jed and Josie for the rest of the afternoon.

If he told her not to be distant or asked her what was wrong, she’d scream.

The truth was, so much felt wrong amid so much right.

Then Vic smiled and kissed her. “See you soon?”

“Right,” Daphne said, faking a smile. “Yeah, of course.”

She drove down Westpark Avenue to the end of the Peace Park, where she hesitated at the cross street until the car behind her honked and she was startled into turning along the edge of the park just to get out of the irate driver’s path.

At Eastpark Avenue, she drove until she reached Minerva Watts’s house, where she slowed her truck, then parked on the street. She sat there for a long time, thinking and not thinking.

Suppose she’d never stepped into the Peace Park Wednesday, had never seen Mrs. Watts, never heard her haunting cries about being kidnapped and robbed?

Dementia? Or was the old lady making a real complaint about a terrible offense? Could it be both?

She drove on, picturing the scene two days earlier with the Lincoln escaping down Eastpark, the black-haired woman holding Minerva Watts, holding Daphne’s jacket. But today, she was in her truck, not Vic’s Honda, and she was not chasing the Lincoln. And something . . . something else. Her mind niggled, processing, trying to find what she missed. Of Minerva Watts’s and her own troubles? Of Suzanne?

Daphne shook her head. “Of myself.”

Is that what I’m missing? Part of me?

But with a mile and then another, she cleared the intersection where she’d caused the wreck, and drove down the hill where the Lincoln had fled.

Sticking to the main roads, flowing with traffic, she reached the intersection where the stolen Lincoln had been abandoned. The dots connected.

“That impounded car had to be the same Lincoln I followed,” she said. She let her truck idle down the street to the far corner, just as she had done with Vic the day before.

Suppose, just suppose, Daphne thought, working it out aloud.

“They were getting away from me, afraid they were caught. They had to get rid of the car. And there’s this rental agency at the end of the block. One of them went inside and rented a car.” Sitting outside the rental agency’s office, she wished she’d described the people—Guff and that woman—to the clerk when Vic signed for a rental car the previous afternoon.

I could have asked what kind of cars were rented yesterday afternoon, asked if the clerk remembered a little old lady.

But maybe one of them kept Minerva Watts in the Lincoln at the other end of the block until the rental car was procured.

After shutting her truck off, she trotted to the agency’s door, tugged on it even though it was locked, and stared at the placard showing the hours. “Closed,” she said as she gave the handle a final shove.

She could return to the agency when it reopened and ask all her good questions. If the same clerk who had rented to Vic the day before was working—the clerk who remembered details well enough to say that the Rainier Court Vacation House had just been rented—then Daphne could ask questions. She could ask for descriptions and . . . And that clerk knew the vacation house was rented because someone had reserved it from the car rental office.

As soon as the thought congealed, Daphne gasped.

Reaching into her jeans pocket, she pulled out the cards, repocketing
the police officer’s card as she studied the vacation house flier. She shook
her head, got back in her car, and started the engine again. “It’s a lot of ifs.”

But she drove on and felt prickles on her skin when, fifteen minutes
later, she was on the east side of the city, at the mouth of Rainier Court. Again, she snaked the cards from her pocket. Within the folds of the vacation house flier was the police officer’s card. She turned it over and read the words next to the case number:
Officer Taminsky Threats/Suspicious Incident
.

She studied the flier. One side showed a little map to the vacation house and photos of the inside and exterior of the property. A shot of the living room and fireplace. Shots of the front and back views—the Sound and thick woods—and one of the green exterior, with its prow front. Below the photos, a sales pitch shouted to those considering choosing a vacation house over a hotel or bed and breakfast. Adjoins a natural greenbelt! Commanding views of Puget Sound and Mount Rainier! Centrally located! Available weekly or monthly!

Rainier Court—like the little streets adjacent—was a long cul-de-sac. Daphne drove down the lane, claustrophobic with the street’s narrowness. Heavy, dark trees from an untamed woodland loomed over the houses deepest in the cul-de-sac.

Daphne stopped and peered at the house numbers on each side of the road. Counting, she realized the house farthest into the cul-de-sac, the one with the imposing front prow, was the rental house. It didn’t stand out, this place rented out on short term called the Rainier Court Vacation House.

A vacation house? Daphne studied it from her safe distance. It was just a green two-story house pushed into a green hill.

The car rental clerk’s words echoed.
Someone rented it yesterday.

It was someone who had just rented a car from the car agency.

A late model white sedan sat parked in front of the house and she wondered what kind of car the agency might have rented to someone in the minutes after the Lincoln had been abandoned. Studying the clean sedan in the distance, she said, “That is
so
a rental car.”

But she couldn’t find the courage to drive up, knock on the door, and see what happened. She could just try out silly words, fitting a worst-case scenario.

“Hello,” she said, leaning under her rearview mirror to better see the house at the end of the cul-de-sac. “Are you the creepy couple holding Minerva Watts? And are you robbing and kidnapping her? Did you take her grandmother’s brooch? Did you sell her car? Are you making her sign over her house? Or is she your mom and going loopy so you’re having to deal with her finances?”

She stared down the block at the house and decided there were different kinds of courage. She couldn’t go down there—those last ten lots to the end—and knock on the door. She would sound like an ass to someone on vacation or she would end up in another confrontation with a couple who may be victimizing a little old lady. Or dealing with a failing mother’s dementia.

As doubts amassed and her fortitude failed, sweat clustered at her temples. “I am making myself crazy.”

She backed her truck into the nearest driveway to turn around. At the mouth of Rainier Court, she peeked into her rearview mirror at the vacation house far behind her now. “Did you ditch a stolen car? Did you rent a fresh car? Is that where you saw the flier for this rental house?”

She turned the corner, passed another cul-de-sac, and hesitated as the road abutted a vast tract of undeveloped land, the same land that curved around to envelop the cul-de-sacs. “Are you holding little old Minerva Watts in that house? Are you stealing all her stuff?” She kicked the floorboard. “Where’s the brooch? Where’s my jacket and my wallet and phone?”

Crazy. She knew how crazy she’d sound if she called the police right now.

Besides, she didn’t have a cell phone anymore.

The land the flier called a greenbelt wasn’t an area of manicured trails like the Peace Park, but rather one of the many pockets of random wilderness all over Washington State. And the forest afforded a much better way to take a closer peek at the vacation house. Daphne parked, stepped out of the truck, and slipped into the woods.

Under the assorted evergreens, the ground teemed with ferns and blackberries. Vines twirled in the canopy above her head. She hiked, aiming to penetrate the woods as deep as the cul-de-sacs, paralleling them before cutting across to pass the first street then guess her way to the back of Rainier Court. Looking back, she lost sight of her truck, the street, anything other than occasional glimpses of streetlights and power lines.

Avoiding oozy black mud that smelled of rotting vegetation made her trek longer. Early season mosquitoes lifted from the wetness as she trudged up and down a hilly section. The sun vanished from view within minutes of hiking into the deep woods. She slipped in the peaty ground climbing another hill and reminded herself that Rainier Court had indeed been an uphill street to the vacation rental. She pushed closer to where she guessed the houses should be, although all was wilderness.

The trek took longer than she’d thought it would. With no trail to follow and rough ground, perhaps fifteen minutes passed before she edged closer to where houses should be. The prickling on her skin made her rub her arms. She saw brown siding, heard a distant voice and a door slam. She faded back.

Wondering if she’d gone too far and was now skirting houses on the street after Rainier Court, she saw a bare flash of a white car at the front of the house’s green prow.

Daphne clung to the trees, sinking deeper into the hemlocks and cedars and firs as she moved to spy on the back of the house.

Tucked into the green hillside, the back of the Rainier Court Vacation House appeared single story, but it was the upper story relative to the front of the house. A deck, moldy and crusted with lichen, faced the woods. A sliding glass door with the curtain drawn veiled the inside, but two shadows hunched over a table. To the right, nearer the front of the house was a window that might have been over a kitchen sink, to the left, a small window and more drawn curtains over another window. A silhouette showed there too, rocking, someone slight in build. A child? A small person?

Slipping from the woods, Daphne stepped onto the deck. The wood was slick, the top fibers soft and blackened from the constant wet of the north-side woods, never feeling sunshine. In the cold, she crept across the surface and moved to the door to listen.

She heard nothing but wondered,
What if it’s her? What if Minerva Watts is here?

And still, doubts.
What if I’m just interfering? Suppose there’s nothing sinister going on at all? Suppose it’s just a couple tasked with caring for a little old lady?

She stepped off the deck. Little old ladies can be difficult to tend. She thought of Lloyd and his unwillingness to leave the sanctuary of his rest home in the last year.

I’m not her mother
. Just this morning, Lloyd had temporarily forgotten who Daphne was, had forgotten Vic was no longer with Cassandra.

“How do I know for sure?” Daphne whispered under the window where someone rocked. Loud as she dared, she called, “Mrs. Watts?”

And then she gasped as she heard a door open at the front of the house and voices rose. A man said something sharp but unintelligible, then a woman snapped, “Just do it!”

They were out front, by the car. Daphne crept back onto the deck and made a tentative push on the sliding glass door. It gave, unlocked. She moved it open just far enough to slip in sideways, and swept the curtain from her face. A big reclining chair sat to her left, in the room’s corner. The vacation house offered a great room, half living room of carpets under padded furniture, and half dining area with a dark table and four matching chairs on a stone floor. Rows of papers lined the table, making her think of the dining table at home every April when Vic did his taxes.

The front door slammed and quick footsteps approached. Daphne flung herself behind the corner recliner, deciding in a split-second that pushing back through the curtain was too much of a giveaway. The fabric would flap, be sucked out the open door in her wake if she fled onto the deck.

Could whoever entered the room hear the banging of her heart? Daphne made herself very small behind the recliner, memorizing its tweedy brown pattern. It was clean, as was the carpet under her knees. No dust bunnies. She willed the curtain to remain still to disguise the open sliding door. She prayed for no draft to alert whoever had come in, and wondered if she’d be hidden from someone coming to close the door.

But they’ll wonder why the door’s open. Then what do I do?

The scoot of a wooden chair on stone made her breath catch. Someone banged on the table, then hurried away, back toward the front door.

“Guff,” a woman hissed, “you forgot the other credit card.”

Daphne chanced a peek at the woman hurrying away. It was her, the one Daphne had seen bully Minerva Watts away in the Peace Park, the black-haired woman who had shouted for Guff at the Watts residence.

Daphne noticed something else on the table, beyond the papers: a fresh bouquet of roses. And then a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Daphne let her mouth twist as she eyed the rich, red blossoms from her refuge. These rose petals would not be rubbed on the other woman’s body, she decided, hearing echoes of the woman’s short tone. They were makeup roses.
She’s mad at him. He knows it, doesn’t want her pissed off.

That is a woman not getting along with her man, Daphne decided, smirking at the bouquet on the table.

The man and woman’s voices carried, but not enough for Daphne to make out words in their conversation by the car outside. She heaved herself from behind the recliner, hesitating with one hand on the sliding glass door, the heavy feel of the curtain on her wrist. Staring at the table, she moved, cringing as she brought herself closer to the voices outside in order to peek at the notes and papers.

A yellow notepad held careful rows of numbers and brief notes. A Diners Club card and a Sears charge card beside the pad were in the name of Minerva Watts.