08 Illusion (10 page)

A hand patted her foot. She dared to peek from under the cardboard and saw a lady with an angelic face. The lady was on her knees, eyes full of concern, reaching to touch her.

Mandy—if that was her name—shied away, but the angel lady touched her cheek. “Shhh … it’s just me. Can I sit down?”

Mandy didn’t answer. She just stared, her eyes streaked and burning, her breath still broken into sobs.

The angel lady sat down next to her, right on top of the torn-up cardboard and packing material, and drew close, arm extended to embrace Mandy’s shoulders. Mandy wasn’t sure, not at all, but the arm got around her. Mandy wasn’t sure, not at all, but the angel lady wrapped her other hand gently around her cheek.

Before she knew it, before she could think about it, she’d buried her face in the angel lady’s shoulder, she’d clutched for her very life to the angel lady’s arm, and she was still crying but now it was different. Someone was holding her, someone could hear her crying, and now she was crying about that, too.

The angel lady never stirred, and her embrace never faltered. She just stayed right there, holding Mandy, whispering comfort, patting her arm, until Mandy, exhausted, cuddled against her like a child, head against her shoulder, sad, reddened eyes looking at nothing in particular.

“I’m sorry,” Mandy said at last, her voice a low, quaking whimper.

The angel lady gave her a handkerchief. “Don’t be sorry.”

“I didn’t mean to be a bother.”

“You’re not a bother. You’re somebody in trouble.”

“Whoa, yeah.”

“My name’s Mia. I work right here at the thrift store. What’s your name?”

Her name? Should she lie again? The truth could lead to another truth and another and then she’d be back in the hospital. Then again, she was back here sitting on the cardboard next to a Dumpster because the truth had abandoned her. If she didn’t know what the truth was, how could she lie?

“Eloise,” she said. That would be true enough for now.

Mia touched Mandy’s toes, now protruding through the end of a road-weary hospital slipper. “Eloise, would you like a pair of shoes?”

chapter

10

M
r. Stone and Mr. Mortimer had gone rural, renting a small farmhouse in northern Idaho for enough money to send the owners to Europe and, if need be, Mexico and, if need be, Hawaii. They’d left the black Lexus in Vegas and were driving a green Dodge four-wheel-drive SUV; they’d doffed the black suits and were decked out in jeans and flannel shirts. Mr. Stone had found himself a John Deere billed cap, while Mr. Mortimer was reliving a childhood dream under a cowboy brim.

The house sat on a green hillside, huddled among old-growth firs and facing the pastured valley below. The front window provided a pleasing view of the valley, the fields, a winding creek, and particularly the high-end ranch house across the valley on the opposite hill, the one purchased two weeks ago by their man of interest, Mr. Dane Collins.

They’d rearranged the living room, turning the couch to face the front window while allowing floor space for a spotting scope and two long-lensed cameras—one a video, one a still. They had snacks and a thermos of coffee stationed on the coffee table and a computer open on a TV tray. Today’s plans included getting online with a portable satellite linkup—not difficult—and then scouting out better vantage points for observing and eavesdropping on that ranch house—difficult. They would probably carry out that part of the mission that night.

Mortimer was taking his shift at the window when he was alerted. “Hold on, who’s this?”

He went to the spotting scope; Stone went to the video camera.

A white Toyota Rav4 had pulled up the paved driveway and parked under the carport. A small, roundish lady in blue sweatshirt and jeans got out, lifted what appeared to be bags of groceries from the rear compartment, and headed for the side door of the house, the one that led to the kitchen.

“No …” said Mortimer. “Not yet.”

Stone glanced over the photos taped to the wall. Some they took at the memorial service, mostly photos of photos; others were easily available promo shots of Dane and Mandy; some, like the few they had of Shirley Morgan, were the sneaky, surveillance kind: telephoto, shallow focus, shot through trees, from behind cars, often partially blocked by objects or people’s backs. “Shirley Morgan,” said Stone. “Grounds manager. She came with the place.”

Dane was on his cell phone, pacing in the kitchen of his big, empty house when Shirley came in with the groceries. He waved hi, she proceeded to put the milk, bread, oat flakes, and paper towels away while he drifted into the breakfast nook. “Seattle. Is that what you said? Seattle?” He made a frustrated face at Shirley, who made a sympathetic face back. “Listen, I can look at a map, but I don’t think Seattle’s on the way to Idaho. I mean, I drove all the way up here from Vegas and I never passed through Seattle.”

He’d bought some cedar patio furniture in a fall close-out at Ace Hardware in Hayden: four chairs, two deck recliners, and an oval table with a hole in the center to support an umbrella. The recliners were in the den; the table and chairs were in the breakfast nook. The store couldn’t find the umbrella. He got a good deal.

He sat in one of the chairs. “Well, I thought your truck was going to take the same route.” He listened, he sighed. “Okay, tomorrow. I can sleep on the floor one more night. Mmm, it’s all right. ’Bye.” He switched off his cell phone and clipped it back on his belt. “The load’s in Seattle.”

Shirley laughed derisively. “Wasn’t it supposed to be here Monday?”

“Well, they had somebody else’s load they had to drop off in Seattle first. Funny how they left out that little detail.”

“I won’t need the air mattress for a while.”

“I thank you, my back thanks you.”

“I got you the soap and shampoo. What about laundry soap?”

“There was still a box in the laundry room and …” Dane looked down at the clothes he was wearing. “I don’t have a lot of laundry.”

Shirley placed some envelopes and catalogs on the granite counter. “All your friends are finding you.”

“You can toss those women’s catalogs.”

“Okay.” Ka-foom! Into the wastebasket in the pantry. “I’m moving all the hanging baskets into the greenhouse today, and then, if it’s okay with you, I’ll shut down the irrigation pump and blow out the sprinkler lines.”

“Blow out the … what?”

“The yard sprinklers. I use compressed air to blow the water out of all the pipes and heads so they won’t freeze.”

“Oh. Right.”

“And I should take the tractor in to get all the fluids changed next week. You’ll want to get that done before we have to plow snow.”

Oh. He hadn’t thought of that. “When does it start snowing?”

“Depends. Middle of November usually, give or take.”

Dane nodded. It was now the second week of October. The mornings were getting crisp, and the leaves were turning. Pretty soon he’d be experiencing
that
aspect of living in Idaho.

“I don’t have any warm clothes.”

“No boots either.”

“No.”

“Ah. That’s something you need to do, just take a trip into town and do some shopping.”

“Yeah, I guess, when I’m feeling up to it …”

She leaned, resting her elbows on the counter—she was so short it wasn’t much of a lean. “If I may …”

“Is it that obvious?”

She nodded. “You’re dragging so much you’re scuffing the floor. You need to get out of here and just do something. Go into Coeur d’Alene, look around. There’re some malls, there’s Eddie Bauer, there’s Inland Outfitters …”

And there was the Pendleton Wool Store on Sherman Avenue in the heart of the town, one block up from the lake, two blocks over from the big resort. It was an embracing little store that made him feel warm just going in the front door.

“And just what are you looking for?” the nice lady asked.

He had no clear answer, and he felt like a fool. What the heck was he doing in here? What was he doing in Idaho? “Uh … I guess I need some warm clothes for winter.”

She got him started on the basics: socks, gloves, a casual, not-too-fancy sweater that had pockets and zipped up the front, two hats: a wool cap—without a ball on top—to wear out in the yard, and a very male western hat for looking studly. He picked out a scarf to go with the hat, something that would give him that rugged, Louis L’Amour look once he got a hefty, fur-collared coat. “I’d try Borris’s Western Wear for that,” she said. “Up on 95. And if you need long underwear, try Inland Outfitters. They have a whole line of polypros, a lot less bulky. And boots, too—and I don’t mean galoshes, I mean a man’s kind of boot.”

So there, he’d done some shopping after a whole lot of traipsing. He stepped out onto Sherman Avenue with the western hat on his head, the gloves on his hands, and the rest of his new stuff in a shopping bag, feeling as much better as new stuff could make him feel, which wasn’t a whole lot.

The wind moved up the street, fluttering the leaves still on the ornamental trees and scattering those on the sidewalk, and there was that October chill, a little warning nip on his face to trouble him,
Are you ready? Are you ready?

“No,” he answered.

He knew where he’d parked his newly purchased, low-mileage, extended cab Dodge pickup with four-wheel drive—his replacement for the BMW—but he just plain didn’t want to go there. That rig, just like the hat on his head and the bag in his gloved hand, struck him now as so much a part of this whole reefing, wrenching, uprooting change that he’d only made worse by moving here in the first place. What in the heck was he thinking?

The cold wind nipped at him again. No, he wasn’t ready. He might never be.

The wind swept the heat from him; he could feel the cold through his light jacket, his
Vegas
jacket. Fine, he would go pick up a coat, maybe some long underwear and boots, and then head back home to his big, stupid, empty house.

“Hey, meester! Vould you li-eek to see a treek?”

The tacky street Gypsy with her card tricks. He’d seen her across the street earlier, flourishing those cards and accosting people for tips. He’d managed to avoid her until now.

She fanned the cards, then held them like a fan, undulating in a standing dance, her long skirt trailing after her hips, and her arms making snaky moves. She thrust the cards toward him, her bracelets jangling. “Seelect a card, eenee card!”

This was so bad. The Spanish blouse and secondhand shawl, the cartoony flowered head scarf, the cheap jewelry and stage makeup as thick as a mask—in October, in Coeur d’Alene, Idaho? From here he could see maybe four people out on the street, certainly en route to somewhere indoors. No one was lingering on the sidewalk benches, and the eating establishments had pulled in their sidewalk tables and chairs. Maybe this town didn’t have any busking ordinances, but for this poor girl’s sake it should. She was in sandals. She wasn’t wearing a coat, only her costume. Her hands were red from the cold, and a drop was forming on her nose.

Oh, all right, he felt sorry for her. He pulled a card from the fanned deck.

She waved her hand in front of his face in a magical, hypnotic gesture, “Do not let me see eet! Study zee card! Write eet een your my-yeend!”

Six of clubs.

She’d squared up half the deck and directed him with a witchy finger to place his card on top. As he stood there, drawing upon his dwindling patience and getting a bit cold himself, she went through the routine, shuffling, counting, flashing cards around. He knew the trick, and she wasn’t doing it very well. The six of clubs was in the stack of cards she placed in his hand, not in the five—actually, four—she kept.

“Now”—she backed away for the big finish—“I haff not touched you, no?”

“No.”

“Tell me eef you feel somezing.” She tightened her lips, got buggy-eyed, and flexed the cards in her hand with an audible snap. “Zere! Deed you feel zat?”

Well. What would he want his subject to say? “I think maybe I felt something, yes.”

“Look!” She spread out the five cards faceup—except now there were only four. “Oh, what ees zees? I have only four cards!”

He could have acted more surprised. “Oh, well, look at that.”

“I have dawn eet! I have sent your card to yoo!”

He raised an eyebrow for effect and looked down at the deck in his hand.

“Look through zem! Now!”

He fanned through the cards, all facedown except …

“Hey!” The six of clubs, faceup among the others.

“A good treek, yes?”

He smiled at the cards in his hand, then gave them back. “Yeah. Good trick.” He turned to leave.

She had a can on a lanyard around her neck, and gave it a little shake, jingling some coins. From the sound he could tell business had not been good.

He reached for his wallet. “Aren’t you getting cold out here?”

That must have made her think of her nose. She dabbed it with a corner of her shawl. “I do not my-yeend.” Her other hand was holding out that can expectantly, and her eyes were full of hope.

He fumbled his gloves off, then pulled out a twenty and dropped it into the can.

Her eyes got big—they looked even bigger under all that eye shadow. Obviously a twenty was a new experience. Maybe paper money was a new experience. “Ohh! Sank you! Sank you, sir!” She was starting to hunch her shoulders and cross her arms against the cold.

“Better call it a day. You’re going to catch pneumonia out here.” He turned to walk away.

“Oh, but wait!”

Now he’d done it. She was following him. “Vould you lie-yeek to see anozair treek?”

He wanted to say no without slowing or turning around, but that would have been mean, and here she was all by herself and the Bible always had something to say about caring for the poor, and … He stopped. She caught up with him, wielding that deck of cards and looking up at him with imploring eyes. Blue eyes on a Gypsy!

“I know anozair! You weel love eet!”

He studied her face under all that makeup. She was very hard not to like, and so young. He shouldn’t be encouraging this. “Gal, you really need to find another line of work. You shouldn’t be out here on the street all by yourself.”