Hide and Snoop (The Odelia Grey Mysteries) (12 page)

“Here, boy,” I called in a loud whisper through the gate. I hadn’t heard any dogs but wanted to be careful. The last thing I wanted was to come face to face with a watchdog. I clucked a canine come- hither through the bars a few more times, but nothing raised a territorial ruckus. Neither did any animal noises come from the neighbor’s back yard.

Getting into the Holt back yard was going to prove difficult. Even if I placed a foot on the lower part of the gate frame, it wouldn’t be high enough to hoist my butt over the top. Not to mention the vertical bars were topped with ornamental fleur-de-lis spikes that were pretty to look at, but also pretty deadly should some non-agile intruder become impaled upon them. Since nimble hoisting and jumping isn’t one of my strong suits, I decided picking the lock might be the better choice. Not that I was any great shakes at picking locks either, but at least it wouldn’t leave me stuck like a marshmallow on a pointy stick.

Before I went any further, I reached into my tote bag to retrieve the purchase I’d made on the way here. It was a pair of thin rubber gloves that I picked up at a drug store. I’d only wanted one pair, but they came in boxes of either forty or ten. I’d gotten the idea for the gloves on my way to Irvine, although the seed had been planted about the time I was trying to put Mark’s mug and the other items into baggies without slathering my own prints all over them. I’d bought the ten-pack, opening the package as soon as I was back in my car. Taking out one pair, I stashed them in my bag. I stowed the remaining gloves in the glove compartment.

If I was going to illegally snoop around someone’s property, I really should wear gloves so I wouldn’t leave behind bushels of my own prints. But as I stood outside the Holt back gate, it occurred to me that I was really standing on the precipice of premeditated actions. Buying and using the gloves had put me in a different class of snoop, and I wasn’t sure I was comfortable with the upgrade. I was also pretty sure Greg wouldn’t be, even if he did enjoy playing Ned Nickerson to my Nancy Drew.

Pushing criminal intent to the back of my brain, I slipped on the gloves, glad I’d opted for the large size. With a furtive glance back over my shoulder, I made ready to examine the lock on the gate. I’d once picked a lock using the underwire from a bra, but that had been indoors, and my life and Steele’s had been in danger. Today I would have to make do with whatever I found in my tote bag—a large purse Greg often referred to as my magic bag of tricks.

Placing a hand on the gate, I gave it a gentle jiggle to see how sturdy the latch was and discovered magic was already at work. One slight wiggle and the latch slipped out of its catch easy as pie, making me wonder if it had been locked tight in the first place. Whoever entered or left last through the gate might not have pulled it tight enough to engage the lock. Our back gate had a similar problem. We had to pull it tight and test it before leaving to make sure it was closed tight. If not, the lock was useless. With continued caution, I pushed the Holt gate open wider and stepped into the back yard.

The back yard was small, with young trees and several trimmed bushes. In the middle of the space was a colorful playset with swings, a slide, and stuff to climb on. Off to one side was a small, sturdy playhouse. On the covered patio a toddler’s bike, along with other toys, took refuge from the rain. Lily was certainly not deprived when it came to outdoor playthings. I was almost tempted to scoop up the little bike and take it home with me for her.

Crossing behind the garage, I tiptoed onto the patio and made my way to a small door with a window and took a peek. It looked to be a laundry room. There was another small door just past the washer/dryer set that I was sure led to the garage. The washer and dryer looked like the latest models. I knew because Greg and I had been shopping for a new set for ourselves recently. If my eyes weren’t deceiving me, the set on the other side of this door was the Mercedes of washers. The unit in question did everything but fold and mend your clothes, and I’m pretty sure it had a feature to take the place of ironing. I had coveted it like Wainwright covets Snausages, but Greg’s level head took one look at the price tag and went into convulsions. In the end, we bought a very nice set on sale that came with a lot of great features we didn’t have on our old washer. With one last wistful sigh, I turned my eyes away from the king and queen of laundry and scanned the small room. It looked messy, like the kitchen. I tried the door handle, but the door was locked. I was about to move to the sliding doors when a scratching sound to my right made me jump.

Snapping around, I flattened myself against the door and fumbled around in my tote bag until I located a small inside pocket. Yanking out a small pepper spray canister, I held it at the ready in my right hand. I’d never used the spray before. Clark had given both Greg and me a couple of discreet canisters for Christmas, saying he’d feel better if we had it on hand. Clark had even instructed us on how best to use it, but he hadn’t instructed me on how to find it quickly in my purse while under pressure. If I’d come face to face with a killer just now, I’d have been toast before I’d even had a chance to touch the spray.

Fortunately, I saw no one. I heard the sound again and held my breath. Slowly turning my head, I saw the origin of the noise. A long, untrimmed branch of a rose bush was moving against the screen of a window on the far end of the patio. The cool wind that had accompanied the rain had picked up and was pushing the thorny, thin branch back and forth against the screen like cheese against a grater.

After taking a few deep breaths, I scooted several steps to my right, closer to the rose bush, and stopped in front of the sliding patio doors. These ran most of the width of the living room and were partially open. Not just ajar, but open enough for a person to slip through. The lock not grabbing on the gate was one thing, but I doubted Connie Holt had gone off and left the slider open on such a cold, rainy day.

Grasping my pepper spray, I ducked inside.

thirteen

The living room was
long rather than deep and ran across most of the back of the house. Off to the right was the dining area, and through an arch I spotted a fragment of the kitchen I’d seen earlier through the front window. As soon as my eyes adjusted to the soft, dull light allowed by the cloudy day, I saw that the living room and dining room were in the same shape as the kitchen. The rooms had been ransacked. Cushions were off the sectional sofa and chairs, drawers and doors on cabinets and the breakfront in the dining area were open, and the contents pulled out and scattered. Paintings and photos were pulled off the walls. Someone was looking for something important—at least important to them—and I don’t think it was Connie or Hank Holt.

I stopped moving and listened for the sound of anyone else in the house. I heard nothing. Armed with my spray, I made my way through the house in a slow, shuffling two-step—step, step, listen; step, step, listen. Along the way, my focus was derailed as one theory after another entered my brain.

Was Connie in trouble? Had she parked Lily with Erica to keep her safe and out of the way? Were the Holts in the middle of a marital battle that had turned violent? Did Erica know what was going on and take off to help her little sis, or was Erica taking a long weekend to play footsie with some unknown lover?

A hallway led to the laundry room I’d spied earlier, a guest bath, and a den. All had been pillaged. I opened a door in the laundry room and, as I had suspected, it led to the garage. There was no car, but even here, things had been overturned. Next to the door was a keypad for an alarm system. An alarm—I hadn’t thought of that. A lot of folks had them. Greg and I didn’t have one, but I had one on the condo I owned before marrying Greg. Either Connie hadn’t set the alarm in her haste to leave or the people who had trashed the place had managed to disarm it. A set alarm would have notified the alarm company when that back door had been opened by an intruder, let alone was allowed to hang open.

Even under the chaos, I could see that the Holt home was nicely furnished, yet not in an untouchable way like Erica’s house. This had been a comfortable, user-friendly family home. There was a fireplace in the living room, along with a sectional sofa with matching coffee and end tables. Twin lamps, now on their sides on the carpet with their shades caved, had once graced each end table. In the den, an old black leather recliner was aimed at a very large flat-screen TV, along with a comfy-looking overstuffed sofa now missing its cushions. The seat of the lounger was well worn with a concave indentation on the seat, which I was pretty sure would fit Hank Holt’s butt like the glass slipper fit Cinderella. On the floor by the recliner were several issues of
Sports Illustrated
and the remote to the TV. No doubt this had been command central for the man of house. A few toys had also been scattered on the floor of the den.

In spite of the wreckage, it looked as if Hank Holt was still in residence, or maybe they hadn’t been separated that long. Maybe Connie had left the chair, remote, and magazines as a shrine to her skedaddled hubs in the hope that he would return. If she didn’t want him back, I would think that eyesore of a chair might have ended up in the garage or by the curb even before Hank had pulled out of the driveway. Or maybe the man-cave setup was Connie’s favorite place to hang out and not Hank’s.

With caution, I made my way back to the living room. The length of the room was cut midway by the entryway leading to the front door. I stepped into the foyer. To my right was a doorway to the breakfast area of the kitchen; to my left, a staircase led to the second level. Against the wall shared with the kitchen was a small table on which sat a large, pretty bowl. It was probably where they dropped their mail and keys when they returned home. Greg and I had a drop-off place like that, but it was a wicker basket on the kitchen counter. The bowl and table looked untouched, probably because it didn’t have any drawers to search.

On the floor in front of the door, just under the mail slot, various envelopes, ads, and magazines had dropped onto a small area rug positioned in front of the door. As I stared down at them, my gut told me something was off. Directly below the slot in the door was the bill I’d dropped through minutes before. The other mail was off to the side, scattered, some on the rug, some not. I put my back to the door in front of the slot and looked down at the bill I’d stuffed through, then at the other mail. There was no way that bunch of mail landed in that position on its own. Someone had to have picked it up, sifted through it, and dropped it piece by piece as they went. If Connie had picked it up, she would have put it on the table or in the kitchen. It also told me that whoever ransacked the house had been there in the last twenty-four hours.

I picked up a few of the envelopes, glad I had gloves on my hands. Several were from local businesses like the cable company. I checked the postmarks. It generally took one to two days for local mail to be delivered. Some of these postmarks were from several days ago; one envelope from a local medical group was dated a week ago. It was a good bet Connie had not been home since she’d dropped off Lily. Given the state of the house, I was leaning towards the theory she was running from trouble. But was Hank the source of the trouble, or was it something else—or someone else?

Placing the mail back on the floor, I stared up the staircase and listened for any sign of life. Nothing. I put a foot on the first step and stopped, worried that if I went upstairs and someone came in, I’d be trapped. At least downstairs there were several doorways. Not that I could escape easily, but at least there were options. Upstairs there would be none, except for squeezing out of a second-story window.

With the pepper spray in my right hand, I took the steps one at a time, ready to spray and bolt at the first sign of life.

There were three bedrooms and two baths upstairs. All the rooms had been ransacked. One of the smaller bedrooms was obviously Lily’s. It was decorated to look like a cheerful garden, complete with a wallpaper border of a white picket fence and fluffy lady bug and frog pillows. Her bedspread was a blanket of flowers. Again, I was tempted to take something familiar for her to use while in exile at my house. I eyed the clothing spilling out of her little green dresser and the closet and quickly picked out a several pairs of clean panties, two knit shirts, and two pairs of long pants. From the look of things, Lily might not be returning home anytime soon and would need more clothes.

After tightly rolling the clothes and stuffing them into my bag alongside the bear with the tutu, I stepped carefully around the debris on the floor and made my way to the master bedroom. The sacking had been worse here. I peeked into the walk-in closet and snapped on the light. Hanging and thrown on the floor were both men’s and women’s clothing. I stopped short when I spotted the wall safe. Built into the wall of the closet, it would have been hidden by hanging clothes had the clothes not been tossed to the floor. It was smallish, and the door was hanging open. It was also empty. The question was, had it been emptied by Connie before she left or emptied after by whoever had vandalized the house?

Tiptoeing into the master bath, I did a quick check of the medicine cabinet. A man’s razor occupied the lowest shelf, along with a can of shave gel. It still wasn’t hard evidence of Hank’s presence. He could have a travel kit with duplicate items. Greg always kept one packed for when he traveled so he wouldn’t forget anything.

Since I didn’t have a clue what anyone was looking for, I couldn’t look for it myself. And the empty safe indicated that whatever they were looking for might have been found. It was time to get out of the place before someone returned and I had some explaining to do or, worse, a neighbor called the cops to report a break-in.

I didn’t have any convictions about breaking
out
of the house, so it took me a lot less time to get down the stairs, out the patio door, and through the back gate than it had taken me coming into the place. Before stripping off my rubber gloves, I closed the back patio door and made sure the gate was locked tight. The place had been tossed, not necessarily robbed, and I wasn’t going to make it easy on any burglars that might be interested in an unoccupied house.

Back in the car, I stashed the pepper spray into a slim outside pocket of my tote bag for ease of finding if the need arose again. Who knows, maybe that’s what that seemingly useless space was for—to hold pens and pepper spray. Stripping off the used gloves, I threw them onto the floor of the back seat. I had a decision to make. My original plan was to head to the mailbox place I suspected was Mark’s address. Pulling Lily’s clothing and the bear out of my tote bag, I tossed them on the passenger’s seat, then went back in for the postcard from the Golden Quail. I wondered if maybe a visit to the store might be a better use of my time. It was closer and might yield more about Connie, who was moving to the top of my curiosity list. Carl had told me to find Erica and look into her relationship with Mark. Yes, doing that might save my job, but something told me the more important question here was what had happened to Lily’s parents. It also might lead me to the elusive Erica.

I checked my watch. I had to make sure I got home in time to dress for Isaac’s party tonight. I had promised Greg I wouldn’t get so caught up in snooping that I’d forget about time.

The Golden Quail was a charming shop in an upscale single- story mall that housed, among other things, a wine and cheese shop, an antique store, an art gallery, and a few chain restaurants, both pricey and mid-level. It was not the sort of shopping center that catered to the hot-dog-on-a-stick crowd.

“May we help you?” asked a woman with a pink streak in her long, dark hair. She was dressed in a lovely black dress that looked right out of an Audrey Hepburn movie. It suited her slim figure, although I doubted many women from that era put Day-Glo streaks in their hair.

“Yes,” I told her, casting my eyes around the store. “A friend recommended your store to me. I understand you carry vintage clothing.” I eyed the tailored dress she was wearing. “That’s a lovely dress, by the way.”

“Thank you,” she said, beaming. “It’s a favorite of mine.”

“You must be one of the owners,” I commented, making the assumption that an hourly clerk wouldn’t be wearing prize stock.

“Yes. I’m Amanda Quinn.” She held out a manicured hand.

Ah, there was the A in the A & J on the postcard.

I took her offered hand and shook it, giving her a smile. “And I’m Odelia.”

“I own the store with my sister, Jennifer,” she explained.

And there was the J.

“What exactly does
artisan clothing
mean?” I asked, moving the conversation along. “Is it safe to assume handmade articles?”

“That’s exactly what it means.” Amanda moved over to a
display
of beautiful sweaters. “We carry a nice selection of hand-
knitted
, one-of-a-kind sweaters and scarves, as well as hand-stitched articles.”

I caressed a gorgeous plum-colored sweater with an interesting pattern. It felt like a cloud under my hand. “Do you carry plus sizes?”

“If you see something you like,” a voice said from behind me, “we can ask the artist to make it in your size.”

I turned towards the back of the store to see a woman bringing in an armload of sweaters. She put the sweaters down on the counter and stepped forward.

“This is my sister,” Amanda told me. “Jennifer Quinn.” The two women stood next to each other like bookends. They were in their mid-thirties and identical twins, except that Jennifer did not have a color streak in her hair.

Jennifer extended her hand, and we shook. The Quinns gave off the vibe that they knew their customers well and provided excellent personal service, something that was sadly lacking in most retail stores.

“I handle the artisan side,” Jennifer explained. “Amanda is more into the vintage.” And indeed, Jennifer was wearing a spectacular cream sweater. Seeing me eye her top with a hunger usually reserved for cheesecake, she indicated the pile she’d just left on the counter. “We just received several new items from our designer in Portland. Please feel free to look them over. There’s a smashing teal short- sleeve sweater that would go great with your hair and eyes. It’s a small, but we could have one made to fit you. It wouldn’t be identical, of course, considering each item is handmade, but close.”

Jennifer walked back to the small pile and plucked out a sweater. Waving me over to a three-way mirror, she held it up to me and invited me to take a look. She was right, the sweater was perfect with my coloring and as light and soft as a marshmallow. I could feel my credit card itching to come out and play, until I found the tag and checked the price.

Yikes!

Before I succumbed to a buying coma, I lowered the sweater and forced my focus back on the missing Connie Holt. “It is indeed lovely, but I came in to ask you about someone.”

The Quinn sisters looked at me with interest, but Jennifer made no move to take the sweater from me. She knew the longer I held the silky item in my hand, the more tempted I’d be to order one of my own. And I made no move to hand it back.

“I learned about this store from Connie Holt,” I told them.

“Oh, Connie!” Amanda brightened. “How is she?”

“We haven’t seen her in ages,” Jennifer added, “have we, sis?”

Amanda gave it some thought as she straightened a rack of pristine dresses that was already perfect to my eye. “No, it’s been at least a month or so. She’s always been a regular. How is she?”

“That’s just it,” I said, still holding on to the teal sweater. “I can’t seem to reach her or Hank.”

“That’s odd.” Amanda tilted her head. “Maybe they took Lily and went on a little vacation.”

I was about to let them know I had Lily but caught my tongue at the last minute. If I had their daughter, then I should know where the Holts were, and I felt the sharp Quinn sisters would catch that little misstep. I didn’t feel a full-blown explanation was in order. “I’m sure you’re right,” I said instead, infusing my voice with a casualness I didn’t feel.