Baize pulled into the driveway.
There was no sign of Carla’s Ford.
She hardly ever parked in the garage, but Baize checked anyway, letting herself into the house and disabling the alarm.
The garage was empty.
When she moved into the kitchen she opened the refrigerator.
Some yogurt, milk, cheese, a few cans of Diet Coke, and a bottle of white wine. From the looks of it, Carla hadn’t visited the supermarket recently.
Baize climbed the stairs.
She didn’t like to be nosy, but she was concerned—concerned because Carla hardly called her in the last three days, or answered all her calls. And when she did answer she didn’t say a whole lot.
Then last night she had called to say she was flying to Europe for a few days.
“Why?”
“Just some legal stuff I need to notarize, to do with Jan.”
She sounded somber. Baize tried to call her back three times that morning but her calls went straight to Carla’s voice mail.
In Carla’s study, she noticed the old photographs of herself and Dan spread out on the desk.
They brought back good memories, made her smile.
Next to the photos was a letter.
She picked it up, and frowned, a little puzzled.
A letter of condolence written by one of Dan’s army buddies in Tennessee.
She heard a vehicle pull up outside in the street.
A man climbed out of a gray van. He wore overalls and walked up the driveway, carrying an official-looking clipboard.
The doorbell rang.
• • •
“Hi, Mrs. Carla Lane?”
Baize stared back at him warily.
The man smiled, showed his ID. Glasses, dark hair slicked back, a teeny bit of an overbite.
“I’m with the phone company. Got a call about a faulty line.”
“You’re talking to the wrong woman.”
“Ma’am?”
“Carla’s my granddaughter but she’s not here right now. There’s a problem with her line?”
“It seems to be intermittent, ma’am. Could be a loose wire, something simple like that. I might need to hang a meter on all the phone sockets room to room, and make sure we’ve got a signal, ya with me, ma’am?”
“No, you’re blinding me with science.”
“She didn’t mention any problems?”
“No. But I’ve left messages that she doesn’t answer. The same with her cell.”
The man was handsome in a quirky sort of way. Kind of like that actor Billy Bob Thornton, only better-looking.
“I don’t know about the cell, ma’am, but she may not get the land-line calls because the line’s intermittent. Are you okay for me to check it out?”
“May I see your ID again?”
“You sure can.” He presented it once more and smiled. “Yeah, that’s me, unfortunately.”
The ID looked official, a bland-faced corporate mug shot.
Baize handed it back. “How long will it take?”
“Coming up to lunchtime, feeling pretty hungry, so I’m hoping not too long.”
• • •
Billy Davix went room to room, leaving the elderly woman making coffee.
He took his time. The glasses, the hair slicked back, the overalls, all part of his act. He always liked this part of the job, pretending to be someone he wasn’t. It gave him a big kick, just like his acting days.
He fitted audio bugs in the three house phones: in the living room, bedroom, and study. The trick was to be slick and slow, no rush, not go like a rocket.
Eagles may soar, but weasels don’t get sucked into jet engines.
On the study desk he noticed the photographs and correspondence. He plucked a miniature video camera from his tool kit and took some close-up footage of the letter and photographs.
He saw the attaché case on the floor.
He opened it. Reams of sheet music, pencils, eraser, and a pencil sharpener. He saw the envelope, unfolded the page inside, saw the names, and his eyebrows twitched.
He smiled, held the camera over the page, and then popped it back in the attaché.
As he checked all the study drawers, he listened for any sound coming up the stairs.
In the drawers, he found a bunch of computer printouts and bills, including one from the phone company with her cell phone number. He found a couple of more letters from a doctor’s office, and a copy of a hospital bill.
He used the camera again.
Five minutes later he was down the stairs and back in the kitchen, carrying his meter and tools.
“I think I found the problem, ma’am.”
“Good for you, Einstein. What was it?”
“Loose wire in one of the sockets.”
“Great. Maybe now my granddaughter will answer my calls when she gets back.”
“When will that be, ma’am?”
“I don’t know. She said she’d be abroad for a few days. Maybe she isn’t answering her cell messages because she hasn’t got coverage.”
“Could be. Where is she?”
“Somewhere in darkest Europe, that’s all I know. Care for some coffee?”
He gave her the Billy Bob grin. “No, thank you, ma’am, but I sure appreciate the offer. Any more trouble and you just holler.”