Chapter 30

 

One thing Adele and I did accomplish was to make some decisions about my painting project. We decided the screen porch should be teal and white, with bamboo flooring, and white wicker furniture, when I could afford it. That gave me something positive to work on, so first thing Monday morning I drove to Jouppi’s for paint. While I was in town I stopped at Volger’s for groceries, making sure I stocked up on enough food to last for at least a week.

Justin was in the office, tapping away on a computer keyboard, and Adele was working the checkout lane. When I reached her with my full cart, she said, “I’ve been thinking about the person who left the footprints.”

“Did you figure something out?” I asked. It seemed as though we’d worried this topic like a weathered bone.

“He—I heard the prints were size twelve so let’s assume it’s a man—had to have known where the body was.”

“Right. The police figured that out immediately. They hadn’t released the location.”

“So, he was involved in the death somehow.”

“Yes, nothing new there.”

“But what did he want? There must have been something with or near the body he was looking for,” Adele insisted.

“Maybe. He’d have to believe that the police hadn’t found it, whatever it was. Could there have been a clue that would incriminate him?”

“That makes some sense. But it would have to be something that wouldn’t rot. Even her clothes were gone. I could see that much. So, it can’t be paper or something organic.”

“Could be jewelry—maybe he lost a ring while burying her.”

“That’s an idea.”

My groceries were rung up, and I had bagged them as we talked. “I’ll keep thinking about it, but I’m off to do some painting now.”

“Keep in touch,” Adele said. Her eyes were darkly inquisitive, like those of a predatory bird.

After one more stop, to buy cucumbers, green beans and summer squash at Bidwell’s, I was glad to be done with the errands. Paddy was outside on his lead line, the food was put away, and I was ready to paint, which is how I spent the middle portion of the day.

By two-thirty I had bright teal walls and white woodwork in the porch. I could picture the finished room with the white wicker and flowered cushions, but nothing frilly. I was thinking a bold print with both teal and whatever accent color I finally chose for the main room.

Paddy had asked to come in earlier, and he had followed me around as I cleaned the brushes, and changed out of my painting clothes. He gave me his sad eye look.

“You want a walk, don’t you?” I asked.

“Walk” was one of his favorite words, and he began to dance around, his long tail thumping against a chair leg.

“All right. Let’s go look at that old house again. It really must have been a nice place in its heyday. I should ask Cora if the family who lived there was important. I bet they were.”

Once more we drove the Jeep to the west side of the railroad bridge, and crossed the black creosoted ties that smelled of tar even after a century. When we reached the east side, I patted my jeans pocket. The new cell phone was safe in its depths, but I wasn’t used to it yet, and was insecure about losing the technological gadget.

The woods along the creek were lovely and cool. Once again, I noticed the narrow trail that threaded between the trees, away from the water. I thought there must be dozens of these simple trails through the woods, made by wildlife, or local inhabitants. This one looked interesting, but I decided not to follow it today.

The section by the Thorpe River took about ten minutes to walk, and then we headed east from the dead end of the dirt road. There really wasn’t any shade since sun was still high, but at least the sun was over my shoulder and not in my eyes as we walked this direction. At first, I focused on the roadside plants, enjoying the daisies and Queen Anne’s lace. Occasional yellow patches of St. John’s wort broke the white expanse.

As I approached the old house, but before I had decided whether I was going to just walk up to it and open the door, I saw a flicker of motion out of the corner of my eye. Just a bird—maybe nesting in the front porch, I thought. Then I saw it again. Someone was in the house. I was seeing a person in a white t-shirt passing back and forth in front of a window. I backed up a few steps, to hopefully be out of sight of that person, and thought a minute.

I clipped Paddy on the leash to keep him close. No sense letting someone see him, either. I backed up a few more steps, and cut to my right into the edge of the woods that used to border the lawn of the old house. The lawn had grown up to brush and would have been difficult to push through, but the woods were more open. There was an old fence line, and I followed it carefully, trying to be quiet. After we’d penetrated the forest by just a few yards I could see the back of the house, and it was not deserted, as I would have expected. On a cement slab, outside what was probably the kitchen door, there were several new cardboard boxes, a couple of lawn chairs, a stack of plastic bucket lids, and an ashtray overflowing with butts.

I wasn’t doing anything stupid this time. I pulled out my cell phone and dialed 9-1-1.

“This is Forest County 9-1-1. What is your emergency?” came a crisp voice.

“This is Ana Raven, I’m on East South...” the connection broke. Great, maybe there wasn’t enough coverage here on the State Forest side of the river. I dialed again.

“This is Forest County 9-1-1. What is your emergency?”

“Ana Raven here. Please send someone...” the phone went dead again. Still holding the dog closely—thankfully he hadn’t started barking—I worked my way back toward the road. I was trying to remember the number for the Sheriff’s Department, but it just wouldn’t come to me. All I could think of was the Cherry Hill police number, and as I reached the road again I quickly pushed the buttons for the exchange and 4-4-5-5. I could hear the number ringing when suddenly I was encircled from behind by strong arms and both of my hands opened involuntarily. Paddy yelped and pulled loose, and the phone fell into the dirt road.

“Hey!” I yelled. “Who... Help!” The phone was still open. I struggled and tried to turn to see who had hold of me. All I could see were solid arms and hands, which were Caucasian. It wasn’t DuWayne, and it wasn’t Pablo. Paddy ran off a few steps and began to bark with a high, anxious voice. My twisting and kicking were succeeding in keeping the attacker somewhat off balance, but I couldn’t work myself free. Whoever had hold of me was large and strong. The two remaining bandages on my arm had rubbed off and the arm was bleeding, but it didn’t seem important at all. We circled in the roadway, and I saw a big foot come down firmly on my new cell phone. The man ground it against the sand and sparse gravel under his shoe, and I could only hope someone at the Cherry Hill Police Station had answered and heard me yelling before my new phone was crushed.