Chapter Thirty-Three

Cleg frowned at the dull amber light describing a small target against the wall. He hoped there were fresh batteries; he didn’t want to think about what would happen if the flashlight burned out while Margo was using it. Of course, it’d be his fault.

Moving as quickly as his trembling fingers would allow, he rummaged in the kitchen’s junk drawer. Pushing aside the too-short pencils, rubber bands, and paper clips, he grabbed what he hoped were two good C cells. He tossed the old batteries into the drawer, put in the new ones, clicked the light on and off a couple of times, and then started for the door.

But, like a magnet, the pantry drew his gaze. No telling when he’d have another chance to grab a bite. Margo could go a full day without food, but Cleg’s system was more delicate.

He retrieved the key from a pegboard on the wall, unlocked the pantry’s padlock and pulled the door open. He eyed the stored food, initially unable to decide what he wanted. Then he grabbed a couple of king-sized candy bars and stuffed them into his right pants pocket and reached for a package of his favorite treat in the world—chocolate-covered marshmallow cookies. He tore open the package, but before he could shove a cookie into his mouth, Margo’s voice stabbed through the air, loud enough to pierce his eardrums.

“What do you think you’re doing?” She bared her teeth at him like something feral.

In a panic, Cleg stuffed both cookies into his left pants pocket—a move he immediately regretted. Since the girl left, Margo did the laundry. And she’d boil him in oil when she found the remnants of those melted cookies.

“I was just making sure the flashlight works,” Cleg said.

Margo grabbed his upper arm and squeezed. “I’m going to take a whiz. By the time I get done, you’d better have the pickup running and the heater on full blast.” She threw her coat over the back of a kitchen chair, spun on her heel, and headed for the stairs. Her voice floated on the air behind her, “I hate cold weather. I don’t thrive in cold weather.”

As the sound of Margo’s clopping footsteps faded, Cleg took the opportunity to retrieve the cookies from his pocket, gobble them down, then grab another handful of snacks. If he was lucky, he’d have time to eat the candy bars and maybe even some of the caramel popcorn before the woman he’d begun calling The Shrike came back.

The nickname he’d first heard in an old Alfred Hitchcock movie couldn’t have been more suited to his wife. A tiny, deceptively lovely bird of prey, the shrike impaled its dinner on a thorny bush before leisurely taking time to devour it alive.

Unaware his reveries had eaten up his free time, Cleg jerked his head toward the stairwell at the sound of his wife’s flouncing footfalls.

“You still here?” Margo’s voice could have shredded beef. She yanked her coat from the chair back, knocking the chair over in the process. “Pick that up.” She jerked her head toward the chair and jammed her arms into the sleeves.

Cleg stooped, lost his balance, and nearly toppled over before righting the chair. “I was just—”

Margo stepped to the still-open pantry and peered inside. “I’m telling you, she’s been in this house.” Something on her blouse caught her eye, and she used a fingernail to peel a speck of food from just above her right breast. She lifted her head and gazed at the wall thoughtfully, “If she still thinks her sister’s dead, what will she do next? If I were a kid looking for my sister, what would I do?”

Cleg started to say something, thought better of it, and choked on his own saliva.

Margo whirled on him. “What?” Her eyes narrowed, she took a couple of steps toward him. “Do I hear echoes of a judgmental comment you had sense enough not to say?”

Cleg shook his head. His eyes wide, he stammered, “I was just remembering your own dear sister Chlorine, and how devastated you were when she went missing.”

Eyes filled with suspicion, Margo squinted at her husband then resumed pacing. For the next several minutes, she walked back and forth, mumbling to herself.

Suddenly, she whirled, a triumphant look on her face. “The photo.”

“What about the photo, Sweet Potato?”

Margo sneered. “You haven’t been paying attention. When Mort searched the kid’s luggage, he found a photo of her dead mother with a note on the back.”

“I don’t get—”

“Connect the dots, Jelly-butt. It makes sense that old man Ross would have left a clue for his kids. Now if I could just remember what that note said; it’s right on the tip of my tongue.”

“But we pulled up most of the floor. And Digger fairly dug up the whole yard. If there’d been anything there, wouldn’t someone have found it?”

Margo continued pacing and mumbling. Suddenly, she stood stock still and thrust an index finger upward. “Where your treasure is, there will your heart be also…that’s it, that’s what old man Ross wrote on the back of that photo.”

“Sounds like something from the Bible.”

“Makes no difference where it’s from, it’s got to be the clue we’ve been missing.”

“You think he buried a map with his wife?”

Margo grinned unpleasantly. “That’s exactly what I think.”

Before he could stop himself, Cleg said, “You mean we’re going to dig up that girl’s mother?”

Margo made an exasperated noise. “It’s just ashes, not a full-on cadaver.”

“But surely he wouldn’t leave instructions for his girls to dig up…I mean…he wouldn’t want his girls digging around…no one would think of—”

“Just listen to you. That’s exactly why he would bury it there.” She strode toward the front door. “Come on, there’s work to be done.”

Startled by sudden loud knocking on the front door, they swiveled their heads in unison toward the sound.

Cleg looked quizzically at his wife. “Mort forget his key?”

Margo shook her head and motioned for silence.

Another knock, louder. “Mr. and Mrs. Elliott?” The voice sounded young, masculine.

“Who’s that at this time of morning?” Cleg whispered.

Margo shook her head. “How do I know? Probably someone looking for a handout.” Her upper lip curled into a sneer, and she cracked her knuckles in a way that didn’t bode well for the poor sucker at the door. “This won’t take long. Go start the pickup.”

Cleg took his time moving toward the front door, loathe to miss the coming fireworks, especially since he wasn’t the target.

Margo moved to a window, peered out toward the drive then turned her head toward her husband. “Do you know anyone who drives a copper-colored Jeep?”

Cleg shook his head, bewildered.

The young man standing on the porch raised his hand to knock again, but Margo opened the door before he could complete the action. “We don’t allow solicitors.” She pointed to a dirt-smeared and nearly illegible sign nailed to a cracked wood panel next to the door.

A frown creased the young man’s face. He opened his wallet and held it up in front of Margo. “I’m Detective David Ruiz. I’m looking for a young girl and an elderly woman believed to be with her, Jillian Ross? I understand you’re her court-appointed temporary guardians.”

“Yes?” Margo said.

“May I speak with her, please?”

“What about?”

“Is she here?” The detective’s smile grew strained.

“Um, she’s not available right now.”

“But she is here?”

“I, um…”

“We were just going out to look for her,” Cleg found himself saying. Margo shot a look at him, and he clapped his mouth shut.

The young man raised his eyebrows, the look on his face just short of a sneer. “I have information that the girl left your house days ago and has not returned. Can you tell me why you didn’t report her missing at that time?”

Cleg gulped air in through his nasal cannula and shot a look out of the corner of his eye at The Shrike. He could be wrong, but it seemed the poo was about to hit the fan. And sure as there’d be rain in Seattle, Margo would find a way to pin everything on him. Oh man, his life sucked.