Previously Loved Treasures (Serendipity #2)(52)

“Did she say where she was going?”

“Ha, like that’s gonna happen.”

“Shit!”

When Maggie started complaining about the fact that they still owed her twenty-three dollars for room rent, Joe came close to jamming one of his balled-up fists into her mouth. The only thing that stopped him was the thought of going back to jail.

For the remainder of that day Joe went from place to place looking for Rowena. He tried the Food Mart, the gas station, the Laundromat, and the pool hall. He pulled the tattered picture of her and Sara from his wallet and asked if people had seen either the woman or the child. “Rowena’s kind of average height, blue eyes, long blonde hair,” he explained. But everyone he spoke with shook their head and said they’d not seen such a woman with or without a child.

“Damn,” Joe grumbled.

At the end of a long night, when he had no place to sleep and nothing to eat, he went back to Abe’s twenty-four-hour gas station and stood in front of the counter looking down at his feet.

“I need a place to stay,” he said. “And I’m willing to work for it.”

Abe, who pretty much ran the place by himself, agreed to give Joe a job. “Five dollars a day,” he said. “You can sleep in the back and help yourself to whatever food’s on the shelf.”

Joe took the job and said he was mighty grateful. But gratitude was the last thing in the world he felt.





Missing Things





The day Joe Mallory was released from the Mackinaw jail was the same day Louie decided to build a playhouse in the backyard of the Sweetwater residence. By then over three weeks had passed, and while Rose was still concerned Joe might find them she’d become considerably more relaxed about it. She no longer jumped at the sound of the doorbell or turned wary when she heard footsteps in the hall.

Max came to supper most every evening, but with late nights and heavy drinking he’d given up on breakfast and lunch. When he was not at the table the sound of laughter echoed through the hallways; when he made an appearance smelling of whiskey and needing a shave, little was said. The lack of conversation was noticeable, and the difference didn’t escape Max’s attention. Silverware clanked against plates and someone might mention a television show worth watching, but that was it.

This, of course, infuriated Max even more. Now certain they were plotting against him, he moved silently through the rooms and remained in the shadows, listening and watching. When he did catch the sound of voices, he pressed his back to the wall and inched closer to the doorway. Several times he thought he heard words like “gun” and “prisoner.” And on one occasion he definitely heard Laricka say “poison.” It came through loud and clear. But moments later her grandsons came barreling through the hallway, and Max had to move on. He missed knowing she had spoken of a weed pulled from the garden.

To Max each day seemed blacker than the one before. His eyes grew narrower and the set of his mouth harder. A ball of suspicion settled in his chest and grew to a size that could no longer be ignored. The anger that was once merely resentment took on the bright red glow of hatred, and Max began plotting his revenge.

He watched and waited. One afternoon when he saw Harriett leave the house, he slipped inside her room and searched for something to give warning as to what they were planning. Evidence of a sort. Of course he found nothing, but when he spied her silver cigarette lighter on the nightstand he picked it up and slid it into his pocket. Two days later he drove to Harrington and sold it for eight dollars.

“Smart-ass bitch,” he’d grumbled. “Serves her right.”

The lighter was the first of a number of things that went missing.

~

Harriet searched for the lighter for several days. It had been a gift from her first husband and was something she treasured. After she looked through the house, she called the beauty parlor to ask if perchance she’d left it there.

“Sorry, hon,” Greta said. “Nothing like that’s been found.”

“Can you keep an eye out?” Harriet asked. “Silver with a gold heart on the front and my initials on the back. H-L-T. The T’s for Thomas,” she said, then wistfully added, “I got that lighter when I was married to Buck Thomas.”

Greta said she’d be on the lookout, but Harriet had a feeling the lighter wouldn’t turn up at the beauty shop nor at the bank. The last she remembered it had been laying on the nightstand in her bedroom.

When the residents gathered for supper, Harriet asked if anyone had seen it. Several people shook their head, others offered up a sad, “Sorry, no.”

Max did neither.

Her dislike of him became obvious when she asked pointedly, “What about you, Max? Did my lighter happen to accidently fall into your pocket?”

Odd as it was for her to choose those particular words, it was purely coincidental.

Max railed in a way that only the guilty are capable of. “You’ve got one hell of a nerve accusing me of stealing!”

Not one to back off, Harriet answered, “Well, did you?”

“Screw you!” Max swiped his arm across the table sending his plate and a bowl of mashed potatoes to the floor. While the sound of dishes shattering still hung in the air, Max left the table and stomped back to his room.

“Oh, dear,” Caroline said. “I hope this isn’t going to mean trouble.”