A String of Beads (Jane Whitefield, #8)(80)

Jane looked at her watch. It was 5:00 AM. She parked her Passat in the row of cars at the gas station down the road and walked back along the deserted stretch of Telephone Road to the house. If she was going to take another look, this had to be it.

This time she walked into the field by the house to the back where the stand of maple trees and the high thickets would hide her if the police came earlier than she had anticipated.

She walked to the rear of the house, climbed up onto the back porch, went to the kitchen window, and studied the room in the light thrown by the fluorescent above the stove. There were no dishes out, and the coffee pot was disassembled on the counter. She moved to the garage and saw through the side door that Chelsea’s car was parked there, went to the bedroom window and moved her eye to the corner, then pulled back.

The bed was smooth, the bedspread pulled straight and tight, and the pillows arranged neatly in a double row—bright decorative ones in front, and white pillows behind. Nobody was home and nobody had slept here.

Jane moved to the sloped cellar door, unscrewed and removed the hasp and its padlock, and went down the steps. She had not expected to enter the house, but she still had the small LED flashlight she’d brought with her to the hospital. She picked up a rag to open Nick Bauermeister’s toolbox and checked to be sure that the tools, mask, and gun were still there, then touched the middle bags of salt to verify that the jewelry was still there too. Finally she climbed the wooden steps to the kitchen.

Something had changed. The small kitchen was still neat and orderly, but it was stuffy. The air had stayed in the same place for too long because the doors and windows had been closed. She stepped to the refrigerator and tugged it open. A sour smell hit her, and seemed to be coming from the open milk carton on the top shelf. She peered through the glass tops of two drawers at the bottom and saw one full of lettuce with faint brownish streaks and leaves with curling edges. There were tomatoes with skin that had begun to pucker slightly. She closed the refrigerator and moved to the living room.

There were plants in pots lined up on a windowsill. They looked limp. Jane touched the soil in a couple of them, and they were dry. Chelsea had not been home in a while. Jane pulled her hand back into her sleeve and picked up the telephone. There was still a dial tone.

She went to Chelsea’s bedroom and checked the closet and dresser. She thought there were a few articles of clothing missing since her last visit, but most of them were still there. She moved the chair to the closet, stood on it, opened the small attic access door, and used her flashlight to look, but all she saw was a layer of pink insulation that had been installed long after the house was built.

She closed it carefully and went through the house again, looking under pieces of furniture and in the usual hiding places—the freezer, inside pots and pans, taped to the undersides of drawers, behind the plates of switches that didn’t seem to operate anything, and behind heating grates. As she searched, part of her was listening for the sound of police cars, and as long as she heard nothing, she kept searching. At last, she ran out of places to look.

Jane went down to the basement, up to the cellar door, and out. The sun was bright and glaring. She replaced the hasp and padlock and went across the field to the gas station and retrieved her car. As she drove along the road, there was a steady stream of cars going in both directions, people taking their kids to school or going to work, but no police cars. She looked at her watch. It was nearly eight already. Daniel Crane would be leaving for work.

DANIEL CRANE DROVE TOWARD HIS storage business, but he didn’t feel right about leaving home. Maybe he didn’t really have to go in today. He took out his phone and called the office.

Thompson picked up. “Storage.”

“Box Farm Personal Storage,” Crane said. “I’ve told you guys about eighty times.”

“Sorry Dan. I was on my way downstairs, and Harriman was on the phone at my desk so I had to run over here to get it, and I was afraid the caller would give up.”

“Okay,” said Crane. “Four words. Box Farm Personal Storage. I don’t know how I can build the business if you guys don’t sound professional.”

“Sorry. I’ll be more careful.”

“What I called for was to see if Mr. Salamone let anybody know when he’s coming today.”

“I haven’t heard. Let me check.” Crane could hear the rubbing sound of a hand covering the phone, and a faint voice calling across the room. “Nope. He hasn’t called or anything. Nobody’s called and asked for you yet, either.”

“Okay,” said Crane. “I’ll see you in a little while.” He hung up, then pressed the phone number of the office again.

“Box Farm Personal Storage.”

“Very good,” Crane said. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?” He hung up again and slid the phone into his jacket pocket.

He had hoped Salamone might have called to tell him when he was coming, or even better, that he wasn’t coming. Salamone had already missed making his usual rounds yesterday, and of course, he hadn’t called. Why should he? Making people wait and not showing up was a way of keeping them off balance. They had to think about you on that day, and each day after that until you finally appeared.

Crane had wanted to stay home with Chelsea this morning. He’d had trouble with her last night, and he really wanted to see what her state of mind was going to be today.