But Chief Eddington hadn’t listened to me then either.
Indignation bubbled inside me once more. I raised my eyes. “Two wives in six years, Dineen.” One unsolved murder and one accident. “A total of one million dollars’ life insurance. One million. Why would he even take out policies on his wives in the first place, when neither of them worked?” Linda’s policy had taken three years to come through. The courts had to declare her dead first, aided by the fact that her credit cards, bank account, nothing had been touched since the night of her disappearance. Even so, I wouldn’t be surprised if Baxter’s influence swayed that legal process as well.
Dineen lifted a shoulder. There was nothing in this argument we hadn’t covered a dozen times before.
Sometimes I wished I could be more like her. More of an accepter, less of a fighter. Life would be so much easier. But I just hadn’t been wired that way.
I leaned back and pressed my hands to my temples.
“Another headache?” Dineen asked.
I nodded.
Dineen rose and walked to the cabinet by her refrigerator, where she pulled out a bottle of heavy-duty aspirin. She shook out two and handed them to me. “Here.”
“Thanks.” I swallowed them with the last gulp of water from my glass. A gust of wind pelted rain against the sliding door. It was nasty out there. February in Vonita, California, forty miles south of San Jose, was balmy compared to some parts of the country. The current temperature hovered in the low forties. But the dampness made it feel so much colder. I hated winter rain. It reminded me of death and despair. Five years ago I’d buried my husband on a day like this.
I pushed from my chair. “Better go.”
“Want a Jelly Belly hit?” Dineen gestured toward my favorite cabinet.
“Always.” I managed a smile. “Especially if you’ve got Grape Jelly or Watermelon. They’re my headache flavors.”
Dineen fetched a large glass bowl from the cabinet. “I don’t know what’s what in here. You figure it out.”
I leaned over the bowl, moving the candies around with a finger. Grape Jelly ones are dark purple. Watermelon are green. I found a few of each and popped them in my mouth one by one, relishing each bite. Nothing in this world beat Jelly Belly jelly beans. Particularly on a night like this.
In the den I leaned over the couch to brush my fingers against Jimmy’s cheek. He was recovering from a nasty bout of flu. Jimmy looked pale and tired, but he smiled at me all the same. His brown hair stuck out in all directions—a casualty of lying against all the gathered throw pillows. “G’night, Aunt Joanne.”
“Good night, favorite nephew.”
“I’m your only nephew.”
“Well, if I had a hundred, you’d still be my favorite.”
At the front door I pulled on a raincoat and picked up my umbrella. Dineen hugged me hard. “This mess will all blow over, you’ll see. Chief Eddington can’t stay mad at you forever.”
“Sure.” I slid my purse over my arm. No point in disagreeing, even though I knew better. Wayne Eddington and Baxter Jackson went way back. “Thanks for dinner, as always.”
Dineen nodded. “See ya next Saturday.”
“You bet.”
She opened the door, and the monster wind blew its clammy breath over us. I stuck my umbrella outside, hit the button on its handle, and hurried down the porch steps to my Toyota 4Runner. By the time I slid into the car my ankles were wet and chilled.
The loud battering on the roof turned up my headache. Gritting my teeth, I started the car. The digital clock read 8:33 p.m.
My house lay about five miles from Dineen’s on Stillton, a rural road at the edge of town. I drove stiff-backed, fat raindrops cascading through my headlights and bouncing off the pavement like spilled popcorn. My thoughts eddied with increasing frustration. In my own business as a skip tracer I spent my workdays hunting down people, many of them criminals. I’d built a good reputation for finding my skips. Now I had a possible double murderer in my sites, one of his victims my best friend. A friend I could have saved, if I’d only pushed harder.
And now I couldn’t do a thing about my suspicions.
I passed through the last stoplight on Elmer and turned left onto Stillton. Two miles of narrow road and curves, and I’d reach my warm, dry house. I turned up the heat in the car. Eyes narrowed, I drove slowly, frowning at the headlights of an oncoming vehicle until it swished by. My windshield wipers drummed a furious beat.
“Why didn’t you investigate Cherisse’s death?” I’d demanded of Chief Eddington four days ago. We stood in his office at the station, the door open. I tried to keep my voice low.
The chief’s face reddened. He planted both hands on his thick hips. “So now you’re going to rag me about this case for the next six years? They’re over, Joanne. Both Jackson cases are closed.”
“And you’re happy about that, aren’t you? Now life can just go on, and Baxter remains your favorite pal.”
The rest of our heated argument ran through my head. I’d never even seen reporter Andy Wangler in the station, much less in proximity to hear us. He must have salivated all over his notepad.
My last bend before home approached. I eased off the accelerator.
A hooded figure darted into the road.
I gasped and punched the brake. The anti-lock system shuddered. The figure jerked its head half toward me, one side of a man’s face lit skeletal white. A rivulet of blood jagged down his bony cheek. The eye on the shadowed half of his face shrunk as black and deep as an empty socket.
He raised his arms.
My car slid toward him.
I whipped the steering wheel left. The figure jumped backward.
Too late.
I heard a sickening bump on my right fender. In peripheral vision I glimpsed the body knocked aside. My Toyota kicked into a spiral over slickened asphalt. The world dizzied as I spun, my widened eyes taking in a dancing fence on the road’s left side…the curve I’d already traveled…a gnarled oak straight ahead…a crumpled figure on the ground. My wet tires sang and sizzled, the smell of my own sweat acrid in my nostrils.
A hysterical thought flashed in my brain: I hit the Grim Reaper.
With a final nauseating jolt my SUV carved to a stop in the middle of the dark and rain-pelted road.
TWO
Sounds hit first—the beating rain, the squall of my heart. I slumped forward, unable to move. Breath shuddered down my throat, my fingers glued hooks on the steering wheel.
An eternal moment passed…two.
The hard fist of reality punched me in the face. I’d hit a man. What if I killed him?
I lifted my head. Where was the man’s body? I could barely see the pavement, much less the field beyond it. My car hulked astride both lanes, canted toward the left side of the road.
I straightened. My shaking left hand found the door handle, wrapped around it. The door opened with a sodden click. With a grunt I shoved open the door and half fell from the car. Despite my coat, snarling rain soaked me within seconds. It dripped into my eyes, trailed corpselike fingers down the back of my shirt. I swung my pounding head right, left, seeking my bearings.
During the spin I’d glimpsed the man on the right.
Hunched over, I fought my way to the front of the car, around its hood. Squinting, I searched the road’s edge for the man. My car’s headlights, pointed in the opposite direction, were no help.
There. Not far from the oak tree. He lay on one side, his back to me, unmoving. No Grim Reaper after all. He wore not a cloak, but black jeans and sneakers, a black hooded jacket. He looked average in build and height.