Jennie Bentley - Spackled and Spooked

“Maybe he just didn’t think about it.”

Derek arched a brow, just faintly visible in the darkness. “Does he seem that inconsiderate to you? Under the circumstances, it’s inevitable that we’d worry, don’t you think? Or think what we’re thinking.”

“I guess,” I admitted. “And no, he doesn’t seem that inconsiderate. But maybe he didn’t have time. Maybe someone came and knocked on the door and invited him to come over, and he left with them. Without taking the time to write a note. Maybe he didn’t realize how much time had passed, or he figured he’d be back by the time we got here.”

“So why isn’t he?” Derek said, an edge of frustration in his voice. “And how would anyone even know he was here, anyway? He rode with us, so his car isn’t parked out front.”

I shrugged. “No idea. Why don’t we go knock on a couple of doors while we wait for Wayne?”

Derek agreed, grudgingly, that we could do that, and we set off down the street.

Our first stop was Irina’s house, where Irina greeted us at the door with a smile. “Hi, Avery. And Avery’s friend. Do you want to come in?”

I shook my head. “No thanks. We’re looking for another friend. He was at the house when we left this afternoon, and now he’s gone. You haven’t seen him, have you? Young guy, twenty-two, blond buzz cut, cute in an unfinished sort of way.”

Derek rolled his eyes, and Irina giggled. “I’m sorry. I haven’t. But I only just got home. It’s a bit of a walk from the bus stop. I saw Arthur and Stella, but no one else.”

“Nobody boarded the bus when you got off? How often does it run?”

The bus ran every thirty minutes, Irina said, and no one had boarded at the stop at the end of Primrose Drive.

“Stella?” Derek repeated when we had said our good-byes and were on our way down to the next house.

“Arthur Mattson’s shih tzu. Yappy little thing. I saw them let themselves into their house when we drove by earlier.”

“So unless Brandon was waiting for him inside, he’s not there, then.”

I shook my head. “Probably not. But we should knock anyway. Just in case Arthur saw something.”

“While we’re at it, we should check that Arthur’s car is where it belongs,” Derek said. “I’m sure Brandon knows how to hotwire a car.”

I nodded, although I sensed that we were at odds here, that our expectations were different. Derek looked for evidence that Brandon had skipped town. I thought it was just possible that he’d gone home, that he hadn’t killed anyone. I was hoping we’d find him hanging out with Linda White, talking about Holly, or sharing a beer with Lionel Kenefick, in an effort to forget. At the back of my mind, however, a little pulse was beating, urging me to hurry up, that something was wrong.

Arthur Mattson hadn’t seen Brandon, or so he said, and his car was parked in the driveway, right where it should be. But he hadn’t been home long, either.

“Denise Robertson stays home with Trevor all day,” I said when we left Arthur’s property. Stella was still yip ping frantically inside and scratching at the glass in the picture window to be allowed to get to us. Arthur’s curtains were open, and with the light on, we could see right into his living room. There was no sign of Brandon.

“Then let’s try Denise next. Where is it?”

I pointed to Denise’s house, and we trotted across the street. But Denise claimed not to have seen Brandon, either. “I had no idea he was even here,” she said. “I saw him the other day, and the police cruiser, too, but I haven’t seen him today. Just your truck.”

“And you didn’t notice any lights going on at our house? Or anyone coming or going?”

But Denise hadn’t. “Sorry,” she said. “When Trevor’s awake, I spend time with him, and when he’s napping, I usually sit down and read or take a nap myself or watch TV or something.”

“Thanks.” We took our leave of Denise and stopped outside in the driveway.

“Down there is Linda White’s house,” I said, pointing to the house at the end of the road, on the corner. “Lionel’s house is up there, with the van out front.” I pointed in the other direction, up toward our own house.

“Let’s do Linda first. That’s likely where he is anyway, if he’s still around. And if we talk to Lionel first, and he’s not there, then we have to backtrack to get to Linda’s.”

Derek started walking in the direction of Linda’s house. I followed.

At first glance, the place looked shuttered and dark, with no lights on, and a knock on the door produced no results. “Maybe she went to work?” I suggested. “ Wayne said she works nights. At the Shamrock, wasn’t it?”

Derek nodded. “Or maybe Brandon killed her, because she knew he’d killed Holly. Or maybe she invited him over for dinner, and fed him strychnine, and now he’s dead inside and she’s the one who’s done a bunk.” He reached out and tried the door knob. It turned in his hand.

“We can’t just walk in!” I protested.

“Sure we can. It’s not breaking and entering if we didn’t break anything. And someone could be hurt. Either Linda or Brandon. Wayne broke down Venetia Rudolph’s door yesterday because she might have been hurt.”

“I think he saw her through the window,” I said. “And Linda could just be at work and in the habit of leaving her door open. Wayne said it was open this morning.”

“That’s possible, too,” Derek admitted. “But it can’t hurt to look. If something’s wrong, she’ll thank us. If she’s not here, she’ll never know.” He pushed the door open. “Yoo-hoo!”

I rolled my eyes but followed him inside, raising my own voice. “Linda? It’s Avery Baker, from up the street. And Derek Ellis. Are you home?”

There was no answer. I held my breath as Derek flipped on the lights, but everything turned out to be OK. Linda’s living room was messy but empty of people, living or dead.

“Since we’re inside, we should have a look around,” Derek said, and proceeded to do just that. As he walked from room to room, turning on lights and peering into corners, I took a closer look around the living room.

It was messy, with a slew of empty bottles on the coffee table, discarded clothes strewn across the floor, and a dingy bed pillow and blanket on the threadbare couch. It looked like Linda slept out here. Maybe she’d lie down to watch TV at night, to unwind, and then drink herself to sleep.

On the floor next to the sofa, a big book lay open, and I bent and lifted it, finding myself looking into row upon row of young faces smiling at me through the camera.

“Holly’s yearbook,” I said, surprised.

“What?” Derek asked from the next room.

“Nothing.” I flipped over a couple of pages.

I may have drawn some conclusions from Linda’s lack of concern about her daughter these past four years, but maybe I’d been wrong. Maybe the drinking was a recent thing, something Linda had started doing after Holly left. Loneliness, or the feeling that she’d failed her daughter, who’d left and never called…

The yearbook was filled with scrawled notations, greetings from classmates. Love ya, Holly! You’re the best! I’ll never forget you!

“What were you voted in high school?” I asked Derek when he came back into the living room.

“Voted? Oh, most likely to have the crap beat out of me by the Stenham twins.”

“Really?”

“Sure. That and most likely to become an MD. No surprise there.” He looked around, nose wrinkling at the mess and the sour smell of old beer.

“Holly was voted most likely to marry well. She was in the drama society, and a cheerleader and prom queen.”

“I’m not surprised,” Derek said, wandering over to look over my shoulder. “She was a knockout, wasn’t she? Are there any more pictures?”