The Jeep’s heater had just begun to thaw her aching body by the time Campbell made it up Dogwood Lane. Parking in front of the ranch-style dwelling, she thought again how much it resembled a smaller version of Cody headquarters, Yancy’s own home. This creamy white-brick rendition was more elegant though, comparable to anything in Dallas’s Highland Park or Houston’s River Oaks. Most of the credit had to go to Maida. Despite her age and the number of trees on the lot, she kept the lawn meticulous, the flower beds free of weeds and debris. She loved puttering in the yard, even through the cold snaps during winter. But this morning a large branch from her favorite pink dogwood dangled like a broken arm. On the lawn lay the culprit—a heftier limb from a towering black oak. It would break Maida’s heart to see such loss.
Strolling up the curved sidewalk, Campbell picked up the newspaper, setting it on the iron-and-redwood bench at the front door. If the Jeremys or the Smarts were watching from their living-room windows across the street, they would observe typical behavior, since she often stopped by Maida’s for a cup of coffee at the end of a shift. But once she glanced around, she concluded that she was the only person up and about this morning, for every house she could see had plastic-wrapped newspapers lying untouched in the yards.
Relieved, she made her way to the back of the house, testing locks and peering into the windows of the garage door to make sure she was also correct about the Pontiac being gone. The rear patio doors had sheers covering them, but the heavier drapes were wide open. That struck her as unusual.
Typical of many in her generation, Maida was always concerned with discretion and safety. “Be paranoid and live another day,” she’d declare in her musical voice, a finger wagging at whomever she felt needed a warning. Why hadn’t Maida closed the drapes last night? Had she been watching the storm from here before rushing from the house? Not likely. The storm had approached from the northwest, which was her front yard.
Glancing down, Campbell saw the shortened broomstick that was lodged in the aluminum track of the sliding glass door—Maida’s economical version of a dead bolt. The woman could spend thousands on a couch no one would ever sit on, but if a piece of wood could offset the expense of a computerized alarm system, she would rush to the discount store and buy out their stock of cheap brooms.
Cupping her hands beside her eyes, Campbell peered inside. No lights had been left on, and overcast skies were slowing dawn. For once, she wished Maida had a dog or cat: a curious, devoted pet that would move the damn sheers so she could get a better view.
With a sigh, she cast a frustrated glance up and down the alley. In keeping with the neighbors’ landscaping decisions, Maida had opted not to close in her yard. That was all right, since she didn’t have to worry about a pet disturbing the neighbors. Also, the Trails’s privacy fence on the far side of the alley blocked intrusion and noise from the farm-to-market road beyond. But it did feel rather bare and lonely this winter day. More leaves and branches littered the alley, but there was no real damage…
Her gaze fell on Liz Junior.
Maida had won the life-size black ceramic cat with violet eyes—à la namesake Elizabeth Taylor—in a bingo game at the recreation center along with its purple ceramic ottoman. It sat at the corner of the patio…or it had. The wind must have knocked the gaudy, but amusing, figurine onto the concrete.
“Now who’s going to help her do the newspaper crossword puzzles?” she murmured to the beheaded figurine.
Wondering what else was going to go wrong today, Campbell reached for her radio and returned to her vehicle.
4
6:27 a.m.
Finding that the Maple Trials administration office was still locked, Campbell continued on to Cody headquarters. This time she beat receptionist-dispatcher Beth Greer, and punched the entry code on the keyboard lock to gain access inside. She found Yancy in the kitchen pouring himself a mug of coffee.
“You want one of these or something stronger?” he asked.
He didn’t so much as glance over his shoulder, but Campbell refused to be impressed, guessing he’d spotted her arrival on one of the outside cameras. Or maybe he’d called Kelsey after she’d left the Trails. What she cared about was whether he’d taken his medicine—and the vitamins she’d bought for him.
She went straight to the refrigerator and helped herself to a Diet Pepsi.
“Poison.”
As he muttered, Yancy lifted and dropped her braid as though it was a door knocker and continued by. It was the only gesture of physical affection she would get from him for a while, a sign of how concerned and upset he’d been over her experiences last night.
“Be glad it’s not chardonnay,” she replied with equal crustiness. But Campbell’s lips twitched as she followed him. For all his insight into what made people tick, he was a big, clumsy lug when it came to personal relationships.
At six-three, and with his steel-gray hair cut in the renowned marine burr, he continued to resemble the toughie she’d always called him, although he was a good twenty-five pounds lighter since the prostate surgery he’d recently undergone. The white shirt and jeans that had become his uniform since establishing Cody Security were still too loose, but he never stopped trying to fool people that he’d gotten back all of his robust energy and gung-ho personality.
Following him into his office, she watched him ease himself into the black leather chair behind the desk. Behind him, on the wall, were credentials and citations. Campbell knew if he’d had his way, Yancy would have boxed them away years ago. She’d been the one to insist that clients would be impressed and reassured by them—proof of his training and skills. She suspected they meant more to him now than ever as he struggled to regain his stride.
Taking a sip of his coffee, he set it on the coaster. “I haven’t seen you looking this wiped out since—”
“I know.” Campbell hoped to cut short any lecture he’d been planning.
“Hurts worse than you’ll admit.”
Yancy’s conversational approach was to state conclusions like a twenty-dollar fortune-teller. It used to drive Campbell nuts, until she realized he took no pleasure in anyone’s pain or defeat, he simply believed in shorthand and shortcuts whenever possible.
“When you start fessing up, I will too.”
His grunt could have been a chuckle and he indicated his pen and pencil holder. “Well, your mother said you got your stubbornness from me. Feel free to bite down on one of my freshly sharpened No.2s if it gets so bad your teeth start to itch. In the meantime, tell me more about what you think is going on.”
“I’m done guessing. I’m going to dig up more answers.” Too weary to simply stand and in too much pain to sit without rocking, she wandered around his office.
“Maida has to be at her son’s house, that’s all there is to it. Her family would have screamed bloody murder until they had squad cars lined up at the gatehouse if she hadn’t arrived.”
“If they knew she was coming.”
That possibility had Campbell’s mouth going dry again, and she took a deep drink of her soda. “The only way we can determine whether they did or didn’t—or if she even spoke to them—is to go inside the house and check her answering machine.”
“Forget it. If we get to where that becomes our only choice, we call the sheriff and hand things over to his department. I mean it, Belle. You know Tyndell won’t let us into the house under these vague conditions—and he’s our only option if we don’t contact the sheriff.”
His expression reflected her feelings about having to call in the local authorities. “Fine, then I’m ready,” Campbell said. “But let me pay the family a courtesy call. Regardless of his neglect, and Patsy’s resentment of her mother-in-law, Dwayne