confirmed Bigfoot sighting could really put Timber Falls on the map,” said Twila Langsley.
Twila had put Timber Falls on the map six years back when Charity and Mitch had discovered some of Archibald Montgomery’s mummified remains in the huge carpetbag Twila carried, the rest of him in a trunk at the end of her bed.
Archibald had been Twila’s beau, and she, it seemed, had killed him more than fifty-odd years ago to keep him from running off with her best friend, Lorinda Nichols. Archie, the slick devil, had been romancing them both.
Twila did five years at the state pen. She got out on good behavior in time to celebrate her ninetieth birthday.
No one in town felt any ill will toward her. She just wasn’t allowed to bring her old carpetbag into Betty’s—even if all she carried in it now was her knitting.
“I don’t think even Bigfoot could put Timber Falls on the map,” Betty said.
“If there is a Bigfoot, it’s got to be smart,” one of the customers noted. “Smart enough to know we’d cage it or kill it if it came near us.”
Betty laughed. “Smarter than my ex-husbands, then.”
Charity thought about having another piece of pie, unable to get the image of Mitch Tanner in the tux out of her mind. Did she dare hope it meant what she thought it did?
She finished her soda and had started to leave when she saw the black pickup again. Her heart lodged in her throat as the pickup slowed. She could see the shadow of someone behind the tinted glass just before the driver sped away. One thing was certain. Whoever was driving that truck was following her.
“DID YOU FIND HER?” Florie asked from the doorway of the ransacked Aries bungalow.
Mitch shook his head. He didn’t find a body, but he feared Wade was right about Nina Monroe’s being in trouble.
“I told you I was picking up weird vibes,” Florie said.
Mitch was picking up more than a few of his own.
The bungalow was tiny, just a living area, bedroom, bath and kitchenette, all furnished with garage-sale finds.
In the bedroom at the back sat a sagging double bed and a scarred chest of drawers beside an open closet door. The bath had a metal shower, sink and toilet. No storage.
It was obvious someone had searched the place, looking for something that was small enough to conceal under a couch cushion. Or in a toilet tank. Or at the back of a drawer. Drugs? It was Mitch’s first thought.
“Any idea what they might have been looking for?” he asked Florie on the off chance she’d done more than pick up bad vibes.
She shook her head. “The girl didn’t have much. I don’t even think she owned a suitcase. The day she checked in here all she had was that old compact car and whatever she had stuffed into a large worn backpack.”
He glanced through the open door of the bedroom. A stained and frayed navy nylon backpack lay on the floor, open and empty. “She talk to you about where she was from?”
“Didn’t talk at all. I barely saw her. Got up early and came in late.”
“Any friends stop by?” He knew Florie kept a pretty good eye on the comings and goings of her tenants. The crystal-ball business was fairly slow in a town the size of Timber Falls.
“There was a guy. A couple of nights ago.”
Mitch’s ears perked up. “What did he look like?”
“Didn’t get a good look at him. It was too dark. She never used her porch light. But he was tall as you, wore dark clothing. I got the impression he didn’t want to be seen.”
“What did he drive?”
Again Florie shook her head. “He must have parked down the road,” she said. “But they had one heck of a fight.”
“About what?”
“That, I can’t tell you. I could just hear the raised voices for a few moments, then nothing.”
“You didn’t recognize the man’s voice?”
“That darn Kinsey had her stereo on too loud in the Aquarius bungalow next door,” Florie said. “You know she’s gone and dyed her hair cotton-candy pink. Like I’m going to let someone with pink hair cut my hair.”
He nodded. Kinsey had come back from beautician school determined to make her mother’s shop, the Spit Curl, hip.
Mitch moved to the bedroom, wondering who the man was Nina had been arguing with. Florie stayed in the bungalow doorway. Only a few items of clothing hung in the closet. Probably just what had fit into the backpack. Either Nina couldn’t afford more or she hadn’t brought all her belongings to Timber Falls.
A bell jangled outside. “It’s my private line,” Florie announced. “I’m going to have to take it. One of my clients needs me.”
He could tell she hated to leave. This was probably the most excitement she’d had in years. But money was money. “I’ll be here.”
She nodded as the bell jangled again, then took off hunkered deep in her coat against the rain.
Mitch looked around the room, hoping to find an address book or some clue where Nina might be.
The room was bare except for the bed and four-drawer dresser. There were no knickknacks, no photos, no personal items other than clothing in here or in the living room.
All of the drawers in the dresser had been pulled out, the sparse contents dumped on the floor. All except the bottom drawer.
He moved to the dresser, squatted down and pulled on the stuck drawer. Empty. Still squatting, he glanced under the bed. Nothing but dust balls.
The lack of clothing bothered him. Even counting what Nina was last seen wearing, the woman had only about four days’ worth of clothes.
That seemed odd to him. But if there were more belongings, where were they? And why did she leave them behind when she’d come to Timber Falls?
It made him wonder if this was only to be a short stay.
He started to get up, shoving the drawer back in as he rose. It stuck. He had to pull hard to get the drawer to slide out again. As he did, he heard a soft metallic clink.
Withdrawing the drawer completely, he turned it over, curious what had made the sound. There were several pieces of torn masking tape stuck to the bottom. Something had been taped there but had broken loose.
Setting the drawer aside, he crouched down and felt around under the dresser until his fingers touched something small, metallic and cold.
His heart leaped as he withdrew a tarnished-silver baby’s spoon and saw that the handle was in the shape of a duck’s head. The same shape that had made Dennison Ducks famous. Even through the tarnish, he could read the name engraved on the spoon’s handle: Angela. He felt a chill spike up his spine.
