Cat Deck The Halls

11

P ASSING THE WIDE garage doors, Cora Lee and Juana stopped to wait as Jimmie McFarland pulled in, then the three adults moved, with the child between them, around the side to the pedestrian door accompanied by the two gamboling dogs. They could hear, from within, the buzz of the electric screwdriver and the rhythmic pounding of a hammer, and the two girls bantering and laughing. Pushing the door open, Cora Lee turned, looking across the yard for Donnie, but his truck was still gone. His wheelbarrow and bags of cement and tools were scattered where he’d been working, which wasn’t usual for him. But he’d been at work since dawn, and was obviously coming right back-he must have run out of something unexpectedly.

When she and her housemates had bought the house, the yard was a mass of weeds. But once they’d moved into the neglected dwelling, most of their work had at first gone into the interior, painting and repairing, decorating the communal living area in a way to bring their divergent pieces of furniture and tastes together. Each of them had designed her own room as she pleased. Blond Gabrielle, who wasn’t much for yard work and who didn’t like to get her hands dirty, was a fine seamstress and had made all the curtains and draperies. That, in Cora Lee’s opinion, took far more patience and skill than wielding a garden trowel or a paintbrush. Holding the child’s hand, she led her inside. “You have an audience,” she called, “a special visitor.”

Along the walls of the three-car garage, Cora Lee and the girls had constructed a sturdy cutting table and a paint table out of sawhorses and plywood. The permanent workbench offered ample room for hardware, nails and hinges, and the small power tools. Ordinarily the garage was Cora Lee’s furniture studio, and she had orders nearly three years ahead. But until later this week, when the girls would deliver the playhouse to the contest grounds, this space belonged to them. The playhouse nearly filled it.

There were twenty-three entries, most of them produced by adult teams and professional builders. Once the winner was chosen, all the other entries would be auctioned off. Given the popularity of custom playhouses along the coast, Cora Lee had no doubt they’d all sell at a profit-in her mind, it was a win/win situation; but the girls were set on getting the first prize.

Above them, Dillon Thurwell was perched atop a six-foot-high platform of joists, the red-haired fourteen-year-old carefully balancing as she screwed lightweight cedar boards onto the raised deck-the playhouse, which was nearly finished, could be taken apart in three sections to be transported by truck. If the girls’ dream came true, their entry would win twenty thousand dollars to be split between them, to add to their college funds.

Dillon’s parents had started her college fund long ago, and added to it regularly; but Dillon’s mother was a real estate agent, and her father a college professor. Lori, on the other hand, with her father in prison and her mother dead, had little more than odd jobs and her own ingenuity with which to amass the huge sum she would need for her education. And Lori Reed was dead set on college, no matter what it took. Lori had lived with the four women since her father was sent to San Quentin to serve a sentence for second-degree murder, a crime that everyone who knew him felt they might have committed themselves, considering that the man he killed had brutally murdered innocent and very bright children, and had intended to kill Lori.

The little child beside Cora Lee stared up round-eyed at the bright, multicolored playhouse; it was a confection of brilliant colors, of closed and open spaces and ascending levels, and of wild cutouts for air and light, and all the surfaces were painted in amazing patterns. There were three ways to climb to the top-a knotted rope, a ladder, and a vertical bar with protruding rungs. Standing on the tumbling mats that were scattered underneath, to make the low work easier, the little girl stared up at the wonderful confection, her eyes wide, her mouth curving in the tiniest hint of a smile.

“Paint dry?” Cora Lee asked, keeping the dogs back, worrying that they would smear Lori’s careful work.

“It’s dry,” Lori said. Kneeling beside the front of the playhouse, she was nailing on freshly painted, bright persimmon trim. The younger girl had long, straight brown hair, light brown eyes that could look achingly hurt and needy-or could look as secretive and feisty as could Dillon’s impish glance. But Lori’s attention was on the little girl, clearly seeing the child’s shy fear. Lori put out her hand.

The little girl came to her slowly at first, but then with trust. This was not an adult bid for contact, this was child to child, as nonthreatening as the earlier, guileless greetings of Joe Grey and Kit, and then of the two dogs. Above them, Dillon remained still, her red hair catching a shaft of light through the garage windows, her cropped, flyaway locks gleaming like flame.

At the sound of a car pausing on the street, Davis stepped to the door, but then it moved on by, and she returned to watch the child explore the bottom part of the playhouse then scramble up the ladder. Forgetting the adults, the little girl disappeared into the three rooms and out again in a little dance across the various decks, so losing herself to wonder that Davis and Cora Lee beamed at each other-and Davis dared to think, now, that the child might find her voice, and be able to speak to her.

S O THIS WAS where they meant to hide the kid, at least part of the time. This, and that detective’s condo. What a laugh-those women had no clue that he knew all about this place. Kuda watched the woman cop lift the kid out of the car, and he smiled. The kid was a sitting duck.

He waited warily but with patience while they were in the house. Watched the second, lone uniform pull in. So the kid had two guards. Oh, this was too good. This was security?

And still he waited.

Kid hadn’t said a word, so far, he could bet on that. Hadn’t, or the cops wouldn’t be so relaxed. They were just normally watchful, but not sweating it. No, the kid hadn’t told anything she saw, and he didn’t think she would-and how much could they believe, from a kid? Kid was no kind of witness.

So why mess up a good thing? Kill her, and they’d be after him for sure. No, for now, let sleeping dogs lie. So far he was home free. Keep it that way. Body disposed of, and only some passing witness’s word there ever was a body. How far would the cops go to investigate hearsay? This was Christmas, the stores had to be full of enough shoplifters and petty thieves to keep the street patrol plenty busy.

No, he thought, leave the kid for now. Leave her, and he’d be able to slide right out of this berg, once he got what he came for. Disappear so the law would never find him.

He’d disposed of the clothes and duffels pretty well, scattering them in several places. He hadn’t wanted to leave stuff in the car that might be traced, even though he’d checked the labels. All were generic. Kmart. Penney’s. Wal-Mart.

He’d dumped the empty billfold, after wiping it down, in a bin out on the highway at the edge of the state park as he pedaled back toward the village in the predawn dark. Had left his own shoes there, too. Waffle soles, that had been foolish. Was afraid they’d left prints. Best place to dump them was the highway, where some homeless man walking that stretch might pick through, might put them on. And then, who’d ever find them?

He’d worried about the two duffels, even empty. Hadn’t wanted to leave them in the garage, and for some reason didn’t want to leave them in the car. He’d decided to bring them with him, tied on the back of the bike, riding along like a homeless person, himself.

He’d emptied some of the pants and shirts down into the bottom of the highway Dumpster, too, and pulled debris over them. Rolled the bigger, emptied duffel in mud and stuffed it down in there. But the kid’s stuff had worried him. Pretty little girl’s clothes, too new to throw away. That’d attract attention.

Coming into the village, he’d cruised the streets, passing three charity shops, all closed, of course, then circled back when he saw a car stop before one of them. And luck had smiled on him, big-time.

Woman got out, hauled out four big black plastic garbage bags, tucked them up against the shop’s door with a note pinned on. Got back in her car, all dressed up for work, sleek black suit and high heels, and took off.

It had taken him only a minute to tuck the kid’s clothes down inside. He used three of the bags, a few garments in each, the small cloth duffel rolled up and stuffed in, too, and that ragged doll-had to get rid of the doll. Sealed them up again with the twisties, swung on his bike, and took off, wanting to hide the bike or get rid of it. Thinking again that the cops weren’t going to spend a lot of time digging through charity shops-not this time of year, not with organized crime working the shoplifting rackets so they were more than just random events. How thin could that small department spread its uniforms? They only had two detectives, only two that he’d seen.

Going over his routine of last night, he watched the tall house, watched the kid come out with the two women, heading around the garage. He watched the lone uniform pull up and join them, and then he turned away, and headed on down into the village.