Riptide

“Maybe you saw me in a fashion magazine, Sheriff. No, don’t even consider that, I’m just joking with you. I’m not a model. I’m sure I would have remembered you, sir, if I’d ever met you before.”

“Well, that’s likely enough,” he said, nodding. “Tyler, you got any thoughts about this?”

Tyler shook his head.

Sheriff Gaffney looked as if he would say something else, then he shut his mouth. However, he gave Tyler another long look. “I’ll be in touch,” he said, snapped out a sharp salute, and walked to his car, a brown Ford with a light bar over the top. At the last moment, he looked back at them, and he was frowning. Then he managed to squeeze his bulk into the driver’s side. He hadn’t been interested in her background, a blessing. Evidently, he realized that she could have had nothing to do with this and so who she was, where she was from, and what she did for a living simply did not matter.

“He’s amazing,” Becca said as he drove away. “Too bad he didn’t have a daughter to go with all those dirty boys.”

She looked to see that Tyler was staring down at his feet. She lightly touched her fingers to his arm. “What’s wrong? You’re afraid I really am going to be hysterical about finding that poor girl?”

“No, it’s not that. You saw the sheriff. Even though he didn’t really say anything, it was clear enough what he was thinking.”

“I don’t know what you mean. What’s wrong, Tyler?”

“I realize it occurred to him, just before he got into his car, that the skeleton might well be A

Becca looked at him blankly, slowly shaking her head back and forth.

“My wife. She wore Calvin Klein jeans.”

8

Becca walked into the Riptide Pharmacy in the middle of Foxglove Avenue the next morning and found, to her horror, that she was the center of attention. For someone who wanted to fade into the woodwork, she wasn’t doing it very well. Everywhere she went, she was stared at, questioned, introduced to relatives. She was the girl who’d found the skeleton. She was even given special treatment at the Union 76 gas station at the end of Poison Oak Circle. The Food Fort manager, Mrs. Dobbs, wanted her autograph. Three people told her she looked familiar.

It was too late to dye her hair black. She went home and stayed there. She got at least twenty phone calls that day. She didn’t see Tyler, but he’d been right about what the sheriff had thought, because everybody else was thinking it, too, and was talking about it over coffee, to their neighbors, and not all that quietly. Tyler knew it, too, of course, but he didn’t say anything when he came over later that evening. He looked stoic. She had wanted to yell at everyone that they were wrong, that Tyler was an excellent man, that no way could he have hurt anyone, much less his wife, but she knew she couldn’t take the chance, couldn’t call attention to herself anymore. It was too dangerous for her, and so she listened to everyone talk about A

Oh, yes, it all made sense now to everyone. Tyler had bashed his wife on the head-she probably wanted to leave him, that was it-and then he’d bricked her in the wall in Jacob Marley’s basement. And little Sam knew something, because he’d changed right after his mother disappeared.

Tyler remained stoic during the following days, saying nothing about all the speculation, ignoring the sidelong looks from people who were supposedly his friends. He went about his business, seemingly oblivious of the stares.

He was in misery, Becca knew that, but there was nothing she could do except say over and over, “Tyler, I know it isn’t A

“How?”

“If they can’t figure out who she was, then they’ll check for runaways. There are DNA tests. They’ll find out. Then there are going to be a whole lot of folk apologizing to you on their hands and knees.”

He looked at her and said nothing at all.

Becca went shopping at Food Fort at eight o’clock the next night, hoping the store would be nearly empty. She moved quickly down the aisles. The last item on her list was peanut butter, crunchy. She found it and picked up a small jar, saw that it had a web of mirrored cracks in it, and started to call out to one of the clerks, only to have it break apart in her hands. She yelped and dropped it. It splattered all over jars of jams and jellies before smashing onto the floor at her feet. She stood there staring down at the mess.

“I see you buy natural, not sugar-added. That’s the only kind I’ll eat.”

She whirled around so fast she slid on the peanut butter and nearly careened into the soup. The man caught her arm and pulled her upright.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. Let me get you another jar. Here comes a young fellow with a mop. Better let him wipe off the bottom of your sneaker.”

“Yes, of course.” The man not two feet from her was a stranger, which didn’t mean all that much since she hadn’t met everyone in town. He was wearing a black windbreaker, dark jeans, and Nike ru

“The only thing,” he continued after a moment, “it’s a real pain to have to stir the peanut butter before you put it in the refrigerator. The oil always spills over the sides and on your hands.” He smiled, but his eyes still looked hard, as if he looked at people and saw all the bad things they were trying to hide, and was used to it, maybe even philosophical about it. She didn’t want him looking at her that way, seeing deep into her. She didn’t want to talk to him. She just wanted to get out of there.

“Yes, I know,” she said, and took a step back.

“Once I got used to it, though, I found I couldn’t eat the other peanut butter, too much sugar.”

“That’s true.” She took another step away from him. Who was he? Why was he trying to be so nice?

“Miss Powell, I’m Young Jeff. Ah, Old Jeff is my pop, he’s the assistant manager. Just hold still and I’ll clean off your sneaker.” He picked up her foot, nearly sending her over backward. The man held her up while Young Jeff wiped a wet paper towel over the bottom of her sneaker. He was very strong, she could feel it since his hands were in her armpits. “I’m sure glad you’re here, ma’am. I wanted to know if that poor dead skeleton was Mrs. McBride. Everyone is talking about how it can’t be anybody else, what with Mrs. McBride just up and disappearing like she did not all that long ago. Everyone says you know it’s Mrs. McBride, too, that you were sure, but how could you be? Did you meet Mrs. McBride?”

He finally released her foot. She pulled away from Young Jeff and the man, a good two feet. She felt cold, very cold. She rubbed her hands over her crossed arms. “No, Jeff, I never met A

“I will, Miss Powell, but that’s not what Mrs. Ella says. She thinks it’s A

“Believe me, Jeff, I was there, and I saw the skeleton; Mrs. Ella didn’t. Hey, I’m sorry about the mess. Thanks for cleaning off my shoe.”