“Stay out of her way.” Jack pushed forward a plate of what looked to be bacon wrapped around cheese sticks.
“Too many calories for me.” Kate took the stool next to him.
For a moment they were quiet. Last night’s news was hanging over them. Did they let the burial take place and go about their everyday lives? Or did they... Do what? Where did they begin?
“What I want to know...” Jack picked up his crutches and went to the coffeepot. He held it up toward Kate and she nodded. “Is who tore the house apart. When I saw it, it was a mess. Even their toaster was gone.”
She took the cup of coffee he handed her, then nodded when he got a carton of milk out of the fridge. “What was the house like inside usually?”
“It was nice. Very clean.” Smiling, he sat back down. “The only time I saw Cheryl in jeans was one Saturday morning when I got there early for our newscaster session. She—”
“How much early?” Sara asked.
He gave a sideways grin. “Three hours. Or so.”
“Cheryl was a saint to put up with you,” Kate said. “Go on.”
“I knocked but no one answered. I was about to leave when she opened the door. I thought she was like a spy because she looked around to see if anyone was watching. Then she grabbed me by the collar, pulled me in and shut the door.” Jack ate two more bacon-and-cheese pieces and kept on smiling at the memory.
“And?” Sara asked impatiently.
“Nothing. I thought she looked really pretty.”
“As opposed to the way you usually saw her?” Kate asked.
Jack looked from one woman to the other, both staring at him. “That day, she looked different. That’s how my eleven-year-old mind saw her. Younger. More like a kid.”
“I bet she didn’t have any makeup on,” Kate said.
“I agree.” Sara cracked eggs into a bowl. “Please tell me she didn’t wear her newscaster face to school.”
Jack shrugged. “Don’t know, but she always looked perfect.”
Again Sara and Kate just stared at him, waiting for him to go on.
Jack put down his coffee. “Cheryl never looked like the other girls. She didn’t wear the same clothes as they did. And don’t ask me what she wore. You’ll have to get someone else to explain that. My point is that on that Saturday, Cheryl was cleaning her house.”
“Where was her mother?” Sara asked.
“I have no idea. I never saw her.”
“Not once in the whole summer?” Kate asked.
“She was there, I guess. A couple of times Cheryl said we had to be very quiet because her mother was sleeping. But Cheryl always ran me off when it was time to wake her mother.”
“Sleeping during the day because of her night, uh, job,” Kate said.
“I guess so.” Jack quit smiling. “So back to my original question—who tore the house apart? Who took the toaster that Cheryl had just bought? The pillows off the couch?” He took a drink. “All her clothes were gone. They even took her red makeup case and that was precious to her.”
Sara’s head came up. “What did it look like?”
“A little suitcase.” He motioned with the size.
“Ah, that would be an old-fashioned train case,” Sara said.
“Cheryl loved that case. It had all her makeup in it. She bought it at a garage sale and she called it by some man’s name.”
“Mark Cross,” Sara guessed.
