Almost Too Far (Almost Bad Boys #3) (5 page)

I heave myself in, careful not to rip a hole in my stockings. Colin swiftly pulls himself off the top of the ladder and enters the treehouse. The place is cozy with two small, real glass windows on the opposite sides. It smells of old wood and childhood memories.

Colin finds the lantern and turns it on. “There we go. Welcome to my kid cave.”
 

“Wow, this is great!” I turn around, taking in the interior.
 

The place is cool, like somewhere from an adventure book for boys. The glass windows are fully operational, with small cranks for opening and closing them. There is a tiny bookcase, filled with books and knick-knacks. Two large pillows and several blankets are wedged against one wall, and on top of it all, I see a small pillow sheathed in a Winnie the Pooh pillowcase.
 

I pick it up and smile at Colin.
 

“This thing is so old.” He laughs, looking fondly at the pillow. Helga made it for me when I was maybe six or so. “Look at the books,” he points to the bookcase, “all of them are from my childhood. Well, some are from my pre-teen years. I used to spend hours in here, reading and pretending all kinds of crazy adventures.”

“This is the most fantastic thing I’ve ever seen,” I tell him and I mean it. The treehouse is filled with memories. I can sense them, even though I don’t know much about Colin’s early years. Suddenly, I want him to tell me more about that little boy he used to be.
 

He takes a book, opens it, and pulls me down to sit with him on the pillows. We wrap ourselves in a blanket, and I nestle my cheek onto Colin’s shoulder. He begins to read. I recognize Mark Twain’s
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn
.
 

I look at the book—it’s an old, tattered copy in hardback, with its pages yellowed and the paper warped from moisture. I put my arm around Colin’s back and look around. The light from the beefy-looking camping lantern flickers a little, the shadows dancing on the walls like the ghosts of the past. Colin’s raspy voice brings the characters from the pages into life, and I find myself engrossed in the story.
 

I’m not sure how long we sit here, but maybe a half hour or more, when we hear a commotion in the backyard. Colin closes the book and looks at me, “What are they doing?”

He stands up and, bent at the waist so not to hit his head on the low ceiling, walks to the window. I follow him, and we peer outside through the glass. He reels the crank and opens the window a little.
 

There are people in the backyard, walking around and yelling Helga’s name. Colin’s eyebrows knit together in confusion.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

“Not sure. Let’s go.” He secures the window closed, turns the lantern off, and we move outside and onto the ladder.
 

This time he goes first. I climb down right after him, thankful for not being able to see exactly how high we are. Heights freak me out, and I clutch the ladder with way too much force. Holy Mother of Sweet Jesus, if I fall, I would take Colin right down with me. My heart bangs in my chest, and I start breathing fast.
 

My foot slides off a
spoke. I lose my balance, and my other foot misses the step. I scream, dangling from the ladder and holding on with my hands as if my life depends on it. It probably does, so I keep holding on and trying to get my feet back on the spokes. I scrape my knee on the rough bark of the tree, and a sharp pain shoots through my leg.
 

“Natalie!” Colin shouts. He climbs up to steady me, but I find a spot with my foot and stabilize myself enough to stop screaming.
 

“I’m okay,” I say in shaky voice. “Just lost my footing for a bit.”

He’s right below me, touching my calf. “Be careful. Don’t rush. I’ll go ahead and wait for you on the ground in case I have to catch you.”

“That’s reassuring,” I snort.
 

“The fact that I would catch you, or the possibility that you might fall?” Colin laughs.
 

“I’m gonna kick you in the head,” I warn, and he climbs down really fast. Not that I would, although, I guess, he doesn’t want to take any chances. But hell on wheels, he must’ve had some circus training, or his monkey ancestors are not that distant in the past for him to scale that ladder so swiftly.
 

By now, most of the party guests are outside, shouting Helga’s name and walking around. What the hell is going on here? Despite her youthful disposition, she is, after all, at the ripe age of eighty-five. I hope nothing bad has happened to her.
 

Colin grabs the shoulder of a middle-aged man with a round, protruding belly. “What’s wrong? Why are you looking for Helga?”

The man has a flashlight in his hand, a small, bright circle of light dancing on the ground. “She disappeared. We don’t know what happened. Libby was ready for her to open the gifts but she couldn’t find her. So now everyone’s searching.”

Colin takes my hand and rushes toward the house. We see Libby inside, talking on the phone.
 

“Libby!” Colin opens the sliding glass door, and we walk in.
 

“Colin! We can’t find Helga. She was just here, chatting with people and walking around, and now I don’t know where she is.” Libby has tears in her eyes. She says to the phone, “I’ll call you later,” and hangs up.
 

“Did you check her bedroom? Other bedrooms upstairs? The craft room in the basement?” Colin asks.

“Yes, everywhere. Even the storage room, the closets, the shed… it’s not like her. You know she never goes anywhere by herself. She always informs whoever is around what she’s about to do.” Libby wrings her hands and nervously bites her lower lip.
 

“How about the neighbors? Maybe she went to one of their houses? The Clarksons or the Nelsons? Maybe she’s at Annie Golabski’s across the street?”

“All of them are here at the party. All of the neighbors. Everyone’s searching. I called her cell phone, but you know she rarely answers it anyway.”

“So she’s not picking up, of course.” Colin’s brows seem to be permanently drawn together.

I’m not sure what to do.
 

“How can I help?” I gently touch his arm.
 

He looks at me, but doesn’t answer, deep in thought.
 

Libby pulls me into a hug. “Oh, Natalie. I’m so scared. Something must’ve happened to Helga. She
never
disappears like this.”

I pat her soothingly on the back. “We’ll find her. I’m sure she couldn’t get too far.” I pull back to look at her. “Where are her girlfriends? Did you check with them?”

“Melba and Agatha are outside, searching.”

“How about Stella?” I ask.
 

“I think… I think she’s with Melba and Agatha.” Libby’s eyes widen a little. “I’m not sure now. There were so many people here…”

FIVE

 
“The case called for plain, old-fashioned police leg work!”
 

Donald J. Sobol ~ Encyclopedia Brown, Boy Detective.
 

Two college-age girls walk down the stairs. “We double-checked all the rooms,” the one with short curly hair says, shaking her head from side to side.
 

The other girl is typing on her cell phone. She looks up. “My mom just texted. They are checking with every house on the street. Dad’s organizing a few guys to check all other streets around.”

“Thank you,” Libby says meekly. She closes her eyes for a moment and takes a deep breath. “I just don’t understand. It’s not like Helga at all.”

“Is her purse gone?” I look at Libby. “A woman never goes anywhere without her purse. How about her coat? Umbrella? Anything that she normally takes with her? Does she drive?” Heck, I can hear my dad, a retired police detective speak in my voice. Freaky.
 

“She doesn’t drive anymore. My truck’s still parked by the house,” Libby says. I recall the old Chevy Silverado when we arrived here. She walks to the small closet by the front door, opens it, and examines the coats inside, sliding the hangers back and forth.
 

Colin and I walk to look from behind her.
 

“The red raincoat is gone. The one you got her for Christmas, Colin. But nobody saw her putting a coat on. Someone would’ve noticed if she acted as if she was heading out the door.”

“How about the purse? Where would it normally be?” I ask.
 

“Upstairs, in her bedroom.”
 

Melba sticks her head through the sliding glass door to the backyard and yells, “She’s nowhere to be found. I’ll personally beat her sorry ass with my walker when she turns up. What kind of sick joke is this?” She huffs and starts to slide the door closed.
 

“Melba, wait!” Colin hollers.
 

She lifts her head and looks at him.

“Where is Agatha? I mean, Stella.”

“Agatha is with me. She’s waiting there,” she points behind her. “Stella must be somewhere too.”

“When did you see Stella last?” I ask.

Melba shrugs. “I don’t know. She was sitting outside, smoking pot and drinking. I went to the bathroom, and then my nephew called on my cell phone from San Francisco. So I talked with him for a bit, maybe ten minutes or fifteen. Then everyone started running around, looking for Helga.”

Colin and I look at one another.
 

“Is there a possibility that Helga is starting to forget things?” I ask. “Would she just wander off?”
 

Melba snorts. “Not Helga. She’s as sharp as a whip. I actually wish she remembered less from everyone’s past. It gets quite annoying when she recalls when you fell for some complete loser sixty years ago.”

I smile. “Okay, it doesn’t sound like she’s losing her memory.”

“We need to find Stella. I have a feeling she’s got something to do with this,” Colin says and then asks Melba, “Can you dial Stella?”

“Sure.” She sits down, takes her cell phone out of her pocket, and taps the screen a few times with her arthritic-looking finger. She puts the phone to her ear and crosses her legs, looking at the ceiling as if expecting to find something there.
 

The three of us circle around her, waiting. After a while, Melba clears her throat and says to the phone, “Where the hell are you, you old hag? Call me immediately. Helga’s missing.”
 

Normally, I would burst out laughing, because the combination of such language and Melba’s sweet-old-lady appearance clash all the way. But I don’t feel joyful at this moment, worrying about Helga, Libby, and Colin. And I know Melba’s not trying to appear funny. I think that’s how she always talks.
 

“Well, I just got her voicemail. I’ll try again later.” Melba stands up with a grunt and massages her lower back, wincing. “I’m going to find Agatha.”

“Thank you, darling,” Libby says.
 

Melba goes outside into the backyard, and the three of us clamber up the stairs to Helga’s bedroom. The room is spotless, with its twin-sized bed neatly made and everything else seemingly in place. Several pillows are piled up by the headboard, adorning the bed together with an antique-looking quilt in blue and yellow.
 

Three old porcelain dolls sit on top of the heavy, wooden dresser among bottles of perfumes, knick-knacks, and framed photographs. I catch a few pictures of a dark-haired boy in various stages of his life and know it must be Colin. I want to examine them closely, but now is not a good time.
 

Libby opens a large, dark-wood armoire and points to the middle shelf. “All her purses are always here.”
 

There are six bags, each in a different style, color, and size. I see a vintage black leather classic Chanel and a rare red Gucci among four others encased in dust bags with Mulberry, Prada, and Burberry logos embossed on them. Whoa, I had no idea Helga was such a high-item collector.

“One of them is missing,” Libby informs us. “Her
joke
purse from Target.”