JP Beaumont 11 - Failure To Appear (v5.0) Read Online Free Page A

crossed my mind that the sun was probably doing the same kind of damage to her skin that it had already done to the car seat, but I didn’t bother stopping to point that out. At that stage of life, kids are immortal—in their eyes, anyway.
    Beyond the cars and closer to the house, I drove past the grim remains of a recently blown-down barn. Only three feet or so of roof line were still visible above the pile of weather-beaten, termite-ridden wood. The shattered barn made me dread what I’d find once the house came under closer scrutiny, but my worries proved groundless.
    When I was close enough to see it in detail, I noticed that indeed the exterior of the house was as mottled and spotty as a Dalmatian dog, but not from rotting wood or peeling paint that had been left to its own devices. Instead, someone was systematically scraping the old paint off, from the topmost gable of the slate-gray roof to the old-fashioned columns on the broad front porch. A line of newly repainted but not-yet-reinstalled shutters marched in close formation across the front exterior wall.
    One sagging corner of the porch had been propped back up and was being held in place by a strategically positioned hydraulic scissors jack. Several uncut lengths of eight-by-twelve lumber lay nearby and were probably intended for permanently shoring up the porch. Another neat stack of two-by-twelves and two-by-fours testified to someone’s intention of framing a new set of steps from ground level up to the spacious front deck.
    Obviously, someone was hard at work refurbishing the old place. That should have made me feel better, but somehow I couldn’t see how Kelly could abandon her comfortable, upscale California nest with her mother and stepfather for this aging Gothic kind of work-in-progress. But still, taking on a complicated renovation project shows a certain amount of initiative, organization, and skill. For the first time, I wondered if maybe the people Kelly was staying with were reasonably okay after all.
    I stopped the car, got out, and then found myself stymied. The lumber to rebuild the steps was there, but in the meantime, the stairs themselves were missing altogether. I wondered how visitors were supposed to get close enough to the front door to knock or ring the bell.
    Standing only a foot or so away from the porch, I was busy contemplating my predicament when an ugly, gangly yellow dog of indeterminate line-age rose stiff-legged from behind a wooden porch swing. Barking hoarsely, he hobbled toward me. I worried momentarily that the dog might leap off the porch and come after me, but when he got close enough, I could see he was far too old and frail. He stared at me blindly through eyes clouded with cataracts. It seemed to take all the strength he could muster to keep up his croaking but ineffectual bark.
    Eventually, the screen door slammed open behind the dog, and a woman marched out onto the porch. “What is it, Sunshine?”
    At first I thought the woman was being sarcastic and talking to me, but then I realized she was actually speaking to the dog. She strode over to the edge of the porch, leaned down, and patted the dog soothingly. “It’s okay, Sunshine girl,” she crooned. “I’m right here.”
    So Sunshine was a girl. With a strange dog, it’s hard to tell that kind of thing from a distance. The woman caught sight of me and frowned, first at me and then at my shiny red Porsche. Since she was so much higher than I was, she appeared to be a giant. Not necessarily a friendly one, either.
    “Who are you?” she demanded coldly. “What do you want?”
    “My name’s Beaumont,” I said. “I understand my daughter lives here.”
    I’m not a particularly good judge of women’s ages. She could have been anywhere from her late forties to her early sixties. Her hair, mostly gray, was parted in the middle, braided, and then pulled into some kind of knot at the back of her neck. Wearing boots, jeans, and a man’s old dress shirt