Mortal Danger

contradiction to her fear of dying young. She sometimes wondered what would happen to her if the payments on the tavern ran out before she was eligible for her own Social Security checks. That was five years away. She lived comfortably on her bakery salary and the tavern payments, but she couldn’t make it if she lost either monthly stipend.
    She loved Tom Scott, but he had walked away from her once, and she had yet to be convinced that he wouldn’t do it again. She knew she would regain her complete trust in him, but she was still apprehensive. So many older women without men were one or two paychecks away from losing their homes. She’d seen it happen to friends.
    Basically, however, Traia was happy. Tom was kind and supportive emotionally, and she realized her fears for the future were only ephemeral—nothing she couldn’t deal with in the light of day. She knew she would deal with what she had to, if indeed, her anxieties ever came true.
    What Traia didn’t mention to anyone was something she couldn’t explain: When night fell, she often felt as if someone was watching her. That sounded paranoid, butshe had the definite sense that someone might be just outside her windows, somewhere out there in the blackness. When she tried to peer out, she saw only her own reflection. She kept her shades and curtains drawn at night.
     
    July 4, 1978, was a good day, one she’d looked forward to. To celebrate the holiday, Traia and a woman friend went to a picnic at Traia’s daughter’s home, and they had a wonderful time. It was shortly before seven that evening when Traia drove her friend home. Invited in, Traia and her friend had two drinks apiece as they discussed the day’s festivities and the great potluck lunch they’d enjoyed.
    It was a little after 8:30 when Traia left for her own house, which was only about ten minutes away. Both women were tired, a little sunburned, but relaxed.
    Traia was due at the bakery to work the day shift on the morning of July 5.
    The workweek started that Wednesday, and a steady stream of customers stopped by the bakery. The owner was kept busy boxing and bagging orders, and putting bargain prices on some “day-old” items that were left over from the holiday closure. She kept glancing at the door, wondering where Traia was; she really needed her. Traia was never late, and she always called in if she was ill or wasn’t able to come to work.
    But there was no word at all from her.
    When the owner got a break, she called Traia at her home, but the phone rang and rang and no one answered. Her boss stood with her hand on the phone and a puzzledlook on her face. That just wasn’t like Traia Carr. When she called someone to come in to take Traia’s place, both women were concerned.
    “Traia would have called us,” the other bakery clerk said. “I wonder if she’s fallen or something?”
    “I don’t know, but I think we’d better check on her. I’ll call her daughter, and if she hasn’t heard from Traia, I’ll call her ex-husband. If they don’t know where she is, we’re going to lock the store and go over there. Maybe she’s been taken ill and she needs help—but she can’t get to her phone.”
    Ominously, neither Traia’s former husband nor her daughter had heard from her since the July 4th picnic the day before. They suggested that the Marysville Police be called. Officer Herm Mounts agreed to meet Traia’s boss and fellow employee at her home on Third Street.
    From the outside, Traia Carr’s house looked normal enough—except for the fact that her car, a 1970 Pontiac, was not in its usual spot. It wasn’t anyplace on her property. Her front door was locked, but her daughter produced a key.
    Inside the house, nothing was normal. Traia was a meticulous housekeeper. She never left dishes to soak, she hung up her clothes immediately after taking them off, and her floors sparkled with fresh wax.
    Now her frightened daughter and her coworkers looked around her house with dismay. The clothes she’d worn to the picnic the day before had been tossed inside out on the living room couch. They appeared to have been removed hurriedly.
    “My mother wouldn’t have left her clothes that way,” Traia’s daughter exclaimed.
    “Maybe she was in a hurry to go somewhere,” officer Mounts suggested.
    “No, you don’t know my mother,” her daughter insisted. “She just wouldn’t have. She always hangs everything up. And I’ve never known her to undress in the living