Whispering Pines Mysteries Box Set 3

by Shawn McGuire

  “This is useless.” I threw my hands in the air when we reached the one-mile mark and turned to head back. There hadn’t been a single sign of either a car, or Esther, or whoever else had been in the car. If there even was a car or anyone else. “And I hate to say it, but this is more likely a recovery effort than a rescue. If someone has been out in this all night, there’s little hope they’re still alive.”

  Tripp reached over and took my hand. “There’s nothing you could have done. It was pitch black out here last night. The roads were impassable.” He slowed as a gust stirred up a cloud of snow around us. “They’re barely passable now. I know you. Don’t beat yourself up over this. It would be helpful if our mystery woman would wake up and let us know if searching is even necessary. Maybe she was alone in the car and walked away from the accident. Or there might not even have been an accident. Like we said before, she might have jumped or was thrown, and the vehicle traveled on.”

  That was my man. Still looking at the bright side. Sort of.

  We were almost back to Sundry when the walkie talkie beeped.

  “Someone named Bee called the house,” Dad reported. “She says her husband is missing.”

  “Missing?” I repeated. “Did she give any details?”

  “The line kept cutting in and out. I only heard every few words.”

  The village needed to look into getting the phone and power lines buried. That would be a huge project, though, and surely not cheap.

  “All right. Thanks, Dad. We’ll head over there and find out what’s going on.”

  We followed Schmitty to Sundry’s parking lot, and Tripp pulled up so my side of the truck was next to the plow.

  “We need to make a stop at the Wallace house,” I called through the wind and engine noise.

  Schmitty’s head dropped back against his seat. “What did Benji do now?”

  “No clue,” I shouted. “Bee says he’s missing.”

  He gave a nod then pointed out his windshield with a gesture that said, “Onward!”

  Chapter 11

  The Wallaces lived near Jola and Lily Grace, which was only a five-minute drive from Sundry on a clear day. It took closer to fifteen in the storm. Bee met us at her front door, riding on a knee scooter and looking a little frantic.

  “Come in, come in.” She flapped a hand at us to hurry inside. With a nod at the plow sitting in front of her cottage, she asked, “Does Schmitty want to come in too?”

  “He’s got a cooler full of snacks and a thermos of coffee,” Tripp responded. “He says he’s good out there.”

  “All right. Well, come on in. Kick off your boots, there’s a tray next to the door.”

  We followed Bee into the traditional-style living room with tufted chairs, sofas with plenty of pillows, and a sunset color scheme of yellows, oranges, reds, and a pop of blue here and there.

  “What’s going on with Benji?” I asked. “My dad said the phone line was crackling so bad he only heard every few words you said.”

  Bee dropped onto a lounge chair with a sigh and propped her leg up on a matching ottoman. “Oh, that’s better. Wait. Where are my manners? Can I get you a beverage?” She frowned at her foot. “No, I can’t. The kitchen is through there.” She flung a hand at a doorway at the back of the dining room which was connected to the living room. “Help yourself to whatever you like. I made an apple strudel before I messed up my ankle. Which reminds me, I wanted to thank you for clearing the use of the electric golf cart in the village. It was a lifesaver for me yesterday. Not that I couldn’t have made it to the parking lot on this thing.” She patted the nearby scooter’s handlebar. “I’d be about halfway by now.”

  After two incidents in as many months where using the electric cart made a great deal of sense, I proposed a change to the village’s rule about no motorized vehicles in the commons area. After a long debate over what exactly qualified as justifiable usage, mostly instigated by Flavia, the council agreed that non-gas-powered vehicles could be used by the village’s usual delivery guy, Newt James, and in emergency situations. Since my family owned the village land, and I was the elder O’Shea in residence, a line item on the bylaws gave me overrule authority. I would’ve pulled rank to get this change passed if necessary, but happily I hadn’t needed to use it. While I could alter pretty much anything, I didn’t want to abuse the privilege and come across as a dictator.

  “What were we talking about?” Bee squinted as she thought. “Oh, yes, my troublemaking Benji. We got home from your party, and Benji went into caretaker mode. He set me up here in my favorite chair with a pillow to prop my foot on, the TV remote, and a steady supply of tea and strudel.” She paused. “Now that I think of it, there’s probably not any strudel left. Anyway, at bedtime, he insisted on sleeping in the guest room so he wouldn’t jostle me.” She smiled fondly. “It’s just a twisted ankle. Such a good man.”

  We waited for more, but Bee was a little flighty—partly because her husband was missing and partly because that was her natural state—so I prompted her. “Do you know where he is now?”

  “Well, that’s why I called. He wasn’t in the guest room when I got up this morning. I hollered for him, but he didn’t answer. Had to come down the stairs on my tuchus. He wasn’t down here either. Wasn’t outside clearing snow. The insulated bag he uses for his lunch wasn’t in the pantry, so I had a pretty good idea of what the old codger was up to.”

  After another pause, Tripp asked, “And what is that? Do you know where he went?”

  “Ice fishing.”

  “Excuse me?” I leaned in as though I hadn’t heard her properly. Clearing snow. Raking snow from the roof. Building a snowman. Any number of statements would have been surprising given the weather condition but still believable. Not this one. “Ice fishing in a blizzard?”

  Bee nodded her head in a see what I mean gesture. “You heard him and Abner Kramer arguing yesterday?”

  “We did,” Tripp confirmed. “Something about a fishing shanty?”

  Bee pointed at him like he’d given the correct answer to a million-dollar question. “Yep. Abner got a new shanty. I haven’t been out there but understand it’s lovely.”

  I stopped her. “Hang on. Is this part of this ongoing whatever one has the other wants thing they do?”

  “It’s all good fun.” Bee wrinkled her nose and smiled playfully. “Started decades ago when Benji got a fishing boat. Then Abner built a woodworking shed in the backyard to build his own boat. Then we put on the deck and they—”

  “It’s okay.” I stopped her again. “We don’t need the history. You think Benji is at Abner’s fishing shanty?”

  “Abner tried to put his foot down on this one,” Bee whispered conspiratorially even though we were the only three in the cottage. “He told Benji he didn’t want him using the shanty unless he was there. If you know my Benji, you know that’s more of a challenge issued than an order received for him. He’s been sneaking out there in the middle of the night. Well, not the middle of the night. Abner goes to bed at eight-thirty in the winter, so any time after nine. He’s usually only gone a few hours, so I was a little concerned when I woke up and couldn’t find him anywhere.”

  “Understandable,” Tripp agreed. “Do you know where we can find Abner’s shanty?”

  “On the lake, of course.” She winked, chuckled, and turned serious. “No, I have no idea. Like I said, I haven’t been out to the thing. Not sure Gail has either. She said it’s all Abner talked about since he saw a picture in a fishing magazine back in October. ‘It was either let him buy it,’ she said, ‘or smother him with a pillow in his sleep to shut him up about it.’” Bee sighed as though exhausted for her friend. “When Abner locks onto something, he won’t let go of it.”

  I thought about the argument the two men had at Triple G yesterday and looked to Tripp. “We need to step next door and talk to Abner. Then we need to find Benji.”

  “I’m sure he’s fine,” Bee dismissed with only the barest hint of worry. “Gai
l told me that shanty is fully stocked. Mini-fridge, portable toilet, cooking stove, gas heater. I think he’s even got a television in there. Benji’s probably living large.”

  Regardless of the swanky factor of this shanty, I’d prefer the villagers to not ride out storms in portable dwellings.

  “Very nice of him, don’t you think, considering my condition?” She stared forlornly at her ankle that a moment ago she claimed had only suffered a little twist. Then she turned her attention on Tripp and me. "I’m sure Tripp would never do such a thing to you. You’ve got a good man here, Sheriff.” She waggled a finger between us. “What’s the story with you two? I see rings.”

  She meant the matching promise rings Tripp and I gave each other at Christmas thanks to some covert assistance from Morgan.

  “We haven’t heard anything about a wedding.” Bee arched a dramatic eyebrow at Tripp.

  He smiled but said nothing. Bee chuckled and winked in a got it, don’t want to spoil your surprise way.

  Tripp, milking the good man label for all it was worth, asked if Bee needed anything before we left. She insisted she was fine—“Such a good man. I told you, it’s just a twist.”—so we told her we’d stop back once we found her husband.

  We stepped out of the Wallace cottage, and Tripp stated, “This research I did on SAD said that irritability and anger can be part of the symptoms.”

  “That’s not surprising.”

  “What if Benji pushed Abner too far this time?”

  He thought Abner did something to his best friend? Stranger things had happened over less motivation.

  “You could be onto something. Let’s get over there and see how he’s acting.”

  A gust of wind practically picked us up and deposited us on the Kramers’ front porch. I pressed the doorbell and then knocked hard on the door. Gail appeared a second later. Her head dropped forward when she saw it was us. She held the door wide and waved us inside.

  “Let me guess,” she began as she closed the door again, “something to do with that damn shanty, right?”

  Tripp nodded and explained, “We think Benji went out there.”

  “Sure he did.” Gail went to the bottom of the stairs and yelled, “Sheriff O’Shea is here. Benji’s in your hut again.” To us, she said, “Benji’s been sneaking out there every night.”

  “Do you know this from Bee,” I asked, “or because you have direct knowledge?”

  Abner descended the stairs, grumbling in response. “I don’t need to ask no one to know what that old snake in the grass is up to. I told him to stay away from my stuff. I know he goes out there because he leaves ‘rent money’ on the counter. First a dollar. Then fifty cents. Keeps lowering the amount. Last time, he left a granola bar with a bite out of it.”

  Tripp burst out laughing and then coughed to cover it up. Abner’s manner might be hilarious, but his anger was very real.

  “We were just over there”—I pointed toward the Wallaces’—“and Bee says he’s usually back after a few hours. He didn’t come home last night.”

  “Probably slept in the shanty,” Abner barked. “It’s got a cot—”

  “It’s more than a cot,” Gail scoffed. “Wait ‘til you see this thing. It’s got a dinette set that folds out into a double-size bed and a nicer sofa than we’ve got here. I’m surprised he hasn’t moved into it for the winter.”

  “Bee wants us to check on him.” I raised my voice slightly. To them, it was same old, same old. If it had been a quiet, clear winter night, or if I hadn’t heard the argument at the pub yesterday, I wouldn’t be as concerned. Considering the weather and the possibility of SAD-induced aggression, it was time to take charge. “We need to make sure he’s okay. Where is this shanty?”

  “Can’t miss it.” Abner flipped through a magazine rack between matching beige chenille Lazy Boy recliners. “Go over to hotel row. It’s straight across from the second and third hotels, halfway out on the lake. It’s barn red on top, black on the bottom.”

  He pulled a page torn from a magazine out of the rack and handed it to us.

  Tripp’s eyes bugged out. “This isn’t a shanty, Abner. It’s an RV. How long is it?”

  “Eighteen feet.” Abner’s chest puffed out. “Five LED-lighted fishing holes. Got a radio so I can listen to the games. It’s even got television hookup.”

  “I put my foot down there.” Gail literally stomped her foot. “He’s got a beautiful TV here. If he wants to watch the game, he can watch it here with me. Or go over to Grapes, Grains, and Grub.”

  “We need to go out there and look for Benji,” I announced.

  “Then you’re gonna need a key.” Abner dug through a basket on a table by the front door. I noticed a wolf and pup statuette sitting next to the basket and thought of Farkas. I hadn’t heard or seen him this morning. Maybe he went back to his pack at the circus. Abner pulled out a key attached to a half-red half-white fishing bobber with “Gone Fishing!” printed on it.

  “You locked it?” Tripp asked. “It’s the off-season.”

  No door in Whispering Pines got locked unless the tourists were here. Except for the shops. We also locked the house when we went to bed at night. After putting a sign for the B&B next to the highway, we woke one morning to find a stranger at the breakfast table. He needed a place to stay so wandered in during the night and found an empty room. He paid us for it, but we decided it was better to be woken by the doorbell in the middle of the night.

  Abner wouldn’t look at us. “I might’ve messed with the latch.”

  He messed with the latch? “What does that mean, Abner?”

  “I told him to stay out of my shanty.” He raised his fist with righteous indignation. “Told him this shanty had been my dream for years.”

  “Months, not years,” Gail muttered. At her husband’s angry grunt, she amended her statement. “Yes, you’ve wanted a fishing shanty for years. You found this model a few months ago.” She rolled her eyes. “And then the obsessing began.”

  “I told that old windbag”—Abner looked at his wife with a too-sweet smile—“Benji, not Gail, that I wanted the chance to use it myself first. All I asked was he wait a few months. One month even. Took it as a challenge. Found that dollar on the counter after only ten days. I decided I’d had enough and was going to teach him a lesson and catch him in the act. Last time I was there, I putzed with the door latch. I’ll come with you. I want to see the look on his face when we open the door and find him stuck inside.”

  “We’re not going to risk any other lives in this storm.” I held my hand out for the key. “You stay here. I’ll have a talk with him about trespassing.”

  Abner debated this and gave a firm nod of his head. “Good. Cite him too. I told him to stay out.”

  It was hard to know with these two whether they were being serious or if they were only grumping at each other. They were constantly arguing in public, but I’d also seen them defend each other like blood brothers when someone asked one time why they remained friends since all they did was argue.

  I tucked the key into my inside jacket pocket. “Tell you what, you sit on that request while we go let him out of the shanty. If you still want to press charges later, I’ll write a citation.”

  Tripp and I trudged back to the truck, pausing to let Schmitty know the plan. He agreed, again, to drive ahead of us and clear the way.

  “What do you think?” Tripp asked.

  “I don’t know. Abner’s angry, but I don’t know that he’s been pushed to retaliate.”

  “He said he messed with the lock. That’s retaliation.”

  “The lock on what appears to be a fishing palace. Let’s get over there and see what’s going on.”

  When we got to the hotels, which were closed for the season, Schmitty told us he’d clear a path through the parking lot and continue down the highway, keeping an eye out for any cars in the ditch, then circle back around for us.

  The plan worked like a charm, which was saying something in this village.
We spotted Benji’s little white Lexus SUV in the lot and the red-and-black RV/fishing shanty in the distance. With our target in sight, we waved Schmitty off.

  “You want me to drive out there?” Tripp’s voice was tense with trepidation.

  “Do you want to walk that far in this wind and cold?”

  “No.” But by his tone, he was considering it.

  I took his hand. “What’s wrong?” And then I figured it out. “Are you afraid to drive on the ice?”

  “It’s water. Vehicles shouldn’t drive on water.”

  “It’s not water. It’s eighteen inches thick.”

  “This is a heavy truck.”

  Oh boy. “I asked some of the village fisherfolk about this very thing. You only need eight to twelve for cars and small pickups. We’ll be fine.”

  He sat with his hands locked in place on the wheel.

  I tried another tactic. “Did you know that the students at Bemidji State in Minnesota use the frozen lake as a parking lot? All those cars parked next to each other weigh a lot more than this truck. They’re fine. We’ll be fine.”

  He didn’t respond. Which meant I had to use my sheriff’s voice.

  “Tripp, a man may be in danger. We don’t know what we’re going to find when we open that door and might need the equipment we brought. What if he’s in physical trouble and we need to transport him somewhere? I don’t want to carry him across the lake from the shanty to the parking lot. You’ve got chains on the tires and the ice is more than thick enough. Move this vehicle or get out and let me drive. Benji needs us.”

  He nodded his head over and over, building confidence. “Okay. I can do it.”

  As if frozen in place, he unpeeled his hand from the wheel and reached for the plow button. With the plow blade lowered, he shifted into drive and crept out onto the ice at the approximate rate of a lame snail. With each foot further we went, though, the more he started to relax.