Digging For Trouble

by K. J. Emrick

  He knelt in the dirt of the trail, on one knee, examining the marks from Arthur’s shoveling. “You said he went off in which direction?”

  “That way,” I pointed. “You don’t have to look for his footprints. I saw exactly where he went into the trees.”

  “Right, you mentioned that. I was just looking at these holes. The deepest one looks to be less than a half meter deep. Not very far to dig down. What on Earth could he be looking for?”

  “Kevin?”

  He turned to look up at me. “Yeah?”

  “Why don’t we find him and ask him? You know, before this heat fries his brain?”

  Standing up, he slapped his hands together a few times to wipe away the dust and dirt. “Sounds like a good idea, Mom. See, I knew we shoulda made you a police officer.”

  “They should make you Senior Sergeant, is what they should do.”

  “Mom, don’t start.”

  We have this talk a lot, me and Kevin. He’s the best police officer on our little force here in Lakeshore. The most capable, the most honest, all of that. And that’s not just a mother’s pride talking. My son’s made headlines a couple of times now for solving cases the current Senior Sergeant, Angus Cutter, had mucked up. If anyone deserved to be in charge of the department it was my Kevin.

  But Angus seemed to have friends in high places who were protecting him. For now.

  “How is our favorite inept police Senior Sergeant?” I know he told me not to start, but I can’t help it. Cutter’s on my list. The man’s dirty, and maybe worse. I can’t forgive that. Can’t just ignore it. Can’t prove it, either, which leaves me in a spot where I don’t feel like being nice to the man.

  Kevin gave me a look. “Cutter’s still miffed about how the matter with your friend Jessica turned out.”

  “You mean where we caught her real killer?”

  “Right,” he said. “That. Man holds a grudge, Mom.”

  “So do I.”

  He doesn’t argue that, because he knows it’s true.

  Unable to help the smile that crossed his face, Kevin turned to where I’d pointed, into the woods where I last saw Arthur running off. “Well. Let’s go find our neighbor.”

  “What? Kevin, he could be anywhere in there by now!”

  “I know. But before I call out the troops and the fire department and Search and Rescue from Hobart, let’s see if I can’t give them a place to start looking.”

  Oh. Yeah, I guess that makes sense.

  Following him off the trail and across to where the pine trees start to grow thicker together and cover the ground with soft, brown pine needles, I take another drink from my now half-empty bottle. When I offer it to Kevin he shakes his head and takes out a piece of gum from a pack in his pocket instead. “This works nearly as well. Hopefully we won’t be out here much longer.”

  “You don’t think we should at least get an ambulance started this way?” I asked him. The branches from the trees are impossible to avoid now, and I push several out of my way as we go. “Arthur needs help, Kevin. You didn’t see him out here. I don’t know if it’s heat stroke or if he suffered some kind of mental episode, but he needs help.”

  “We’ll get it for him, Mom, I promise. I just don’t want to have medical personnel heading this way and then find out he’s half a mile somewhere else. Let’s give this five minutes to see what we can find and then we’ll start making calls. Promise.”

  “Fine, Kevin, but you’re not going to—”

  He stopped, and I stopped behind him to keep from running into his broad back.

  Down a short slope, laying up against several exposed tree roots, was Arthur Loren.

  “Found him,” Kevin chirped.

  Some days I could just throttle this kid of mine.

  We rushed to the old man’s side, Kevin feeling for a pulse, and me pouring just a little water over his face and cracked lips. His hat had fallen off at some point, and I could clearly see the line across his scalp where his face had been burned red under the brim. I thought I saw the start of white blisters, too. Not good.

  “He’s alive,” Kevin announced, even as Arthur sputtered and took a shaky breath and his eyes fluttered. He moaned, and grasped a hand across the ground, reaching for the shovel still lying nearby.

  “Give... it back...” he said, weakly, trying to lift his head up and failing. “Give... it...”

  “Take it easy, Arthur,” Kevin told him. “We’re going to get you out of here.”

  “No,” the old man insisted. “Have to find... give it back!”

  With an unexpected surge Arthur pushed up off the ground, just far enough to fall back down with a whump. He groaned and muttered words that made no sense to me.

  Kevin took his cellphone out from its case on his duty belt. Lifting it above his head, then to the left, then right, he frowned. “Do you have any service out here?”

  “Not very good service, but I got through to the Inn earlier.”

  “Call down to the Thirsty Roo and get Sylvester to bring some of the fire department guys down here. We’ll need to get Arthur to the medical center in Geeveston. He’s in a bad way.”

  “Dehydration?” My own phone only had one bar, but it would be good enough to make the call. “What do I tell them?”

  “Probably dehydration. Second degree sunburn, looks like. I think there might be a lump back here, too,” he added, feeling with his hands behind Arthur’s neck. “He might have been attacked before he came out here digging in the dirt.”

  “That would explain a lot,” I said, pulling up the number of the bar in town—the Thirsty Roo—from my contact list. “I wouldn’t go digging in the dirt in this heat either unless someone bonked me over the head.”

  “Don’t know,” he told me, checking Arthur’s pulse again. “All I know is that he’s in a powerful hurry to get something back.”

  “Maybe not,” I suggested, thinking it over.

  “What d’ya mean?”

  “He kept saying, give it back. Give it back, give it back. Whatever this ‘it’ is, maybe he wasn’t shouting for someone to give it back to him. Maybe he wants to give it back to someone else.”

  Kevin considered that, rocking his head back and forth. “Know what I think?”

  “What?”

  “I think it’s too hot to figure it out. Let’s get Arthur someplace cool. Us, too.”

  He wouldn’t get any argument from me.

  I got a call through, and told the bartender that we needed Sylvester, and the reason why. Then I stood there with Kevin, watching over Arthur, and wondering.

  Give it back. That’s what Arthur had been saying. What could possibly be so important that it would send Arthur out here in the bush looking for it?

  Or was he just out of his nut from a knock to his skull?

  Give it back. Give it back.

  Give what back?

  Chapter Two

  I was glad to get back to the Inn, I know that much.

  It was past lunchtime now and I was hoping there’d be some of what Rosie had whipped up for the lunch crowd still in the kitchen. After the hike I’d just had I was starving. We managed to get Arthur out to the road again with the help of four very strapping volunteer firemen from about town. They weren’t hard to look at, even if the situation didn’t really call for my eyes to go wandering.

  I’m not quite old enough to be their mother, thank you very much. Doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate the finer points of the male physique. Besides, I’ve got my own boyfriend. Sort of. That’s a bit too complicated to worry about right now. James Callahan, reporter extraordinaire for the Lakeshore Times. He’s in my life, I’m in his. Guess that’s enough for the two of us. Or so we keep saying.

  Anyway, right now all I wanted to worry about was a long shower up in my room on the third floor of the Inn, and then some of Rosie’s nice oyster bisque followed by Pavlova for dessert. Rosie’s a wonder in that kitchen. She’s a woman who enjoys food and too right, she is. I’ve seen her fa
ll off more diets than I can count. I keep telling her to be happy with her body just the way she is. If it’s enough to keep her husband home at night, isn’t that all that matters?

  I let Kevin know that I want to hear anything he learns about Arthur Loren’s situation when he dropped me off on the steep slope of Fenlong Street, out in front of my Inn. He gave me one of those looks, but he knows I’ll find out anyway if he tries to hide anything from me. Police officer or not, I’m still his mother.

  Using our driveway to turn around, he started back up Fenlong and into town, waving as he went. Glad he could take the time to give me a ride. I don’t own a car of my own. Not really a need for one in a town this small. I could have walked it, but I’ve had me enough of that for a bit!

  “What a morning,” I muttered to myself as I marched up the three front steps to the open door of the Inn. Shower. Lunch. Then back to work.

  Kevin keeps telling me I should shut and lock this front door, and I’ve actually started doing that at night, but during the day it’s always open. Weather permitting. Especially at meal times. The Inn serves food to our guests, of course, but our doors are always open for our neighbors to come dine with us, too.

  Through the front door is a wide open space of dark wood paneling and hardwood floors covered by handwoven rugs of reds and yellows. The common room, where guests can watch movies or sit and read or play chess or checkers or cards together, is off to the left. To the right is the dining room. I can already hear the noise coming from in there. Voices talking and laughing over a good meal. Silverware clinking against plates.

  Does my heart good to see so many people together and happy.

  The registration desk sits near the back wall here. Just to the left of the stairs leading up to the second floor. It’s unmanned right now, the little sign in place asking people to “Please request help from the staff.” Even though I really just want to get up to my room, I lean across the desk to check on things.

  The sign-in book is an old throwback to the way things used to be done. Even though we keep all of our records on computer, from reservations to payment information, I like to have people sign their names when they check in. I think it keeps things more personal. Looking down the neat rows of names I can see nobody has signed in since I left.

  One of the housekeeping staff rushes by me with a quick G’day, a bundle of towels in her arms. Clean ones for guests upstairs. The work never stops here at the Pine Lake Inn.

  The only other notable thing down here in the entryway of my Inn is over by the fireplace. A tripod easel holding a painting of Lieutenant Governor David Collins. Old David Collins was the first British administrator of the Australian colonies. Had a long and storied life, Mister Collins. Odd looking man. Maybe it’s the white frizzy hair.

  Our handyman George has tried to put that painting up on the wall here any number of times. Thing is, nothing stays on that wall. Nothing. The Inn doesn’t want anything there.

  Long story, and one I don’t fully understand myself. I just accept that there’s secrets to this Inn that can’t be explained.

  All right. Time to wash the dust off. Heading up the stairs I—

  Stop.

  Take a breath.

  And smile.

  “Well, good afternoon Mister Brewster,” I say when I’ve got my voice back. “I understand you wanted to see me.”

  I’m not trying to be rude, but Mister Brewster is the kind of man who can make anyone miss a step. He’s like a moving shadow, all dressed in black. Black pants. Black shirt. Black tie. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him wear anything else. He keeps his dark hair cut short and shaggy around a lean and angular face.

  Then there’s his eyes. They appear black as the night sky, until he looks at you. When he does they turn into an odd silver gray.

  He’s looking at me now.

  He’s one of our perpetual guests. Comes and goes, but he’s here more often than he’s not.

  “Miss Powers,” he greets me, stopping four stairs up. “How was your walk?”

  Just remember, I tell myself, he pays his rent in advance. He pays his rent in advance. “I ran into a bit of trouble, actually. Was there something you needed me to do for you, Mister Brewster?”

  He took a step down. “My bill seems to be out of order.”

  Not to mention, he sounds like the guy who did Shere Khan’s voice for Disney. A gravelly rumble that’d serve him well on Halloween. “Really? Your bill? I’m sure we can look at that. What seems to be the bother?”

  “I haven’t been billed for the amenities.”

  I can feel the muscles in my shoulders relaxing. Maybe it was just the morning I’d had, but I was seriously keyed up. Here I was expecting him to be upset about something and instead he’s trying to pay me more money! “I have to say, Mister Brewster, it’s not every day that a guest complains about their bill being too low.”

  I have four rooms on the second floor of my Inn that have little kitchenettes in them. A fridge and a hot plate and a sink. The rooms cost a bit more, but for guests like Mister Brewster who stay here a lot, for days at a time, it’s convenient for them.

  “Just don’t want you to be underpaid,” he said. “I like you. I like your Inn. I hope to keep staying here for a very long time.”

  His voice slowed on those last words, letting me hear more meaning in them than he probably meant. “Um. Thank you. Good to hear.”

  He pays his rent in advance. Just remember, he pays his rent in advance...

  “Well,” I said to him after he was silent for what seemed like forever, “if that was all I best be getting upstairs and wash the dust off.”

  “I heard about what happened out on the trails this morning. Poor Mister Loren.”

  My, but word does travel fast in this town. “I’m sure he’ll be all right, but he was in a bad state when we found him.”

  “I’m quite sure,” Mister Brewster agreed, finally coming down the stairs all the way. His cold eyes didn’t match the smile he wore. “He must have had a lot on his mind after speaking with Myles this morning.”

  “Myles? You mean Myles Sinclair?

  “The real estate agent. Yes. I happened to see Myles running out of Arthur’s house when I was about for my morning walk.”

  “Odd.” The word was out of my mouth before I could think better of it. I meant it was odd that Myles Sinclair would be running from Arthur Loren’s house, right before we find Arthur wandering the trails, clubbed over the head.

  I didn’t mean to say Mister Brewster was odd. Not that I couldn’t, but it’s bad business to comment on your guest’s... eccentricities.

  Myles Sinclair. Our local real estate agent. Slimy little toad of a man, even if he is easy on the eyes. He’s always trying to buy up more of the town than he already owns. And he owns quite a bit of it. Man’s a greedy miser, especially now, when Lakeshore has become sort of infamous because of the headlines. Murder. Drug dealers. Mysteries always attract people’s attention, and jack up property values. Been lots of folks show an interest in moving here. That’s one of the reasons my Inn has been doing such a business, after all.

  But what would Myles be doing at Arthur’s house?

  Interesting.

  “Yes. Well. I’m going to see if Rosie has any of that wonderful Pavlova left. After I clean up a bit.”

  Mister Brewster glides as he walks by me, and it’s still unnerving to see a grown man move like that. Someday I’ll probably end up asking him what brings him to Lakeshore over and over. He’s not your typical tourist, that’s for sure.

  For now, I just really need a shower.

  Thing was, I couldn’t just shut my brain off. That bit about Myles going to see Arthur Loren right before he went mucking about in the bush really stuck in my craw. As I walked upstairs to the second floor I tried to set it aside, but I couldn’t. I’ll have to tell my Kevin about it and see what he thinks. I could just go ask Myles myself, but Kevin hates it when I step into his investigations uninvited. D
oesn’t like it when his mom shows how much smarter she is. Well. More experienced, anyway.

  The way the Inn is laid out, the stairs to the third floor are on the opposite end of the hallway from the ones to the first floor. That means I have to walk the entire length of the second floor to get up to the third.

  It means I have to walk past room seven.

  Stopping outside the door I stand there, remembering. I don’t knock. Room seven is one of our most requested rooms and even now it has a young couple staying in it. This is where all the excitement was last year, after all. This is where my friend Jessica Sapp got herself killed, trying to help a woman get out of a bad life.

  Just goes to show, no good deed goes unpunished.

  With a sigh I turned away and headed for the stairs that would take me up to my room. Time moves on, after all. You have to move with it or let the current drown you.

  Besides. Jess will always be with me, in more ways than one.

  The third floor has its own guest rooms, but then mine is down at the end. Most of the guests must be downstairs for lunch or out sampling the local sights. I didn’t see anyone the whole way to my room, and then I had my door locked behind me again and I could finally strip off my dusty clothes and make myself presentable.

  I’m a little behind in my tidying up. The tank top and shorts got tossed onto a small pile of other clothes next to my bed. My necklace slipped off over my head and laid down carefully on the pink bedspread. Good enough for now. I’ll do laundry tonight. Or tomorrow. In bra and panties and socks I stretched, my mind on a hundred different things. Arthur Loren. Jess. Odd Mister Brewster and the things he said. And, of course, Rosie’s oyster bisque and Pavlova.

  My room is a bit grander than most of the others in the Inn. Maybe not as big as room number nine, the Honeymoon Suite, but bigger than the single rooms to be sure. This used to be a business suite we kept for special travelers but when I came to live here permanent like, I had some things changed. Had a real closet built into the far wall, to the right of the tall window that looks out on the smooth surface of Pine Lake. The whole room got painted pink, too, with red scrollwork along the top edge of the walls.