Going Through the Notions (A Deadly Notions Mystery)

by Price, Cate

  I’d been looking forward all week to a day off with Joe. Perhaps we’d take a trip out to the Amish country for more quilts for the store, or sip a Bloody Mary at a lazy brunch at the Bridgewater Inn. But this was more important. I kissed Joe good-bye, hopped in the Subaru, and headed for Sheepville.

  I couldn’t help the usual flush of pride at seeing Sometimes a Great Notion as I drove past. I’d be changing the front window display tomorrow as I did every Monday to keep things fresh. There were new treasures from an estate sale that I couldn’t wait to unpack.

  My store was situated in what used to be a Victorian home right on Main Street. It was painted a dark sage, with beetroot and cream accentuating the windows, spindles, and gingerbread trim. A black porch with obsolete gaslights hanging overhead was accessible from either end by three steps. Next to the front door sat an iron cauldron filled with pink geraniums and lime green leafy coleus.

  Past the bicycle shop and Sweet Mabel’s, the ice cream parlor. Both stores did a nice trade from bicyclists using the canal towpath alongside the river. Many of the storefronts were empty now, however, because of the difficult local economy. The video store had closed, as well as the jeweler’s and a real estate office. A few of us remained, and we supported one another as much as we could.

  Our quaint village didn’t have a real supermarket, only a historic post office with a convenience store attached. Or even a real restaurant for that matter. There was the Last Stop Diner, housed in an old trolley car, but it closed at 3 p.m. Residents had to go to Sheepville for the bank, library, hardware and liquor stores, and any major shopping.

  I headed up Grist Mill and turned right onto River Road. Trees lush with summer growth blocked the view of homes that were visible through bare branches in winter. Here and there was a hint of a venerable stone mansion, or a gorgeous Queen Anne, proudly decked out in its authentic historic colors. At some points the road, canal, and river ran close together, and sometimes the twisting two-lane road with its rusted metal barrier veered away. Yellow traffic signs for DEER CROSSING, SLIPPERY WINTER CONDITIONS, and SHARP CURVES flashed by in quick succession.

  When I pulled up in front of the Backsteads’, Betty was waiting for me on the porch. She sat stiffly at attention, holding her pocketbook on her lap with both hands. I helped her into my car, and we made the thirty-minute drive south on Sheepville Pike to the County Correctional Facility.

  The lobby officer checked to see if we were both on the approved visiting list. Thank God Angus had the presence of mind to add me, too. We were asked to show some photo identification, and I registered my car’s year, make, model, and license number. Visitors weren’t allowed to bring any valuables in, only identification and keys, so I went back outside and locked our pocketbooks in the trunk of the car. Betty and I were searched with drug detection equipment and asked to remove our shoes. By the end of this process, I could feel her trembling next to me as we sat and waited to be called.

  Finally they brought us to a cramped room filled with round plastic tables and chairs. We were instructed that we could embrace Angus at the beginning and end, but apart from that, no physical contact was allowed. If we left our seats for any reason, the visit would be terminated.

  A few minutes later, Angus shuffled in. His white hair was sticking up in places, and he still looked unnaturally pale. The jovial mountain of a man I cherished suddenly looked much older, and more than a little bewildered.

  Betty clung to him, sobbing, and he patted her back awkwardly.

  “Hush now, Betty. Don’t carry on so.”

  He looked over his wife’s head at me. “Hullo, Brat.”

  “Hi, Angus.” I summoned up a smile.

  He always used to tease me that I was a fancy city girl because I’d lived in New York for most of my life. That I’d be afraid of some good old country dirt when we jumped into his truck and went off on our picking adventures together.

  I just laughed. Heck, I’d taught in the city’s public school system, had been assigned to a teaching position in Harlem in the early days, and even stared down the barrel of a gun once. Dust, cobwebs, or even a spider or two wouldn’t be enough to put me off.

  Angus and I found we were kindred spirits, bonded in the thrill of the hunt, as we chased down hidden treasures hoarded away in the barns, attics, closets, and basements of Eastern Pennsylvania. Joe, who preferred to stay home and putter in the garden or tinker with an old car, teased me that I had a new boyfriend. But the truth was Angus had become the protective big brother I’d never had.

  Finally the guard motioned that the Backsteads needed to break apart, and we sat down on the hard seats.

  “How are you doing, Angus?” I asked.

  “Well, I’m stuck here in the slammer, but apart from that, I’m okay.” He smiled ruefully. “I do have a hell of a headache, though.”

  I wanted to say, it’s probably from the gallon of whiskey you poured down your throat, but I didn’t. He must have drunk an awful lot to still be in bad shape this morning, some thirty-six hours later.

  He leaned forward, eyes intent on me.

  “I didn’t do it, Daisy. I didn’t kill Jimmy.”

  “I know you didn’t. But what the heck happened on Friday night?”

  “I don’t remember. I mean, I was there at the pub with him, knocking back a few, and next thing I knew, I woke up on our porch, feeling like the rear end of a camel. But the rest is a little fuzzy.”

  It was hard to hear above the people at neighboring tables, all talking at once. The echoes of myriad conversations bounced around the confines of the crowded room.

  Angus winced as he grabbed the seat to pull his chair closer.

  “What’s the matter with your hands?”

  He turned his massive palms up to me and I gasped. They were chock-full of splinters, some deeply embedded, and turning his work-roughened skin an angry red.

  Chapter Two

  “How did they get like this, Angus?” I asked, my heart racing.

  He peered closer at his hands. “Damned if I know. I can’t see a thing without my reading glasses. They hurt like the devil, though.”

  His faded blue eyes brightened. “Daisy, you should have seen those pens. They were beautiful. Really something else.”

  Suddenly he started his familiar rapid-fire auctioneer chant. Loudly.

  “One, one thousand, one, now two, two thousand, will you give me two, over in the corner, do I hear ten, ten thousand, yes, I have ten, now do I have—”

  “Angus!” I fought back a moment of panic. What the hell was the matter with him? People were staring at us, some of them chuckling softly.

  “Listen to me. Did you pick up a barn beam at Jimmy’s?” I held my breath while he frowned, staring off into space for what seemed like at least two minutes, and then his expression finally cleared.

  “Well, yes, it was right in the doorway of the barn. I didn’t want anyone to trip over it.”

  In spite of the dire situation, I had to smile. Even dead drunk, Angus was still thinking of the safety of others.

  “Ah, now it’s coming back to me,” he said. “We stopped at his place before we came home. Went out to the barn for one last nightcap. Like I needed another one. Jimmy keeps a fridge full of beer out there.”

  “Did you go back to Jimmy’s again the next morning when you noticed the pens missing?”

  “No! I didn’t even realize they were stolen until the cops showed up. I assumed they were still locked up the way I left them on Friday. Right, Betty?”

  Betty bit her lip, but didn’t answer.

  “What?”

  “Well, you have been a bit forgetful lately, Angus.”

  “I am not, damn it. I—” He slapped a hand on the plastic table, and quickly sucked in a breath, wincing again.

  I stood up and addressed the guard at the doorway. “Excuse me, please. This man needs medical attention.” When required, I could still turn on my schoolteacher voice. If it worked on a room full of hormone-d
riven teenagers, it should work like a charm on one bored rural cop. “Immediately, if not sooner.”

  The man nodded, unimpressed. “We’ll take care of it after the visit. Now sit down, ma’am, or I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

  I glared at him. One of the desirable qualities in a teacher that I unfortunately lacked was an adequate supply of patience.

  “Ma’am? Sit down.”

  I’d have to watch myself or I’d be stuck in the clink with Angus.

  I gritted my teeth and sat back down on the plastic seat with a thump. “Take us through yesterday morning, Angus,” I said. “Everything you did.”

  “Well, when I woke up on the porch, I went in the house and took a shower. Betty had gone shopping, so I fed the cat and read the paper. Then I didn’t feel so good, so I lay down again. I think I must have missed the pre-auction walk-through.”

  Betty nodded in weary agreement.

  “Next thing I knew, the cops were banging on the door.”

  The lights flickered too soon, signaling the end of the half hour, and we had to leave. I promised to drive Betty back again on Wednesday, the next permitted visiting day for his section of the prison.

  Betty was silent until we got back in the car.

  “I don’t want to go back to that place ever again, Daisy.”

  “What do you mean? What about Angus?”

  “You’ll still visit him, won’t you?” She stared at me with pleading eyes. “It’s just too awful. I can’t bear it.”

  I blew out a breath as I started the engine. Betty’s defeatist attitude was not going to help her husband one iota. But I needed to keep in mind she was older than me and still frail from her recent surgery. “He’s going to be okay, Betty. He’ll be home before you know it, getting under your feet and annoying you like always.”

  That brought a small smile.

  I cranked down the window as we passed the lavender farm, and I breathed in deeply, hoping the sweet, yet spicy scent would help relax the tightness in my neck. Long purple rows stretched up from the side of the road toward the little stone shop where they sold soaps, lotions, and dried bunches of the pungent herb.

  Angus and I used to crack each other up as we drove through the countryside on our travels. He’d say, “How come you’re called Daisy, but you don’t wear any Daisy Dukes?”

  “Ha, ha, well done, Angus. Or should that be medium rare, Burger Boy?”

  He’d tease me about getting my fancy clothes messed up as we clambered over piles of junk or walked through muddy fields at an outdoor flea market. I ignored him, concentrating on looking for diamonds in the rough, although I had relaxed my wardrobe somewhat over the past year. While he treated his wife in the most old-fashioned way, acting as the man of the house, oddly enough he expected me to hold my own and not act “like a girl” at all. Sink or swim was his mantra as he mentored me in the fine art of haggling for the best deals.

  Now I was addicted to auctions, flea markets, and yard sales. It seemed as though my car braked automatically when it saw the signs. I’d even been known to pick up stuff off the side of the road. It was amazing what people threw out. One man’s trash is another’s treasure, as they say.

  Betty and I were quiet for a few moments until suddenly I thought of something.

  “Hey, Betty, if Jimmy drove Angus home on Friday night, isn’t your truck still at the pub?”

  “No, Jimmy drove it here, and then he walked the rest of the way home.”

  “That’s strange. You’d think he wouldn’t be in good enough shape to walk that far.”

  “He said he needed to clear his head. One of his friends had given him a ride to the pub in the first place.”

  “But Jimmy still kept the keys, though, right?”

  Betty shrugged. “I suppose he held on to them so Angus wouldn’t be tempted to drive.”

  “And to get into the auction building.” I gasped. “Wait a minute. I know why he walked. If he took the truck, you would have heard when he drove off. This way, he could double back and make a silent getaway afterwards with the loot.” I felt a rising sense of excitement. “And if Jimmy still had the keys, Angus couldn’t have driven back to his place the next morning.”

  She shook her head. “There’s a spare set hanging in the kitchen.”

  “Oh.” Deflated, I fell silent, too.

  We passed the turnoff to Burning Barn Road, which led to an artists’ colony where a semifamous watercolor painter taught classes. On either side of us, fields of crops bordered with split rail fences stretched as far as they could until dense forests barred their progress. With some of these rural towns, there was no way to get there from here other than to go the long way around.

  Betty and I had lunch together in Sheepville, and then I brought her home. She gave me Angus’s eyeglasses and a couple more things he’d requested. I promised I’d call her after I saw him again.

  I made a stop at the town’s supermarket to pick up some essentials. In the winter I stocked up on multiples of paper towels, laundry detergent, toilet paper, and yes, several bottles of wine, like a crazed domesticated squirrel. River Road wasn’t much fun in deep snow and treacherous black ice. During the summer, Joe and I enjoyed a bounty of vegetables from our garden. There was a farm stand close by, and I only needed to make the trip once a week.

  About half a mile down Sheepville Pike, I passed Jimmy’s place. I wasn’t quite sure where he lived, but I recognized the battered gray Chevy pickup truck with the magnetic signs on its sides for CleanUp and CloseOut.

  A long gravel driveway led up to a white Colonial farmhouse, with its adjacent barn and henhouses. It was set a good distance back from the road, surrounded by open pasture, with one large oak tree in front. Dust kicked up around my car as I turned in, sincerely hoping that Jimmy’s wife didn’t shoot strangers on sight.

  The bed of his truck was still stuffed with all kinds of junk—broken kitchen chairs, stained mattresses, and cardboard boxes. The bumper was splattered with stickers such as I LOVE MY COUNTRY, BUT FEAR MY GOVERNMENT, and GUT SALMON? A wooden dresser caught my eye until I got closer and saw that the legs were broken off, and there was an ugly gash in the side.

  Jimmy’s house was the same way. From the road it looked all right, but up close it was pretty dilapidated. The white stucco over stone was missing in places, and green asphalt shingles were peeling up where the angles of roof met. A wide porch around the front of the house held some webbed deck chairs and a lumpy harvest gold and green brocade couch.

  Jimmy’s wife appeared as I pulled up next to the barn and got out of the car. Her body was that of a skinny sixteen-year-old, and her hair was light brown and baby fine. She wore a faded summer shift, and her feet were bare in the dust.

  “Hi, Reenie.”

  Her real name was Noreen, but everyone called her Reenie.

  “What are you doing here, Mrs. Buchanan?”

  Two small children with grubby faces ran up and clung to her side. They wore the same wary look as their mother.

  “Please. Call me Daisy. I—um—stopped to see how you were doing. I’m so sorry about Jimmy.”

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  There was an awkward silence.

  “Well, I have to finish the afternoon milking,” Reenie said.

  “I don’t mean to intrude. I just thought that—”

  “You can come with me if you’d like to visit.”

  “Okay.”

  I followed her into the barn, which was in the same sad state of disrepair as the house. I glanced around quickly, but there was no sign of blood on the ground, for which I was truly thankful.

  She washed her hands and sat down next to a black and white Holstein, which was standing on a concrete slab in the milking parlor. From another bucket of water, she washed and dried the udder carefully. She set a stainless steel pail underneath the cow, and bumped her fist gently against it. I guessed she was imitating the action of a calf coming to suckle against its mother.

  “D
o you think Angus did it, Reenie?” I asked quietly.

  She shrugged. “Who knows? Men can do some pretty bad things when they’re drunk and angry.”

  Reenie seemed to relax as she warmed to her task, taking the teats in both hands from opposite corners of the udder, producing a thin squirt, and working in a sure rhythm until the flow became more constant. The cow stood placidly chewing on grain, surveying me with calm brown eyes. I didn’t think I’d have been so content to have someone pulling on my nipples like that.

  “It doesn’t hurt them,” she said as if reading my mind. “If she wasn’t milked, she’d be swollen and sore. They actually come up to the barn themselves at milking time.”

  I stood near the head of the cow, not at its bony rear end. I might be a city girl, but I knew enough to stay out of range of a swift kick.

  “Jimmy and Angus came out here for a nightcap,” Reenie said. “I’d had enough of waiting up for him by that time, so I went to bed. How they ever made it to Angus’s house, I don’t know. They were stumbling drunk. Jimmy must have slept in the barn when he came home. He often did that when he tied one on.”

  Her skin was almost translucent, and faintly mottled. She wasn’t much older than my daughter, but her face had aged beyond her time, and her teeth were tobacco-stained. The only parts of Reenie that looked strong were her thickly veined forearms and hands.

  “Did Angus come back here the next day?” I asked. “Were they arguing? Did you see anything at all?”

  Her eyes shifted away from me, and back down at the bucket. “I had the air-conditioning on. That window unit is real noisy so I didn’t hear a thing. Only thing I seen was Jimmy lying on the ground in the morning when I came out to milk the cows.” Her hand fisted against her mouth as she squeezed her eyes shut.

  I wanted to hug her, but dealing with Reenie was like approaching a fawn in the forest. I sensed that there was something she was hiding, something she could tell me, if only I could muster my meager supply of patience.

  I glanced at the barn beam sitting near the doorway of the barn. A pile of them was stacked against the wall. I wandered over to take a closer look.