by Joan Hess
I could hear Peter’s voice telling me to back away and call for help. His lovely brown eyes were squinting with intensity and his jaw was tight. What would his mother say if she was told that I’d been kidnapped by surly, hirsute brutes in camouflage jackets? Her nostrils might flare with disdain at the vulgar nature of the criminals and the brashness of their hostage. If I’d underestimated my opponents, would she lower herself to attend my funeral? Could I trust Caron to handle the role of hostess after the internment? Would the mourners be appalled by chips and pizza?
It was time to find out, I told myself as I walked toward the house.
10
Rather than storm the ramparts, I went to the barn door and squeezed through the narrow gap. The vehicle in no way resembled a green van. Had it been in better condition, it might have qualified as a vintage pickup truck, but its primary color was a combination of mud and rust, with a decorative splatter of roadkill. I looked in the passenger’s window at an unholy mess of beer cans, liquor bottles, dirty clothes, and fast food debris. Vintage fast food debris, based on the blue mold and the maggots. The bed of the truck held a collection of more beer cans, leaves, a sneaker, rubber snakes, rusty tools, a bald tire, and what I initially took to be a furry animal, deceased. A second look confirmed it to be of the species Wigus platinus. The gun rack supported a rifle. I was somewhat relieved that it was in the truck instead of in the hands of the burglars.
I slipped out of the barn and darted to the side of the house. The windows were too high to give me a view of the interior. I went around to the back porch and took a quick peek through the glass panel of the door. There were plates and a coffee cup on the kitchen table, as though Sarah had been having lunch when the FBI took her into custody the previous day. The door was not locked. I eased it open and braced myself for a shout of surprise. I was a bit disappointed when I heard a low rumble of voices from the front of the house, thus giving me no excuse to flee in a most cowardly fashion. I assured myself that once I had a glimpse of the intruders, I would retreat with all due haste to my car and call the sheriff’s department from the sanctuary of the Lunds’ driveway. A most reasonable plan.
I tiptoed across the kitchen. The hallway was empty. I could hear two voices, one gravelly and the other higher pitched and nervous. The TV set was by the front door, and next to it was a wooden crate filled with record albums. The thieves must have been disappointed with their booty—no computer, silver, jewelry, guns, Tiffany vases, or even a platinum wig. I was lamenting the paucity of the household treasures when a man stepped into the hallway and saw me.
“Who in blazes are you?” he croaked.
I assessed my chances. He was no taller than five foot six and was wearing baggy jeans, a dirty T-shirt, and a cap. I doubted he was old enough to buy beer or vote. “I am affiliated with the Farberville Police Department,” I said in a chilly voice. “Who are you and why are you here?”
He pulled off his cap. “I asked you first, ma’am.”
His cohort, also a teenager, joined him. He was bigger and therefore more alarming, but he seemed equally befuddled. “What the hell?” he said eloquently.
I stepped into the doorway, my arms crossed. “I have already called for backup, and I anticipate the arrival of several squad cars within minutes. My partner is outside, and let me assure you that he’s armed and dangerous. He’s been cited for excessive violence. If either of you moves one inch from that spot, you will require the services of the coroner and a funeral director. Any more stupid questions?” I stared at them until they shook their heads. “I need your names and addresses.”
The bigger one actually shuffled his feet. If he’d had a forelock, he would have tugged it. “My name’s Bubba, and this here is Benedict. We just dropped by to see if the woman who lives here is home. Thought she might need help with the harvest next month.”
“Oh, really?” I said with all the sarcasm I could muster. “Do you honestly think I’m going to believe that? It looks as though you’re applying for a job that requires heavy lifting and relocation. Did you fail to notice that she’s not home?”
Benedict snuffled. “No, ma’am, so maybe we ought to be on our way.”
“To Miss Poppoy’s house? No, you’ve already stolen what you could from her. Do you realize what would have happened if she’d died during your intrusion? You’d have been tried as adults and be spending the next forty years in prison with very rude inmates.”
“My cousin shot his pa and only got ten years,” said Benedict.
Bubba whacked him on the shoulder. “Your cousin was eleven years old, you moron! Remember Bo Bridges Buchanon? He offed those guys at a liquor store and he got life without parole. He weren’t but fifteen when it happened.”
I cleared my throat. “Miss Poppoy survived despite your despicable behavior. What would your mothers say if they learned about that? I’m sure they’ve done the best they could to raise you with proper respect for your elders, and then you two go and pull some boneheaded robberies.” I gave them a moment to think it over, and then said, “So which of you owns a green van?”
Benedict shook his head. “My pickup’s in the barn. Bubba drove his GTO into the lake a month ago. He had a boat hitched to it and was backing down the ramp when he hit the gas instead of the brake. Sunk the boat, too. Funniest damn thing I’ve ever seen, except for maybe when his grandpa dropped his pants in court and waved his dingaling at the judge.”
“Have you ever been on this property before today?” I asked, struggling to remain stern. “A year ago, for instance?”
“Don’t reckon so,” Bubba said. “Last night some of the guys at the bar was talking about the lady that lives here, how she was a terrorist and a murderer. We figured that if she was in jail, the house was empty. It seemed neighborly to keep an eye on things, make sure nobody had broken in or anything.”
“So you broke in to see if someone had broken in?” I said.
“Yeah,” Benedict said, “that’s why we’re here.”
“Is that why the TV set is by the door?”
Benedict looked at Bubba, who blinked and said, “Just being neighborly, ma’am. We best be on our way.”
I was too tired of them to demand their last names. I’d memorized the license plate and would share the information with Sheriff Dorfer when he resurfaced after the long weekend. Their fingerprints would be on the TV set. “Then go,” I said, gesturing at the door, “and don’t even think about coming back here. This house will be under surveillance twenty-four hours a day.”
Both of them glanced at the pile of loot and then ambled out the front door. I held my breath until I saw the pickup truck drive across the yard and onto the road. As I exhaled, I tried not to imagine Peter’s reaction when I related the story. He might feel obligated to explain exactly how foolhardy I’d been, along with other adjectives that would not reflect well on me. Clearly, the story required editing for his sake. I didn’t want him to be agitated when his mother arrived in less than twenty-four hours. Tomorrow. It was only a day away.
I deleted two suspects from the list, since neither Bubba nor Benedict had flinched when I’d asked the pertinent question. The green van was out there somewhere. I had no idea if it was still significant. On that less than optimistic note, I decided to search the house. There were three bedrooms upstairs and an antiquated bathroom with a stained bathtub. I wasn’t surprised that Sarah and Tuck had separate bedrooms. Juniper had told me that the marriage was based solely on their oath to remain underground together, like witless rodents in the same burrow. Forty years was a very long time to brood about the past and worry about the future.
I went into Sarah’s room. A tattered quilt served as a bedspread, and a bookcase held an eclectic array of fiction and poetry, some in French. On the nightstand was a small framed photograph of two adults and a child, all beaming at the camera. I studied it for a moment, wondering if Sarah had found a way to get in touch with her parents. The FBI’s fondness for tapping phone lines
would have made a call too risky. Mail would have been routinely waylaid so the postmark could be examined. I replaced the photo and opened the closet door. Her clothes were plain and inexpensive. She’d enrolled in a pricey liberal arts college, and I visualized her pulling up to a dorm in a sleek car packed with suitcases of designer outfits. It had been a hard fall from grace.
I pulled down the boxes on the top shelf and found worn purses and shoes, sweaters, long-sleeved shirts, and a scarf. I continued to search the room without chancing on a diary, journal, scrapbook, or a cache of newspaper clippings and letters. Sarah had kept her secrets without leaving any sort of paper trail.
Tuck’s bedroom was a hodgepodge of boxes, duffel bags, stacks of paperwork concerning organic gardening regulations and inspections, and a boggling quantity of medicine for obscure ailments ranging from toenail fungus to excessive ear wax. He’d been prepared to tackle malaria and ringworms, warts and hangnails. I had no problem believing he had reached mastery in hypochondria before being killed in a less esoteric fashion. Sarah had not bothered to deal with his closet. His basic wardrobe had consisted of threadbare jeans, flannel shirts, one sadly dated black suit, T-shirts, and a single navy necktie. Goodwill would not have whooped with delight had it all been donated.
I pulled a box out of the corner and sat down. Tuck had saved—or hoarded—every utility bill, credit card bill, tax receipt, and income tax form over a four-decade span. I put aside the credit card statements for additional scrutiny and tackled another box. It proved to be more of the same, so I moved along to the next. After I’d sneezed my way through the dust of the remaining boxes, I dragged a duffel bag to the middle of the room and unzipped it. Tuck’s dedication to organic farming was profound, based on the number of manuals and brochures regarding the use of pesticides and fertilizers. A thick folder of correspondence indicated he’d communicated often with government agencies. A chemist might have found the information worthy of mild interest, but I’d eked my way through freshman chemistry without grasping the essence of multisyllabic compounds.
I rezipped the bag and dragged it out of the way. What was curious, I thought as I sat on the edge of the bed and gazed morosely around the room, was that Tuck had left no personal papers of any kind. There was no shredder in the house. He wouldn’t have sent anything to the landfill or recycling center, where it might fall into the wrong hands and in some obscure way expose his identity. I went back to the hall and looked up for both inspiration and access to the attic. The latter was directly overhead. I grabbed a gray cord and pulled it until the panel came down and I could reach the folded ladder.
I was not enthusiastic about encountering any creature that scuttled or flapped its wings. As I ascended, I called out several warnings to the probable inhabitants so that none of us would be surprised. My hands were damp when I reached the middle step and poked my head through the opening. The attic was partially floored with plywood, the rafters draped with cobwebs. The dust was abysmally thick, and the temperature so high that my skin seemed to shrink. I continued up until I could stand, and then waited until my eyes adjusted to the musky darkness.
I was pleased to see a lightbulb dangling from the ceiling, but distinctly less pleased when I flipped a switch and nothing happened. A blanket had been hung over a window. I moved cautiously toward it, positioning each foot before transferring my weight. I reached it without putting my leg through the floor, and yanked at the blanket until it relented and fell in a heap. Dust enveloped me, setting off a paroxysm of sneezes and wheezes. This did not happen to amateur sleuths in mystery novels, I told myself as I gasped for breath. They were much too genteel for a primitive display of bodily dysfunction. Lord Peter never excused himself to go to the loo.
Once I’d blotted my eyes, I surveyed the attic. There were battered suitcases, lampshades, a pile of drapes and blankets, discarded furniture, a box marked X-mas ornaments, a sewing machine that might have been used by Betsy Ross’s great-granddaughter, and a large trunk with a padlock. I focused on the trunk. Tuck hadn’t trusted Sarah, so it seemed credible that he would stash his treasures in a safe container.
I yanked at the padlock until I accepted that it wasn’t going to cooperate with the likes of me. I considered dragging the trunk to the opening and giving it a shove. It would damage the hall floor, but Sarah wasn’t coming home anytime soon, and Tuck was in no position to complain. After a series of huffs and puffs, I realized that I couldn’t budge the trunk. However, where there was a lock, there was a key. I crawled down the ladder and returned to Tuck’s bedroom. I’d already rifled the bedside table drawers, but I’d been looking for letters and photographs. This time I needed a key. My determination began to wane after I’d yanked out the drawers and made sure the key was not taped on a back slat.
The third bedroom had only a bed and a rocking chair. I felt along the top shelf in the closet but encountered nothing except dust and a few yellowed scraps of newsprint. Tuck would not have hidden the key in Sarah’s room. I went down to the kitchen and dug through a junk drawer. All the keys were labeled, including one for the basement. I was not in the mood for subterranean exploration, so I took a hammer from the drawer and returned to the attic.
I was pounding on the padlock and muttering under my breath when I heard a male voice shout, “Who’s there?”
It was too hot to swoon, so I went to the opening and looked down at Will Lund, who seemed a tad perplexed. “It’s Claire,” I said. “I’m just checking on the house.”
“In the attic?”
“Basements can be clammy.”
“Uh, need any help?”
I made a decision based on my aversion to sweat. “Yes, I do. Will you please come up here and help me with this pesky padlock? I’ve already wasted a lot of time on it, and although I’ve made a dent in it, it’s stubborn.” I stepped back as he climbed up the ladder and stood up, nearly bumping his head. I handed him the hammer. “I couldn’t find the key, and I am not an expert lock picker.”
He grinned. “Neither am I, but I’ll try.” He bent down and began to beat on the padlock with admirable ferocity. After a dozen blows, the padlock fell to the floor. I moved closer as he opened the trunk. “Bunch of stuff,” he murmured. “Were you expecting to find jewels and gold doubloons?”
“Tuck’s personal papers,” I said as I took out shirt boxes and a thick pile of manila folders. “I know he had secrets.”
Will sat down on the edge of a chair lacking a seat and studied me as if I might have been more at home in a belfry. “Like being a fugitive from the FBI? Like being accused of murder? Yeah, he had secrets. I assumed it was paranoia, but sometimes they really are out to get you. How’s Sarah doing?”
“Sticking to her story that she didn’t shoot Tuck. The trial starts Tuesday, and her lawyer is scrabbling to come up with a semicredible defense. Let’s take all this downstairs.” I emphasized my request with another round of explosive sneezes.
When we arrived in the kitchen, I moved the plates and coffee cup to the sink and gulped a glass of water before sitting down at the table. From the way Will was looking at me, I was fairly sure I no longer resembled an efficient legal assistant. I plucked cobwebs from my blouse and brushed ineffectually at my skirt. “I know Tuck was your friend,” I began as I reached for a box, “but if you know anything that might help Sarah, this is the time to say so.”
“I wish I could. After Junie and I saw the news yesterday, she told me that Tuck had already confessed to her. I asked her why she didn’t confide in me, but she got up and went outside.” He looked inside a cigar box, then set it aside. “Maybe it’s better that she didn’t.”
“Can you think of anyone else he may have taken into his confidence?”
He glanced up at me. “Like who?”
I took a stack of letters out of another cigar box and removed the rubber band that bound them. “I don’t know. Someone he met at church?”
“Sarah and Tuck never went to church that I know. They were st
uck in the hippie mentality, all that spiritual jargon about horoscopes and crystals. Tuck relied on an almanac for his weather forecasts. Wait a minute, are you talking about Tricia Yates?”
“She admitted that she knew him. Did he ever mention her?”
“No,” he said slowly, “but I thought I saw them together last summer, maybe June, outside a coffee shop near the campus. They were going in, and I didn’t get a good luck. I said something to Tuck later. He blew me off, claimed he was in Oklahoma at a solar energy symposium.”
“You believed him?” I asked.
Will shrugged. “Didn’t have a reason not to. He’d been talking about solar and wind power since the technology emerged. He devoted an entire notebook to the amount of money he’d save if he invested in a couple of windmills to generate electricity to run the irrigation system. Columns and columns of numbers and figures.”
“What can you tell me about Tricia Yates?”
He glanced at the clock on the wall. “I got to go in a minute, Claire. Junie’s making a special Sunday dinner for Billy, and she can get testy if I don’t show up on time. Afterwards, I’m going to take the kid fishing one last time. Our daughter and her husband are coming tomorrow at noon to take him home.”
“Tricia Yates?” I prompted him. “I’m desperate, Will.”
“She started working at the church about three years ago. I’m a deacon, so I was on the committee that interviewed her. She had experience in bookkeeping and office management, which is what we were looking for. Everybody likes her, and we’ve never had any complaints.” He stopped and frowned. I stayed mute and resisted any sudden urges to grab him by the shoulders and shake more information out of him. He finally looked at me and said, “Except for right after Tuck died. She missed church and didn’t show up the next couple of days. One of the other deacons went to her apartment and pounded on the door. Then there she was at the Wednesday evening service, acting as if nothing was wrong. Dismissed her absence as a bout of stomach flu.”