by J. R. Ripley
“That’s exactly what I’m telling you.”
He turned to the small crowd. “Anybody else here see the body?”
I answered for them. “Only me, Jerry. And when I found her, I raced to the house to get help.” I explained how I’d had no cell phone reception out in the woods.
“Fine,” he huffed. “Show me.” He ordered Sutton and the EMTs to tag along and for everyone else to remain there. The medics grabbed a portable stretcher and a red EMT trauma bag from the back of the ambulance before joining us.
I led him confidently to the trailhead. After that, I was less certain. I followed the winding trail as far as possible. When it spilled out into a small glen, I paused to get my bearings.
“Well?” Chief Kennedy grumbled, impatiently.
“Give me a minute.” I tapped my index finger to my lips and thought out loud. “This looks familiar.” Recognition came to me as if a lens had been wiped clean. “Yes, I remember we came this way yesterday.”
I pointed to a bare beech tree branch that stood out like a gnarled finger. “We had stopped to look at a female titmouse, when I noticed the mound.” Jerry gave me a funny look. It took me a minute to figure out why. “I said titmouse, Jerry. Titmouse.” The man still lived in the middle school of his mind.
I thought hard. I caught a muffled rat-a-tat-tat coming from about a hundred yards to the north. “This way.” I hurried through the brush. Jerry alternated between wheezing and cursing as he pushed to keep pace. I shoved a low hanging branch from my face and stumbled down a small incline. I’d reached my goal. “There!”
And there she was. Bessie hadn’t moved. Not that I had expected her to. I’d have been more than a little freaked if she had. The only thing different now was that I was seeing her in profile, having come on the tree from another angle.
I craned my neck, scouring the sycamore’s limbs and trunk. The solitary woodpecker hammered once more, flapped its wings and flew off.
The two EMTs grunted and hurried forward. Chief Kennedy hollered for them not to touch the body. “Let me get a good look before you go messing with anything.” He and Officer Sutton approached Bessie. I neared as well. I shuddered as I watched a trail of tiny black ants crawling up the dead woman’s right arm. “Stay back!” Jerry waved me away.
I backed up gladly, falling into the arms of the younger of the two EMTs. “You okay, lady?”
“Yeah.” I held my breath, then released it slowly. Was it my imagination or did the forest seem darker now . . . and colder?
Jerry ordered Sutton to call for the coroner. In the Town of Ruby Lake, that means Andrew Greeley, a sweet old fellow who looks about ninety but is only seventy-one, according to his birth records. Mr. Greeley owns the local mortuary and doubles as Ruby Lake’s coroner.
Then Jerry had Officer Sutton escort me back to the McKutcheon house. “And see that she stays there!” he commanded his subordinate.
Two hours later, I gave my official statement, in the home’s musty living room. I squirmed on a sofa that felt and looked about a hundred years old—and not in a vintage or antique good way.
There wasn’t much to tell really. I explained that I’d gone for a hike and had been lucky, or unlucky, enough to have stumbled on the body.
“And you didn’t see anybody? Hear anybody?”
I shook my head again. I’d been shaking it so much in response to his repetitive questions that I was getting a crick in my neck. “No, Jerry. Just the bird.”
He rolled his eyes.
I rubbed the back of my neck. “Can I go now?” I’d tossed my binocs in my pack.
Chief Kennedy rested his arm on the mantel of the huge stone fireplace that took up the middle of the far wall. “Yeah.” He bounced his fingers on the wood mantel. “So the last time you saw Bessie Hammond alive was . . .?”
“I told you. Yesterday morning on our bird walk.”
“Right.”
“What about the others?” I asked, meaning the young men and women staying at the house. “Did they see or hear anyone around the property?”
Jerry grinned. “Only you. Tell me something, Simms. Did you and Bessie get along okay?”
My heart skipped a beat. “As well as any two people,” I answered diplomatically.
“Right,” Jerry repeated way more slowly than the first time.
This seemed like a good point to take my leave. Before Jerry started jumping to conclusions and those conclusions led him to me. Jerry’s never had a particularly good opinion of me, so it wouldn’t take much to push him over to the negative side. I said goodbye, grabbed my day pack and stood. I shook the pack. “You sure you don’t want to search this before I leave?”
“Already did,” Jerry said smugly. “While you were in the bathroom.”
I huffed. “Don’t you need a warrant for that?” I’d only been gone for a minute to freshen up and he’d searched my things?
Jerry folded his arms over his chest and wiggled his jaw. “I called to you to ask your permission while you were”—he paused—“in the facilities. Guess I misunderstood your reply.”
I called him every name in the book. Well, in my head, I did. I wasn’t fool enough to do it to his face. I threw my day pack over my shoulder and headed for the door.
“You need a ride?” Jerry asked.
“I’d rather walk!” I threw the door open and slammed it behind me. “That arrogant, snooping, son-of-a—”
9
A devilishly handsome man unfolded himself from the dusty rocker to the right of the front door. “Care to finish that thought?”
My words caught in my throat. “H-hello, Mr. McKutcheon.”
He smiled and laid his hand on my upper arm. “Call me Gus, remember?” A shadow passed across his hazel eyes. “Police giving you a hard time?”
I nodded and stepped away. Gus’s fingers skittered down my arm. “What are you doing here?”
“I live here. I’d ask what you’re doing here but the police—and my boarders—have already filled me in.”
“You heard about the murder.”
His brow shot up. “I heard about the body. Was it a murder?”
I started to speak, then caught myself. Was it a murder? “Well, II think so.” Softly, I added, “I believe Mrs. Hammond’s neck was broken.”
He pursed his lips. “Perhaps she fell out of the tree.” He followed me as I started down the porch.
“I suppose . . .”
The two police cars, the ambulance, and Mr. Greeley’s hearse stood in a semicircle at the side of the house. Could it have been as unfortunate and innocent as that? Could Bessie have simply fallen out of the sycamore to her death?
No, she didn’t look like a woman who’d fallen to her death. Her body had looked so . . . composed, not messy like she’d just fallen twenty feet. And where were the bruises and scrapes? Wouldn’t she be covered in bruises and scrapes if she’d fallen from a height?
“It is a possibility, isn’t it?”
“Bessie had to be sixty if she was a day,” I said. “Assuming she could climb a tree, what would she have been doing climbing one? I don’t think she was the treehouse type.”
“No,” Gus said, matching me step for step. “You’re right, of course.” He turned his eyes on me. “This was murder.” He wore a short-sleeved white polo shirt and black trousers with perfect pleats.
Ice formed in my toes.
“I was heading back to the diner. I was working when I got the call about all this.” He waved his hand at the official vehicles cluttering his yard. “I should be getting back,” Gus said. “Let me give you a ride.” He gestured to an old white pickup with mud-spattered sides and tires. The vehicle had Maine plates.
Though it was something I could not put my finger on, this man gave me the creeps. What did Moire see in this guy? Sure, he was tall, dark, and handsome. But he seemed too good to be true. He also seemed like he was trying a little too hard to be affable.
Why was it, too, that I felt an undercu
rrent of danger in every other word he spoke?
The passenger side door squeaked as Gus opened it. He looked at me expectantly. “I don’t bite,” he said, revealing two rows of perfect white teeth with the merest gap between the two top incisors, which seemed designed to give him character.
“That remains to be seen,” I replied, climbing in. Despite my reservations, I was beat. My legs quivered like jelly in an earthquake and my arms felt like lead. I put it down to lack of food and overstimulation. Seeing a murder victim was something I’d never get used to.
“So how long have you been working at Ruby’s Diner?” I asked as we rumbled and bounced down the unpaved road, through the woods that led back to town.
“About a week. I’m thinking of settling down here permanently. If I can make ends meet.” That would explain running a hostel and working in the diner.
“I hear you’re the cook.” Though he didn’t dress like one. Where were the grease and ketchup stains?
Gus chuckled. “Manager, chief cook, and head bottle washer.”
That seemed like a lot of responsibility for a guy who’d only been working on the job for a week. “How long have you known Moire?” I asked, thinking maybe they had been friends before he’d come to town.
I gripped the armrest as he shot through several bumps in the road in succession.
“Since I got to town,” he said, giving me a quick look. He flexed his fingers around the steering wheel. That wasn’t telling me much. Gus wasn’t much of a sharer.
I didn’t get much more out of him after that. He dropped me off in front of Birds & Bees, then did a U-turn and pulled into a space across the street at Ruby’s Diner.
“Should I be jealous?” I heard a voice bellow genially.
I turned to the left. Derek Harlan, my boyfriend of sorts, and Paul Anderson, the owner of Brewer’s Biergarten, the business next door, sat outside at a table along the sidewalk. A chilled pitcher of beer and two weeping mugs sat between them. I smiled and waved. “Feel free!”
Brewer’s had once been a retail garden center. The owners had gone out of business at that location and relocated to a spot outside town. After sitting empty for a spell, Paul and his partner, my ex-boyfriend Craig Bigelow, had remodeled the old shop and turned it into a bustling little biergarten. An outdoor space accommodating twenty or so tables and an outside bar were the only buffer between Birds & Bees and the interior of Brewer’s Biergarten.
Unfortunately, there was no buffer between Paul and me. My friend Kim, without consulting me first, had offered Paul the use of an empty apartment in my house while his house was undergoing renovations. I hadn’t even gotten used to Esther living under my roof and didn’t think I’d ever get used to Paul living there.
Esther and Paul lived on the second floor in small side-by-side apartments. I smiled at the thought of them driving each other crazy.
Even more unfortunate than Paul and my ex’s business being next-door was Derek’s bonding with him. Derek and Paul were new BDBs, best drinking buddies or BBFs, best beer friends. Whatever you called it, it was DMC, driving me crazy. Derek thought Paul was great. I wasn’t so keen on the guy myself but, like they say, we don’t pick our friends, they pick us. In my case, I hadn’t even picked my renters. I’d inherited one and had the other foisted on me.
Such is life.
Derek and Paul invited me over. I went around to the opening in the low brick wall enclosing the outdoor seating area. Derek pulled over a chair for me to join them. “You don’t look so good,” he remarked, leaning back in his seat. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah.” I fiddled with my hair, discovering a small twig and half a dead leaf in the process. I could only imagine how awful I must look. Then again, not nearly as awful as poor Bessie Hammond had looked. “Can we talk about this later? Right now, I could really use a bite to eat. And some of that.” I pointed to Derek’s icy beer stein.
Paul rose quickly. “I’ll bring another glass.” He scurried over to the bar that backed up to the side of my store. A lone redheaded waitress was putting together place settings. Several tables were occupied with hungry and thirsty customers.
Paul returned with a fresh mug and poured me a glassful of beer.
I drank half down before stopping myself.
Derek chuckled.
“Sorry.” I blushed. “I guess I was thirsty.”
“I’ll say!” He sniggered again.
“What would you like to eat?” Paul inquired. “I’ve got the new wood-burning pizza oven going.” He cocked his brow in a questioning manner.
Hot, gooey cheese and fresh-baked dough. There was no saying no to that. “Absolutely,” I said. “Mushroom, onion, and olive?”
Paul beamed. “You got it.”
“No, wait!” I called as Paul turned to go. I glanced at Derek. Onion breath and kisses don’t go well together. “Hold the onions.”
Paul nodded and went off to the kitchen to put my order in. He returned fifteen minutes later with hot lunch and a fresh, cold pitcher.
We all dug in.
“It’s fortuitous that you’re here,” Derek said, draping his arm comfortably over the back of my seat. “When you pulled up, Paul and I were just talking about a proposition that he has for you.” Derek blinked and looked at Gus’s pickup parked across the street at the diner. “Who was that guy, anyway?”
“His name is Guster McKutcheon. He works at the diner.”
“I see,” Derek said, thoughtfully.
I wondered if he really was jealous and found that the idea didn’t make me feel bad at all. “He’s dating Moire Leora.” I slammed back the dregs of my beer. “And that’s all I’d care to say about that for now.”
I gave Paul and Derek the eye, then wriggled my fingers at Derek. “So what’s this proposition that Paul has? And whatever it is,” I added, before giving either man a chance to reply, “the answer is no.”
Derek chuckled while Paul sat back with a snort and laid his hands on the table. “Well, how do you like that?!” He pulled free a slice of pizza, leaving a trail of cheesy goo, and bit down hard. He turned to Derek. “This is what I get for trying to do a girl a favor?”
“That’s woman,” I said, folding my arms across my chest.
“Okay, woman,” Paul said. “Boy, it’s no wonder Craig—”
I cut him off quickly. “Do not go there.”
Paul held up his hands. “Sorry, Amy.”
Derek interrupted our bickering. “Give Paul a chance, Amy.” He laid his hand on mine. “I think you’re going to like his idea.”
I tipped my glass to my lips and sipped. “Okay,” I said, “spill.”
Paul dropped his half-eaten pizza on his plate. “Birds and brews,” he said proudly.
I frowned. “Huh?”
“Birds and brews,” Derek said enthusiastically.
I gaped at them. “How much did you two have to drink before I arrived?”
Derek grabbed my hand. “Paul’s come up with an idea to hold a monthly—”
“Maybe weekly if it really takes off,” interjected the pub owner.
“Sure,” said Derek. “The idea is to hold the event here at Brewer’s Biergarten. He’s going to call it Birds and Brews.”
“And,” I said slowly, not understanding what they could possibly be thinking, “you’re going to do what—hold a happy hour for birds? See how many beers it takes to get our feathered friends blotto?”
Paul laughed. “Those are all excellent ideas,” he chided. “But that’s not what I was thinking.”
“What exactly are you thinking?” I asked Paul, before turning to Derek and saying, “And what does it have to do with me?”
“You’re the birds part,” Paul replied.
“The birds part?”
“Yep.” Paul rose, stretching an invisible banner in his hands. “Birds and Brews. We’ll meet once a month initially. I was thinking on Tuesday evenings. I’ve noticed Tuesdays are a bit slow around here. It’ll be good for bu
siness.” He turned his seat around and sat back down. “For both our businesses.”
“So what do you think, Amy?” Derek asked, anticipation in his eyes.
I stood. “I think I’m leaving. Thanks for lunch.”
Derek jumped to his feet. “You don’t like the idea?”
“I haven’t heard one yet!”
Derek took a deep breath. “Birds and Brews. A gathering of bird lovers and beer lovers. You supply the bird knowledge. I don’t know, I’m just spitballing here, but maybe you have a specific bird that you lecture on each time, or some aspect of bird-watching.”
He turned to Paul for support and Paul nodded his encouragement. “And Paul here supplies the beer.”
Paul nodded some more. “That’s right. Maybe we can coordinate. I’ll come up with a pairing of one of our in-house craft beers or some other artisanal brew to match up with whatever bird you care to spotlight for each gathering.”
“What, like a pilsner and a plover?”
“Sure, or a good kölsch with a kestrel,” Paul shot back.
“Birds and brews,” I said, understanding finally dawning on me. I wanted to tell Mr. Paul Anderson that that was the dumbest idea I’d ever heard.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t. It was a great idea.
Not to overly encourage the man or fuel his already overinflated ego, I chose my words carefully. “I’ll think about it.”
Derek squeezed my hand.
“Great.” Paul stood. “I’m thinking we start this Tuesday. Seven o’clock okay with you?”
“Tuesday? This Tuesday?” That was only a couple of days away.
“Sure, why wait?”
“Because these things take time to organize. We have to send out emails, put up flyers. Gauge the public’s interest.”
“Nah.” Paul waved away my concerns. “We’ll start small. It’ll be a dry run, so to speak. What do you say?”
I turned to Derek. “Do you have any plans for Tuesday?”
“Me?” Derek pointed to his chest. “A couple of client meetings in the morning. And I’m picking up Maeve from school at three.” Maeve was Derek’s young daughter.