by Maggie Pill
Once I’d braved the disgusting, crooked, splintery, but frozen and therefore less odiferous outhouse, it was hard to get back to sleep. I quieted my mind by planning some Correction Events. I needed to fix the corkboard at the Chamber of Commerce, where someone had misspelled February in the usual, infuriating way. I’d also had my eye on a sign at my hairdresser’s that said Everyone needs to keep track of there own belongings. I could cover the initial t and the final e, making the sign read her own belongings, acceptable for a mostly female clientele. What I hadn’t figured out was how I’d get to the errant signs while no one was looking.
I added the city’s bulletin board to my fix-it list. I could offer to help Retta with one of her many projects and get the key under the guise of posting the event. I’d have to be careful not to arouse her suspicions, though, since I wasn’t in the habit of supporting her civic do-gooding. Pondering how to get those things done took my mind off my uncomfortable situation, and I dozed off again.
A couple hours later, when I woke up achy from sleeping on a chilly hardwood floor, I promised myself I’d be a trouper. I’d keep the drawbacks of primitive living to myself. Therefore, when I mentioned how creepy the outhouse was, it was a warning, not a complaint.
“Of course it’s creepy, Barbara!” Retta put on her coat and boots in preparation for her own visit. “Who expects an outhouse to be anything but?” She clomped to the door and left, closing it with a vigorous scrape.
“An outhouse!” Win shuddered. “Germs and bacteria.”
Despite my own repugnance, I felt a responsibility to defend Rory’s territory in his absence. “If you’d lived in the Tudor era, you and everyone you knew would have used one. One castle I saw has an outhouse built into the upper wall, and another one had a two-holer. I did wonder about people who went in there together, but—”
“I’m in no mood for a history lesson.” Darrow turned his back, letting me ponder ancient outhouses on my own.
When Retta returned he asked, “How bad is it?”
“You’ll survive,” she replied tersely.
He pointed at me. “She said creepy. Does that mean things are creeping around in there?”
Retta rolled her eyes. “It’s January, Winston. There aren’t any bugs.”
“Bugs aren’t the only things that creep,” he grumbled. “Maybe I’ll just wait.”
With a sigh, Retta unzipped the duffel bag. “That’s totally your choice.”
Breakfast was a candy bar and a bottle of water. Since there were only two chairs, one of us had to stand to eat, and Retta and I let Darrow play the gentleman’s role, each taking a chair without bothering to ask if he minded. When his chocolate was gone, he raised his nose a little and asked, “Are there any more sandwiches?” No one answered him. He looked longingly at the remaining candy bars, but Retta shook her head.
“Until we know how long we have to be out here, we need to be careful with the food.”
“Hey, I’m a growing boy!” He tried to cover his argument with a jovial tone. “Besides, I thought women were always watching their figures.”
“Maybe the women you consort with,” I said bluntly. He went quiet, eyeing the remains of Retta’s candy bar with longing. Either she didn’t notice or she didn’t care.
The cabin was drafty, its corners cold. I’d set my chair directly in front of the fireplace, but it wasn’t a perfect place to break my fast. There was nowhere to set my cup of water except on the floor, and I had to rotate the chair ninety degrees every few minutes to keep from frying like bacon in a pan. Despite my resolve I heard myself mutter, “My rear’s burning and my face is freezing!”
“Then don’t sit so close!” Retta snapped. Without waiting for me to act, she rose and pulled my chair, with me in it, away from the fireplace, making a scraping sound that raised the level of my irritation exponentially. “You and Winston should have a griping contest,” she said in a voice that sounded like our mother at her angriest. “You’re both really good at it.”
Darrow’s bottom lip protruded at her criticism. I also resented being repositioned against my will, and I opened my mouth to say so.
Retta changed the subject. “You should have told Rory to let us know when he got home.” She checked her watch. “Text his personal cell. I’m sure you have the number.”
Reluctant to obey her imperious command, I checked my own watch. Seven a.m. Rory was either getting ready for work or on his way. “Give him another hour,” I said. “By then he’ll have talked to the state police, and we’ll know who’s coming to get us.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Faye
My stressful morning continued. I could get no word on Chief Neuencamp from the hospital, since I wasn’t family. In desperation I called Tom Stevens, the deputy chief. We’d known each other since high school, so I figured he’d give me something.
“He’s awake and coherent,” Tom said. “They’re being cautious, checking him out six ways from sundown.” He chuckled. “He isn’t happy about it. Chief ain’t a guy who likes to wait around for other people.” He sounded just a touch critical. Tom isn’t known as a man of action, which was probably why Rory was brought in when the chief’s job came open.
“Is anyone with him?” I couldn’t imagine waking from a traumatic event with no friendly face beside me.
“His daughter’s somewhere down south,” Tom said, adding as an afterthought, “The girls sent him flowers from all of us.”
“I’m sure he’ll appreciate that.”
“They said he asked about you first thing.”
“Me?”
“Well, all of you, you know. Retta and Barb and that guy you arrested.”
“Winston Darrow.”
“Yeah. He wanted to know if anybody heard anything.”
“I’ll contact him. Thanks, Tom.” Before he could start asking questions, I ended the call.
A snuffy little sigh sounded at my feet, and I reached down to scratch Buddy’s ears. He’d followed me around all morning, settling under my desk when I sat down to work. When it looked like that was going to be his spot of choice, I went and got an afghan one of Dale’s aunts made for us. A hideous mix of browns and purples, it was nevertheless soft and warm, so I spread it under the desk for the dog to lie on. He followed me to the bedroom and back, apparently curious to see what I intended, but when I sat down again he turned around a few times on the blanket and settled in for a nap.
Buddy was both a joy and a concern. There was evidence he’d had training at some point. He scratched at the back door when he needed to go outside. He was used to a collar and didn’t mind a leash as long as I was at the other end. He wasn’t fussy about food, only about who offered it. He didn’t like visitors, and I’d have to work on that. It’s hard to interview clients while your dog growls at them. On the other hand, not all strangers are good guys, so Buddy’s suspicious nature might turn out to be helpful at times.
That reminded me of Chief Neuencamp. If his condition was good, he’d be anxious to know that Barb and the others were okay. If he wasn’t doing well, I’d have to let Barb know. When I called and asked for him, a woman informed me he’d been taken to the lab for tests. “Can you give him a message?” I asked. “Please tell him things are all right at the agency.”
She agreed to pass the message on. The chief would know what I knew—almost nothing. Nothing is good in some cases.
The next problem was how to answer Barb’s texts. I didn’t want to lie, but I also didn’t want to tell her the whole truth. Not yet.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Barb
By ten o’clock, I’d texted Rory once and Faye twice and received no answer from either of them. The cabin became a prison as we tried to guess what that meant. I paced, Retta checked her phone constantly, and Darrow stared out the single drafty window, where there was nothing to see but snow. He drew designs in the frost at its edges, scratching at it with his fingernail. The noise got irritating after while, especially si
nce he asked every few minutes, “Do you think something bad happened?” I wanted to scream at him to stop.
To pass the time, I led Darrow again through the events of the last few days. If it triggered a memory he hadn’t yet shared with us, great. If not, at least it would stop the ice-scraping.
It was clear to me that the men who’d kidnapped Darrow had also killed his wife. Because his story remained the same after repeated questioning, I believed he hadn’t known about the book. Stacy had stolen it, probably before they met. Though Max Basca believed otherwise, she’d never trusted Darrow enough to tell him what she’d done.
Turning to him I asked for at least the eighth time, “There’s no book around your place that’s different?”
Because I was facing Darrow, I saw the tiny light in his eyes at my wording. “You’ve thought of something.”
“No, I—”
Before I could finish, Retta was toe to toe with him, her finger under his nose. “Winston Darrow, we’ve had enough of your lies. We risked our lives to help you, so don’t you dare hold out on us!” Her message was punctuated with pokes to his chest, and he leaned against the wall to try to escape them. Her face close to his, she asked pointedly, “Did Stacy mention a book that was special to her?”
“She didn’t, honest. But I might have seen something.”
“When? Where?”
He raised his hands as if in surrender. “I didn’t lie. I never saw any odd book in the house. But when Ms. Evans said, ‘around your place,’ that reminded me of something.”
“Tell us,” Retta demanded.
Darrow’s eyes focused on nothing as he remembered. “One day I went out to the barn to ask what Stacy wanted for supper. It was summertime and the ground was soft, so I didn’t make noise coming down the path. The stable door was open a little, and she was standing in the middle of the room. She had a book—not a story-type book, but one you’d write stuff in.”
“A ledger?”
“More like a journal. She put it into one of those zipper-type plastic folders then put that in a canvas bag.”
“To keep it clean and dry,” Retta murmured.
“I wanted to see where she was going to put it,” Darrow went on, “but the stupid horses smelled me and got all spooky. Stacy turned to look, and I backed around the corner of the building. She came to the doorway and called my name, but I didn’t answer. When she went back inside I heard noises, like stuff sliding across the floor. I went back to the house the long way, through the trees. She never knew I was there.”
“What did you think it was?”
Darrow shrugged. “Her diary, maybe.”
“Did you ever try to find it?” Retta asked.
“I went out there a few times when she was out riding, but like I said, those horses hate me. Whichever one was left there always made a fuss.”
“Stacy never mentioned keeping a diary?”
He shook his head. “I never saw her writing anything.”
An idea buzzed in my mind. “You said she did the banking.”
Nodding, Darrow said, “Once a month she figured out what we needed for household expenses. Then she went to the bank and put money in our joint account to cover it.”
“What’s your bank?” I asked.
“Um, BB&T in Allport.”
“She went there once a month.”
“On the first Monday, like clockwork.”
“Did she take anything with her?”
“Just her purse.” He sniffed. “If you call that suitcase she carried a purse.”
“It was big?”
“Well, no bigger than some others I’ve seen.” His eyes flickered to Retta, whose purses are large enough for a long weekend getaway. They usually have more buckles than a suit of armor, and I’m supposed to call them handbags, not purses. She gives me a look if I forget.
Terminology aside, I was pleased. After multiple retellings of his story, Darrow had revealed a worthwhile tidbit. Turning, I looked at Retta speculatively.
“What?”
“Can you pull off a little deception?”
She snapped her fingers. “Any day of the year. What do you have in mind?”
I began pacing. “Here’s what I think happened. Stacy—or whatever her real name is—stole a large amount of money from Max Basca, a man she shouldn’t have crossed. Possibly to keep him from coming after her, she also took a book filled with information that can hurt him.”
Retta caught on. “Right, but for some reason, the protection it was meant to provide didn’t work out. She had to run.”
“They were looking for a thirty-ish single woman, so she figured she’d be safer as a wife. Winston here happens along, thrilled to be offered a meal ticket.”
Darrow turned from the window to glare at me. “I told you, it wasn’t like that.”
“Who made the first move?” I demanded.
“Well, she did.”
“And who suggested marriage?”
His head drooped. “She said she knew from the moment we met.” What sounded romantic then sounded suspicious now, and for once he had no more to say.
I looked back at Retta. “Instead of having it all, the way she’d imagined it, Stacy was afraid, every single day. She moved to a remote spot in Michigan. She became less and less comfortable in public.” To Darrow I said, “Did Stacy begin acting differently recently? Even less willing to leave the house, maybe?”
He thought about it. “Yeah. Last time she went to the bank, she came back looking upset, but she said she was fine. She spent the rest of the day on her computer.”
“Booking a plane ticket.” Retta’s airbrushed nail emphasized her point on the tabletop.
My mind was still working on the details. “You said she often ordered things on line?”
His answer came with a snort. “All the time! Why?”
“That’s how people who try to disappear are found. They keep something they shouldn’t: membership in a group, a subscription, even an RSS feed.”
He got it. “Stacy wasn’t really Stacy? She was a fake?”
“Changing identities seems to be in fashion, Walter.”
Retta stepped in. “What do you want me to do, Barbara?”
I took a moment to think it through. “Go back to Allport. When you get there, tell Faye all this. She needs to find out who Stacy Darrow really was. While she works on that, visit the bank and learn what you can about whatever Stacy had going.”
“How am I supposed to do that?”
“You’ll think of something.” Going to the corner where we’d piled our snowmobile clothing, I started tossing items to her. “When you get to the main road, call Rory and ask him to meet you at your house. I don’t think those guys will be around, but we should play it safe.”
She stopped with her snow-pants halfway up. “They might be at my house?”
“You’re the girlfriend, remember?”
Her eyes got big. “And if they are there?”
“They’ll take off when a cop car pulls in.” I gestured for her to resume dressing, and she obeyed. “Pack what you need for a couple nights at our place. Go to the bank and find out what you can about Stacy’s personal visits the first of every month.”
Retta was already plotting. “Rory will probably help.”
“He might. Once you learn what you can, go back to the office and stay until this is over. Rory’s called the state police by now, so they’ll come for me and Darrow soon.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Retta
The trip back to Allport didn’t take as long as the trip out had. I had a trail to follow, and the sled went faster with only my weight to carry. Once I got to the groomed trail, the way was familiar, so I pressed the throttle and headed for home.
When I parked the machine behind the house, I came around the garage to find Tom Stevens waiting in his patrol car.
“Good morning, Tom,” I called as I approached. “Is Rory busy?” His somber expression told me something
was wrong. “What is it?”
“Someone attacked him out here last night. Faye found him this morning when she came to see to your dog.”
Barbara had been right to be afraid. “Is he all right?”
Tom shifted his feet. “Still doing tests, I guess.”
I glanced around my yard. “They were waiting here?”
“Someone whacked him then searched his truck.” He put his thumbs in his belt, which called attention to his oversized gut. “What were they after, Retta?”
“That’s what we’re trying to figure out.”
“You girls have Darrow stashed out in the woods, don’t you? You should bring him in where we can protect him.”
“There’s some question about how to protect Winston right now, Tom. Rory tried to, and look what happened to him. Besides, he deputized Barbara, so it’s legal.”
Tom made a clicking sound with his tongue, but he didn’t argue. “I checked your house out. There are footprints all around, like somebody peeked in. You might not want to—”
“I’m staying with my sisters,” I interrupted, shutting off the advice Tom was prone to press on others. “If you’ll wait a few minutes, I’ll pack some things and follow you back to town.”
He seemed about to object, so I added, “I made a red velvet cake you might want to try.” That was enough to assure I even had time for a shower, if I was quick.
As I dressed, I thought about what must have happened. Winston’s enemies had found out about me, as Rory had predicted. They’d come here, looked in my windows, and noted the presence of alarms and a very large dog. Rory had come along at precisely the wrong moment, unaware of the danger. But why had they attacked him?
It came to me in a flash. Basca and his men had thought Rory was Winston. The snowmobile suit and helmet would have made him anonymous. Once they realized their mistake, they’d searched Rory’s truck, looking for some indication of where we’d gone. They probably hadn’t cared much whether Rory was alive or dead once they knew he wasn’t their man.