Death At The Diner (A Moose River Mystery Book 7)

by Jeff Shelby

She sighed. “Alright, fine. I know.” There was silence. “How is your new…house?”

  “It’s fine,” I told her. I blew on the cup of tea I was holding, trying to cool it down to a more drinkable temperature. I’d managed to unearth the coffeemaker on the first day of unpacking but where the coffee filters were remained a mystery. I wondered if maybe I’d run out before packing everything up and had simply forgotten to buy more. My memory was decidedly middle-aged, even if the rest of me didn’t feel it.

  She didn’t ask how the move had gone or if I was finished unpacking or if I’d met any neighbors. But I pretended as though she had.

  “I’ve made some headway with unpacking but still have a ways to go. My neighbor dropped by yesterday with some fresh eggs—he’s going to help me get a coop set up, he said—and a woman from town delivered some homemade scones and bread. They’re both delicious.”

  “That’s nice,” she murmured.

  “I’m planning to go into town soon to set up a local bank account and get some grocery shopping done. There isn’t a Giant or a Food Lion here—I have to head into Charlottesville for that—but there’s a local general store that Marcia told me is pretty well-stocked.”

  “That’s nice,” she said again.

  I sighed. “Are you ever going to forgive me for moving? Is this how it’s going to be from now on? You avoiding calling me and then when I call you, just muttering and mumbling responses?”

  “I’m not avoiding you,” she told me. “I’ve been busy. The kids turned in their Civil War projects last week and I’ve spent every free hour I’ve had grading them.”

  We both knew this was a lie but I let it go. I knew my daughter and I knew she was hurting. I knew she’d stew for a while but she could never hold a grudge for very long. She was like me that way.

  “Okay,” I said, giving in. I wasn’t going to argue with her. “I just wanted to call and let you know I was still alive. I haven’t been pinned under a gigantic pile of boxes, and I haven’t been attacked by any wild farm animals. Yet.”

  “Mother.”

  “I’m teasing.” I took a sip of tea. Chamomile, no honey. Apparently I was out of that, too.

  “I have to get ready for school,” she said. “Tayvon is coming in early to make up the spelling test he missed yesterday, and I still need to finish my classroom display on monarch migration.”

  I smiled. Laura could be a pain in the rear as a daughter, but she was a first-rate teacher. “I won’t keep you,” I said. “I just wanted to call and tell you I love you and I miss you and I’m thinking about you. I’m hoping you’ll come visit soon so I can show you around.”

  She hadn’t wanted to see the pictures online or the brochure I’d brought home. I’d shoved them in front of her anyway, but knowing my daughter, she’d probably squinted her eyes shut so she wouldn’t have to see them. If she didn’t see them, it wouldn’t be real. That was how she sometimes thought.

  The line was quiet.

  “Laura? You still there?”

  “I’m here. And…I love you, too. I’ll…I’ll talk to you soon.” And she was gone.

  I ended the call and took another sip of tea and smiled. It was progress.

  I refilled my tea and ate one of the cranberry scones Sophia had delivered the day before. It was sweet and tart and buttery, and I added scone making to my mental list of things to learn how to do. I’d always made mine from those little bags they sold at gourmet food stores, the ones where you just added water and stirred. I was pretty sure Sophia’s were a little more complicated than that.

  I picked at the crumbs left on the napkin and surveyed the kitchen and the living room. I’d made significant progress on the main level, and only a few boxes remained. The upstairs was another story, but it was easy to close the doors to those rooms and pretend the messes didn’t exist.

  Outside, the birds were singing and the spring toads were chorusing. I’d cranked open a few windows and a refreshing breeze blew through the house, one of those spring breezes that was still cool but hinted at the warmth ready to be unleashed later in the day. The daffodils I’d spied that first visit with Marcia danced in the wind, their petals and color already fading, but tulips pushed up behind them, ready to unfurl their symphony of pinks and reds and whites.

  I sighed. It was a happy, contented sigh. No, the house wasn’t completely unpacked and no, I hadn’t started doing any of the things I wanted to do in this new chapter of my life, but I knew everything would fall into place. I needed to take things one day at a time, to remember that all I had was time. No commitments, no demands. For the first time in my life, the only person I had to answer to was me.

  A rooster crowed in the distance, and I wondered if it belonged to Gunnar. It sounded closer, though, almost as if it were on my property.

  “I should investigate,” I said out loud. And then, because that reminded me of Mack Mercy and Capitol Cases, two things that I should no longer be thinking about, I said instead, “I should go explore.”

  Yes. I liked that word much better.

  I drained my tea and worked my feet into my tennis shoes. I grabbed a zip-up hoodie just in case the temperature was cooler than the sun and breeze were indicating, and stepped out into the sunshine.

  I still couldn’t quite believe that the house and property were mine. It had been so easy. I’d gotten an unbelievable price for the house in Arlington and this amount, coupled with my inheritance, had been more than enough to cover the purchase, and with plenty of money to spare. The mortgage process had been pain-free, the move had been a piece of cake. Even the unpacking, although tedious, had been easy.

  I was embarking on a dream. It wasn’t Charlie’s dream—we’d chased all of his when we were married—and it wasn’t one of the kids’, either. It was mine. All mine.

  I wandered down the driveway, my feet kicking up dust and pebbles as it transitioned from asphalt to gravel. The birds were louder, their songs mingling so I couldn’t tell who was visiting the trees and shrubs. I thought I heard a chickadee, maybe a couple of cardinals. A woodpecker drilled into a nearby tree, but I couldn’t see him. The frogs were louder, a cacophony of noise, and the rooster still crowed his good morning song over and over.

  I stopped at the guesthouse and realized I’d forgotten to bring the keys. I didn’t need to go inside, but it still would have been nice to sneak a quick peek, to remind myself what was waiting on the inside. It was adorable, more of a good-sized starter home than a guesthouse. Living room, full kitchen and bath, a good-sized bedroom on the upper floor. There was a bonus room up there, too, a small room with one pitched wall that might have been used as a nursery at some point. There were no closets but there was a small, west-facing window and a radiator for heating it during the winter.

  I wandered past the house and further down the road as it curved sharply to the right, closer to the bungalow and boathouse and pond. I hadn’t spent as much time in those buildings, had really only peeked inside when Frank, the home inspector, had come out for his three-hour assessment. He’d skimped on those, essentially just checking the exteriors for signs of roof damage and structural issues and proclaimed them “safe enough.” I wasn’t sure what that meant but I was certain he’d detailed it in his Moby Dick-sized report.

  The boathouse didn’t interest me much. I could store a canoe or kayak in there, something to use on the pond, but the bungalow held a host of possibilities. We knew it was wired for electric—Frank had said as much, told me it was knob and tube wiring and to make sure I didn’t attempt any DIY electrical work unless I was familiar with that type of wiring. Considering I could barely change a light bulb without consulting a how-to manual, it was pretty safe to say I wouldn’t be messing with anything that conducted thousands of watts of electricity. So because of said electricity, my mind immediately entertained a host of scenarios. I could use it as a studio of some sort. Maybe an artist’s studio or a writing retreat. I did neither of those things as hobbies, but that didn’t mean I co
uldn’t start now. I was forty-five, not eighty-five; if the average lifespan held true for me, I still had decades left to find and explore a new hobby.

  And I now had a perfect little hideaway to do it in.

  I surveyed the bungalow with a critical eye. It wasn’t much to look at from the outside. Wood siding, painted white, the paint cracked and peeling. The roof tiles were green, just like the main house, and the windows didn’t have screens, which meant opening them to let the breeze in would allow bugs and critters in, too. But still. It had potential.

  I stepped off the driveway and into the overgrown grass that surrounded the bungalow. Truly, the first order of business was going to need to be mowing. Which meant I was going to need to either hire someone or buy a ride-on lawnmower, because there was no way my little red Yard Machine could handle five acres of grass. But first, I wanted to look inside my retreat.

  I rubbed the grime from the window next to the door, cleaning a small circle to peer through. It was just like I remembered it. Unfurnished, save for an old wooden dresser with a missing drawer tucked in one of the corners. There were some odds and ends in there—an old push broom, a bucket, some shallow cardboard boxes filled with odds and ends, but otherwise it was empty.

  Out of habit, I reached for the door handle and twisted. It opened.

  “Huh,” I said out loud. I’d gotten used to talking to myself over the last few days. “Wonder why this is open.”

  Maybe we’d forgotten to lock it after Frank’s brief inspection. It was possible; we’d had a lot of ground to cover that day and he had a dance recital—one of his granddaughter’s—he’d been trying to get back to Charlottesville for.

  I pushed the door open and a cloud of dust motes danced in the beam of sunlight that shot through the door with me. The one-room building was musty and choked with dust and cobwebs, but the bones of it were good. Solid. I knew I could make something out of it, just like I would make something out of the whole property.

  It was destiny.

  My dream.

  I stepped inside, pushing the door wider, letting the sunshine stream in. It illuminated the room, the whole glorious mess, and I smiled. I was going to take great pleasure in turning this trash into a treasure. I could paint the dresser, maybe insert a piece of wood where the missing drawer was and turn it into a shelf. I could wipe down the cobwebs and paint the walls and sweep the wood plank floors and fill that bucket with water and scrub the windows until they positively sparkled. I’d dig through the smattering of boxes—maybe I’d find some cool stuff—before clearing those out, too. I scanned the room, making sure I didn’t miss anything that would need my attention.

  And there, with the sun beaming across the room, I noticed something in the corner. Something that hadn’t been there when I’d peeked in with Marcia or when Frank had done his quick inspection.

  A body.

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