The sky was gray and overcast, which only added to the gloomy unappeal of the Bonaparte House. Maybe I wasn’t ready to go back yet. I decided to give myself a few more hours, then if I still felt creeped out, I could go back to the Camelot for the night.
My car started right up, for which I said a little prayer of thanks to the Car Battery Gods. Between November and April, due to the cold climate, it wasn’t always a given that one’s car would start. As the car warmed up, I dialed my cell phone with slightly numb fingers. “Dolly? You home? Can I come out for a visit?”
Her cough started up again. When she got it under control, she said, “Come on over. There’s scalloped potatoes and ham for dinner. Harold did the cooking. I ain’t feeling so good. But I supervised and pulled a pie out of the freezer.”
“Need anything from the drugstore? I’ll be right over.”
TEN
Dolly lived just outside of town, so the trip was short. Her place was one of a row of houses that lined a short street. Behind the houses was a big hayfield, now covered in snow, and beyond that was a copse of dense woods that obscured Silver Lake from view. I kept on driving. A glance at the sky told me that maybe fifteen minutes of light were left, and I wanted to see the Silver Lake property for myself. The Tyvek wrap was still flapping in the wind on the enormous unfinished garage Russ Riley had constructed last summer between Dolly’s house and his own. The place was quiet, and I wondered who was taking care of Russ’s half-dozen beagles while he was in jail. And I wondered if he’d ever be able to use that enormous garage for hanging his more-than-strictly-legal haul of deer.
Half a mile past Russ’s house I turned left onto Silver Lake Road. Ruby Turnbull’s farmhouse stood by itself, a two-story building made of pale beige stone, probably built before the Civil War. A huge weathered wooden barn on a rough rock foundation lay behind the house, flanked by smaller outbuildings in various states of repair. Last I heard, Mrs. Turnbull, who had to be in her eighties, was still tending her own few cows and chickens, and raising a vegetable garden every summer. She drove into town in her ancient Ford pickup for breakfast once in a while. Why now, after all these years, was she ready to sell off the Silver Lake frontage? If she’d been planning to move south, she would have done it by now.
I slowed and turned left again, this time onto a dirt path. A sign in front of me said, “Seasonal Road. Not Maintained After December 1.” Thankfully, it was only November, and a plow and/or sander had been here before me. Otherwise I never would have risked this trip with my compact car. The woods on either side of the road were covered in a thick mix of hardwood trees. A stump here and there showed that someone had been cutting firewood, a common way to heat homes in the North Country, wood being cheap and plentiful.
The road twisted and turned, following the natural ridges and hills of the terrain, until it finally ended at a level spot with a plowed turnaround. A beautiful expanse of lake opened up in front of me. There were seasonal camps on the other end, small utilitarian one- or two-story cabins, in stark contrast to the elaborate Victorian mansions just a few miles away on the St. Lawrence River. But where I stood now, the woods and shore and water were undisturbed. Pristine.
I could understand why someone would want a vacation home overlooking this lovely bit of nature.
I could understand why someone else might not want that lovely bit of nature to change.
If it were up to me, though it pained me to think it, I’d have to side with Russ on this one.
The car was still warm as I got back in and headed back out the way I’d come, grateful for my snow tires on the small hills that had to be climbed, driving slowly to be sure the car stayed on the road on the sharp curves.
Just as dusk fell, I rolled to a stop in Dolly’s driveway, behind her metallic green Ford LTD. She hadn’t driven it since the snowfall, because it was covered with a couple inches of white stuff. Her lawn ornaments were put away for the winter, but she had a silver foil Christmas tree set up on the covered front porch. The blue lights twinkled, and the silver gleamed against it. Dolly loved anything shiny, sparkly, and bright.
A chorus of muffled yips and barks sounded behind the blue-painted door. Russ’s dogs, no doubt. “Shuddup!” came a male voice as the door opened. “Not you, Georgie. Come on in where it’s warm.”
Six or seven small brown and white dogs with floppy ears rushed toward me. Dolly’s live-in boyfriend, Harold, ordered, “Down!” and herded them toward a side room. He slammed the door before any of the beasts could escape, then brushed his hands on his faded jeans. He took my coat and hung it on a coat tree just inside the front door. Not only would I be warm inside, I would be sweating. Thanks to a woodstove combusting away, it was over eighty degrees in here. “Sorry about the animals. Russ’s dogs, you know.”
“Hey, Harold. That’s okay.” I lowered my voice. “How’s Dolly? That cough of hers has me a little worried.” I handed him the six-pack and bottle of wine I’d picked up in town.
Harold’s weathered face wrinkled into a frown. “I’ve been after her to go see Doc Phelps. She won’t listen. Maybe you can try? I’ll go put these in the fridge.” He inclined his head toward the living room. “She’s in there. Go on and sit down. Supper’ll be ready in fifteen minutes.”
Dolly was sitting in a green leather recliner, wrapped in a brightly colored granny square afghan. “Long time no see,” she said, pointing the remote control at the television and turning down the volume, but leaving the screen on.
“I heard there was pie, and I couldn’t stay away.”
She emitted what must have been a laugh, which immediately sent her into a fit of coughing. Her trademark high blond hairdo, however, barely moved. I observed her closely. Clearly she was not suffering from whatever Melanie and Caitlyn had, and she wasn’t acutely sick, but her general appearance told me she might be soon if she didn’t take care of herself.
“Dolly, will you let me call the doctor and make an appointment for you? I’ll drive you if Harold can’t.”
She waved a hand in the air. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”
I wasn’t so sure about that. This didn’t look like an ordinary cold. She’d smoked for thirty years before giving it up, and she’d almost certainly done some major damage to her lungs. At the very least, especially with winter already here, she should be checked out for bronchitis or pneumonia. I would have to be more subtle to get her to agree to a doctor’s visit; that much was clear.
“Any news about Russ?” No need to be subtle about that. Dolly and I were practically family.
“He’s lawyered up, some public defender from Watertown,” she wheezed. Her next words were harsh. “And he’s got his work cut out for him.”
“How so?” From what I’d heard, the evidence against Russ was enough to warrant an arrest, but frankly it seemed like a decent lawyer could establish reasonable doubt.
“You know about the fingerprints and the threats he made, right?” She coughed again.
I nodded. “But the fingerprints don’t convince me. Russ worked at the Bonaparte House for years. And people get into arguments all the time.” Maybe they didn’t threaten out loud to kill other people, but threatening and actually doing were very different things.
“Well, that’s all they got, at least that’s all they’re telling us. She rolled her eyes. “But he’s acting like an idiot in jail. Went after a guard. Threw stuff around his cell. Complained about the food.” This set her off into another fit of coughing, and this time it sounded painful.
There was a glass of water sitting on the small table between us. I handed her the drink. Her face was red and her breathing was ragged. I cursed Russ for causing this poor woman such pain, as if he had directly triggered this attack. Dolly’s demeanor was tough and no-nonsense, but Russ was still her son and she loved him. Even if he didn’t deserve it. Maybe she loved him because he didn’t deserve it. Me, I
wished I had a piece of him right now.
“Dinner’s on,” Harold’s voice rang out like a chuck wagon cook. “Come and get it.”
Dolly threw the afghan over the back of the recliner, then led me to the kitchen. The conversation about Russ was clearly over.
We sat down at the kitchen table. On a trivet in the center of the table sat a thirteen-by-nine-inch Pyrex dish, which was emitting a savory aroma that made my mouth water. Chunks of pink ham peeked up from the surface of the browned and bubbly casserole. I was willing to bet there was not a canned cream soup in sight when this had been made. “Dig in,” Harold said, clearly proud of his efforts. I scooped some onto my plate, then added some buttered green beans. Low calorie? Nope. Heart healthy? Regrettably, no. Perfect on a cold November night with good friends? Heck yes.
I passed the serving spoon to Harold, who solicitously filled a plate for Dolly, then filled his own. Finally, I could take a bite, even though Dolly and Harold wouldn’t expect, or even want, formal dinner etiquette. The food was everything I could have wanted and more. Rich with milk and butter, the potatoes were tender, coated in little flecks of onion and surrounded with nuggets of sweet ham.
A few bites later, when I came out of my brief, comfort-food-induced coma, I asked, “Is this your recipe, Harold?”
He smiled. “My mom’s. She taught me how to make it. Of course, it ain’t as good as hers.”
Dolly laughed, her pearly white dentures on full display. “That’s the only thing he cooks, other than venzun.” Venison, if you lived outside the North Country. “But he does a pretty good job.” She patted the sleeve of his flannel shirt. My heart warmed. I was so glad Dolly had found love again after her first husband died. She deserved to be happy.
I speared a piece of ham and some saucy potato. “Silver Lake is pretty this time of year. I drove down there to take a look before I got here.”
Harold eyed me. “What made you want to do that? You could have gotten that little car stuck.”
“And she would have called us and you would have gone to pull her out,” Dolly piped in. “But I know what this is about.” She took a sip of her hot tea. “Russ and the lawyer and that damned land.”
“Why does Mrs. Turnbull want to sell now, after all these years?”
“Last time I talked to her, she said she had a granddaughter who wanted to go to medical school, and she wanted to help out. It’s not like she ever used the water frontage or the lake for anything. Though she never minded if we put our boat in there or fished off the shore.”
“And the woods were going to go with the property? Would you pass the pepper?” I added.
Dolly handed me the shaker. “Yeah, I guess they were supposed to be a buffer zone from us riffraff.” She gave a little snort, which set her off coughing into her napkin.
“Did Jim MacNamara have any buyers lined up?”
“Not that I know of,” Harold said. “Nothing was definite yet about the sale anyway.”
I shook a little pepper on the potatoes and looked up. “I thought the sale was in the works? That a purchase order had been signed and Steve Murdoch was lined up to do the construction.”
“Nah,” Dolly said.
Harold nodded. “Old Lady Turnbull hadn’t made up her mind.”
“About selling?” I chewed on a green bean.
Dolly and Harold looked at each other. “No,” Harold finally said. “About who she was going to sell to.”
Huh? I looked up from my plate. “There was another potential buyer? I assume the police know this?”
“They do if they’ve talked to Old Lady Turnbull, and I saw a cruiser out there yesterday,” Dolly said, answering my second question first.
“So who else wanted the property?” I leaned forward. So help me, if one of them said it was my mother, I would scream.
“Steve Murdoch,” Harold said.
Pieces started falling into place. Suddenly, my earlier suspicion about Steve took on a new dimension. Steve had been in competition with Jim MacNamara for his wife’s affections. But he’d also been in competition with him for a construction project that would have made one of them rich. Steve would have made money as contractor for the Silver Lake development project. But if he owned the land, as well as undertook the project, his profits would be doubled, tripled, or even more.
I sat back in my chair. Steve, who was struggling with his sobriety. While I was out getting my hair done, he could have helped himself to his booze of choice from my bar, and when MacNamara came to the Bonaparte House for whatever his errand was, Steve saw his opportunity. And took it. And set Russ up to take the fall.
“Russ’s public defender knows all this?” As much as I secretly, sort of, wanted Russ to be guilty so he’d be out of my hair for a couple of decades, I couldn’t let him go to prison for a crime he didn’t commit. There were no doubt plenty of other crimes in his future that he could be caught for, which cheered me a little.
“Yup,” Dolly said. “He’s working on getting Russ released.” She waved her fork and made stabbing motions in the air with it. “But they can take their time. It’ll do his butt good to have it parked in jail for a few more days.”
I reviewed what I knew so far. Nope, no need for me to go to the police. If what Dolly and Harold said was true, and I’d never had reason to doubt either of them before, the police had all the information I did. Good. The fewer meetings with Detective Hawthorne, the better. I just had to let justice take its course.
“So,” I said, giving Harold a little wink, then turning to Dolly. Harold’s pale blue eyes twinkled. “You still want to work Thanksgiving? Assuming the restrooms are finished?” If Steve turned out to be guilty, I’d have to find a new contractor, but it wasn’t a huge project so it might not be too hard. I looked out the window into the night. Snow fell, illuminated by the light on the garage.
She stared at me. “And who else would you get to cook for you?” Her tone was indignant.
“Oh, I don’t know. Paloma maybe?” Paloma was the cook Dolly would be training in the spring to work at Spinky’s. Paloma had been working in the high school cafeteria for a few years but she had no experience as a restaurant cook.
Dolly’s face flushed. “What? She ain’t ready for that.” I hoped she wouldn’t start coughing again.
“Well,” I said innocently. “If you’re sick, you can’t cook.”
“I’m not sick!” she said, then coughed.
Harold pressed his lips together, clearly stifling a laugh.
“Then you won’t mind going to see Doc Phelps just to make sure.” I smiled at her. “Because you know I can’t let you cook for me unless you get checked out.”
Dolly’s eyes went from me, to Harold, then back again. They narrowed, then she sighed. “Fine. You got me. I’ll call in the morning.”
“And I’ll drive you,” I said.
Harold looked out the window. “Speaking of driving, you’re not going anywhere tonight, you know that?”
I glanced out at the snow, which was falling at a pretty good clip. It wasn’t a long drive back to the Bonaparte House, but the plow hadn’t been back through yet. And to tell the truth, the prospect of sleeping alone in that big old pile of rocks didn’t exactly frost my cupcakes.
“You’ll stay,” Dolly ordered. “Hope you don’t mind the couch. The dogs are in the spare bedroom.”
“I’ll take you up on that. And I’ll clean up from dinner.” In the morning, I would call and make that appointment for her myself. I stood and began clearing plates. Harold smiled up at me. “How about some coffee? We can take it in the living room with our pie.”
“Harold! Georgie’s a guest in our home.” I realized she hadn’t eaten much. Her face was pale. I hoped whatever she had wasn’t contagious.
“She’s no guest,” Harold countered. “She’s family.”
I had to
smile. That was one way to get me to do the dishes.
ELEVEN
The next morning I found myself on the couch, swaddled like a mummy, if the Egyptians had crocheted afghans and velour blankets. It was toasty warm, and my cheek brushed the flannel pillowcase. Maybe just a few more minutes of shut-eye.
A chorus of yips and barks sounded from somewhere in the house and my eyes flew open. What sounded like a few hundred feet thundered across the floor in the next room. “Hold on and I’ll let you out, you little devils!” The front door opened, then shut a few seconds later, and the barking was muffled again. Harold had apparently let the dogs out. Woof.
Dolly appeared, wearing a big pink bathrobe and fuzzy slippers. There were dark circles under her eyes, but her hairdo was somehow perfect. No idea how she made that happen. Probably a boatload of hairspray, applied over days between visits to the salon for a set and comb-out. “Mornin’,” she said.
“Good morning, Dolly. How did you sleep?” I disengaged myself, regretfully, from the blankets, stood, and put my hands in the pockets of the flannel pajama pants she’d lent me last night—camouflage in a pink color scheme, which would bode well for the deer if these clothes had actually been designed to wear for hunting.
“Eh, all right.” She cut her eyes to me. “Let’s have some breakfast and get this over with. I can’t fight both of you.”
I knew what she meant. I wasn’t a fan of doctors either, but it had to be done. “I’ll call and make the appointment.”
An hour later we’d eaten—eggs and toast, prepared by me, not that I minded a bit, since Harold had to work. The sky was a bright winter blue, and the sun sparkled on the crust of the snow that had fallen last night. Harold, bless him, had cleaned the snow off my car and turned on the defroster before he left, so the car was ready for us as we piled in to make the trip back into town.
A Killer Kebab Page 9