After parking on the previously trampled-down weeds, we climbed out and made for the back door. Clay and I had filled everyone in on what was going on at Robinson’s. And with the go ahead of the police, they couldn’t wait to see the crime scene and interior of the house.
IPads and iPhones at the ready, we all ventured inside, single file. I expected something to be said about the lingering, foul odor, but apparently Clay had already warned them. Heads were ducked and bodies sidestepped up the narrow stairs that led to the bedrooms.
No one spoke for a moment while everyone took in the visuals of the blood-splattered walls and bed covers. Then all you heard and saw were clicks and flashes, documenting everything minus the raccoon and Harry. Clay gave a walking commentary of what happened as we all filed from room to room, finally ending up in the small bathroom with everyone staring down at the infamous, blood-stained tub.
I’d never look at a claw-foot tub the same way again.
Martha elbowed her way to the forefront, snapped a few pictures, and then stood there. “Rabies! Unbelievable! And those little critters look so cute wearing their masks.”
I agreed, nodding. “Cute didn’t cut it this time, did it?”
Chapter 10
Taking A Stab At The Truth
We all got to work, searching through the numerous dressers and cabinets. Moving on, we eventually made our way downstairs, cutting through the dining area. I noticed a narrow door off to the side of a built-in china cabinet.
“Hey, guys, wait a minute while I check out this closet.”
To my surprise, it wasn’t a closet. It led to another room, Mr. Robinson’s by the look of it. I thought his was upstairs where the bird-watching books were. Why didn’t I notice this before?
Then I realized that from the outside, I had figured his bedroom window was the dining room, and with the door being so narrow, we’d all assumed it was a small closet, one of the few in the entire house. We started to open drawers and built-in cabinets and were rewarded by an assortment of World War II photographs. I flipped through some. These weren’t everyday photos, but appeared to be close-ups of the East German Army. Many were duplicates.
What was the purpose of that?
“Hey, come over here and take a look,” said Clay.
We all joined him at the small bookcase.
“It was hidden behind these other books. It’s a handwritten book in what appears to be German script, written in pen with a hand-sewn binding.”
I turned some of the pages. “Why would he hide this?”
“Maybe it’s stolen. Let me check with a book expert.”
“Good idea. Let’s see what else is here.”
Everyone went back to methodically tossing one article after another onto the bed not wanting to miss a thing. The only interesting item was a photo of a younger Robinson in an American army uniform, sitting in a jeep. It was labeled.
“Hey,” Martha called out from across the room. “Looks like someone made a false-bottom to this drawer.” She pulled on a latch and it lifted. “Well, looky here! It’s a bunch of old daggers with German writing on them.”
Crystal grabbed one, examining it. “Why hide them in there? Doesn’t make sense.” She turned it over. “How do we tell if they’re real or not?”
“Maybe a collector would know,” I said. “Let’s take one and go, hopefully the rest will be safe for now. It’s almost dark and getting hard to see without electricity hooked up.”
Later that evening, after a light supper of Caesar salad laced with chicken that received a thumbs-up, we were still discussing those strange daggers, while polishing off the last bottle of Sauvignon Blanc and trying to figure out what was going on over at Robinson’s house.
“What are your thoughts, guys?” I asked, trying to come up with possibilities myself.
“Having all those daggers is not normal,” said Hazel.
“What would he be doing with that many?” Betty asked.
“I’ve heard of guys bringing home souvenirs from the war, but that looked like more than one man alone would find and drag home,” said Martha. “Think they’re phony?”
I nodded. “That’s a good probability.”
“But why hide them?” asked Betty.
“For a shady business venture, maybe?” Clay ventured.
Being tired, everyone left it at that and said goodnight.
Hmm… A history professor selling phony daggers?
…Well, why not?
I stayed up late that night in Sally’s library. The whole Robinson thing felt like a great storyline for my next book. Clay was used to me wandering off until the wee hours with my laptop. He knew how I got when the story was flowing and I didn’t want to forget or leave out anything while it was still fresh in my mind.
What intrigued me was that some questions were beginning to accumulate in the unexplainable column. That usually meant something was going on that didn’t feel right. And when it didn’t feel right, I had to dig deeper.
I know, I know, I’m looking for trouble.
But after finding an old handwritten German book, war photos, daggers, including one bludgeoned, dead raccoon, and dearly-departed Harry, what would you do, just sit there? Besides, nothing was going to surprise me, now. I’d probably seen the worst of what was out there. But a pushy voice deep inside me kept saying, ‘Ha! Think again.’
Chapter 11
Finders Keepers, Losers Weepers
So now this brings us back to where I started this book, meeting the Ms. Sarah Smith to confirm her outlandish statement. The seven of us stood there, standing in a section of Sarah’s woods. Like I said, we were standing in it, but weren’t staring at it. Sure enough, someone had come, cut it down, and cleared it out completely, just like she said.
Martha said, “I’ll be darned. It’s as naked as a jay bird.”
“There is nothing to take a picture of,” grumbled Hazel.
“That about sizes it up,” said Crystal, looking around.
Sarah, a stylish, gorgeous redhead hugged herself. “How could anyone do this? I go away for the weekend and come back to this!” she said gesturing toward the vacant area.
“Was your husband with you?” I asked.
“No. My husband, George is a lot older than me and mostly homebound. A neighbor or two stop by to check on him or bring him food when I leave for a few days…”
She never finished. Her vague answer spoke volumes.
“Did your husband hear anything?” Clay asked.
“No. George is deaf, and this is some distance from the house, so you can’t see it from any of the windows. I doubt he had any clue as to what happened way down here. These houses aren’t that close because most of these properties are a hundred or more acres.”
“How’d you know your woods were stolen?” I asked.
“Being so attuned to health issues because of George, I have taken up going for long walks down this lane.”
My ears perked up. “So you walk by Robinson’s, too?”
Sarah nodded. “Why, yes, I do, almost every day.”
I could see the interest gathering in the group.
“Do you walk the same time each day?” Betty asked.
“Yes. Weather permitting, that is,” replied Sarah.
I turned, visually placing Robinson’s property line across the road. It started about a hundred yards down. We were located about twenty yards in off that road. A dirt drive led into her woods – or what had been woods. If you weren’t familiar with the land, you wouldn’t necessarily notice what happened to this hidden section of her property.
“How often does this clear-cutting happen?” Clay asked.
Sarah sighed. “More than you’d expect, mostly when someone is away, or they are a part-time owner, who is shocked when they come back. It is always someone who owns a large wooded parcel, too. I figured that since I am only gone a day or two at a time, and with the neighbors checking in on George, we were secure. I guess not.”
“What did the police have to say?” I asked.
“I didn’t call them. I would merely be added onto the growing list of names of the other victims. So why bother?”
“Why would someone steal your woods?” Clay asked.
“Lumber is big business and brings in big money.”
Ah! That’s another issue involving the money angle.
Chapter 12
Chasing The Moos Away
Everyone else thought it was a great idea. Somehow, it quickly escalated into a group outing, right after I agreed to look into the matter for Sarah. She was so appreciative she offered us three of her horses to take on a horseback ride that afternoon. Crystal said that with the three additional horses at Sally’s place, we’d go for a ride right after lunch.
There…was…no…way.
Needless to say, lunch didn’t set well with me, as I was already mentally nervous about riding and playing cowgirl on something taller than my car.
Why not go out and stab myself? It must be less painful.
“I don’t know about this,” I said, afterward, staring up at the Morgan I was assigned to. Her name was Amanda.
“She’s my favorite, a purebred Morgan,” said Crystal. “She’s gentle and has a great past.”
I looked Amanda over. “What is so special about her?”
“You can trace her lineage back to a single sire, a stallion named Figure, who was born in West Springfield, Massachusetts in 1789. At one time, Justin Morgan owned him. Later on, Figure became known by this particular owner’s name, and so the name Morgan breed.”
Now interested, I asked, “What were they used for?”
“They were used in harness racing in the 1840’s, in the Civil War as cavalry mounts, and also used in the Pony Express in the western part of the United States.”
I was still intimidated by her mass. “How tall is she?”
“Amanda’s about fourteen hands, just like Figure.”
“What does that mean?” I asked, checking out her compact body and chestnut color, and then laughed as Amanda turned in my direction and gently nudged me.
“It’s how we measure horses. Fourteen hands are about 1.42 meters. The average Morgan is between fourteen and fifteen hands. She weighs about nine hundred and fifty pounds, like Figure, that original Morgan. Sally said he died in 1821 at the ripe old age of thirty-two and was buried over in Tunbridge, Vermont.”
I sized up Amanda again. “…Well …maybe I’ll try.”
Martha, Betty and Hazel had on their Harley riding gear, minus the goggles, thank goodness. Crystal, Clay, and yours truly wore T-shirts, jeans, and boots. I looked up at Amanda’s face. I mean she looked harmless enough. Winking, Clay boosted me up and over. Amanda shuffled around in place then settled down. She really was gentle.
A novice, I’d ride in the middle behind Clay and Crystal and in front of Martha, Hazel and Betty, so they could keep an eye on me because everyone else had horse-riding experience. My only experience that came close to this much animal was at a steakhouse with a salad on the side.
After an hour and a half, we started to spread further apart. I relaxed, getting the hang of it. As long as nothing spooked Amanda, I figured I’d be just fine. In short order, I was thoroughly enjoying the meadows, dusty horse-trails, and views of the majestic mountains.
I heard the sound of an engine in the distance, but gave it little thought. The scenery had my total attention. But as the noise increased, I felt Amanda become restless. Nervously, I cooed her, while gently patting her back to calm her – and me – down.
I began hearing shouts from behind me so I turned around to my right to have a look. Everyone was waving their arms. I waved back, smiling. But then my breath caught. A red pick-up was headed straight for Amanda’s left flank. Terrified, I turned to face forward and gripped the reigns tighter. Amanda reacted and reared up on her hind legs, just as the truck’s fender skimmed past.
In a flash, the truck swerved away in a cloud of dust, turning at the next corner and disappeared. Clay and Crystal had turned back at hearing the truck. But I was no longer there. I was now headed in another direction. Startled, Amanda had bolted, jumped a low fence, and was racing across a pasture with me hanging on for dear life.
You know, I heard that when you feel like you are facing death, your life passes before you. Well, mine flew by in about thirty seconds. That was all I had time for because a pond was approaching real fast and Amanda was not exactly trying to stop. I was wrong. She did stop and quite abruptly, but not me. No sir. I flew up and over her in a wide, unladylike arc.
Just before I hit the drink, I noticed large, brown creatures looking up at me. They were just as startled and were very hefty. I caught a glimpse of horns.
Uh, oh! Bulls?
Chapter 13
Going Long And Coming Up Short
In football terms you’d call it going long. But eventually you know it’s going to drop, and I did with a loud splash. In seconds I came up for air, splashing like a wild woman and looking all around. I know I’m no expert, but I recognized cattle when I saw them, and they weren’t glad to see me. Some stomped the ground and snorted angrily.
Behind me I heard a lot of yelling and I turned while treading water. A farmer was tearing across his field in his tractor aiming right for the cluster of steers. To my relief, in seconds they scattered when the tractor’s engine roared in.
He jumped off the tractor after he brought it close to the water’s edge. The best-looking farmer I have ever laid my eyes on was swinging a rope in my direction. At least about six foot, his muscular body said he was no stranger to hard manual labor. No, he got an A+ in my book.
Of course, I have never laid eyes on a real farmer before, but you get the visuals, right?
He threw it to me and I latched on. No longer panic-stricken, I bravely stretched out my legs only to find I was standing, completely embarrassed I might add, in only a neck-high cattle-drinking pond. But he still scooped me up into his arms after walking into the water to retrieve me.
When we reached the edge, he stood me upright on dry land. Drenched, I was short of breath and still shaking from the dizzying ordeal. It’s not every day I came face to face with animals that large except at the zoo. By this time, everyone had climbed the fence and was rushing over to us with Amanda in tow.
“Where am I?” I asked, disoriented, looking all around.
The handsome farmer beside me said, “You took quite a spill, and are lucky you didn’t break your neck. You’re in Sanbornton, down the way from Robinson’s place.”
I shook my head, still confused. How did we get back to the area where we started? But with all that cutting through woods, meadows, trails, and dusty roads, I guess it was possible. I turned to him and stuck out my drippy hand.
“I’m Samantha Jamison. I guess my horse got spooked. Thanks for the rescue.”
He took off his hat, revealing a head of blonde-streaked hair that was tied back in a ponytail at the nape of his neck.
I heard voices and turned. My friends had finally caught up and were standing there, breathless, grinning at my hero. That is, all except Clay. He came up short when this farmer turned around and smiled a million dollar, megawatt smile.
“Hey, there, I’m Jackson Porter.”
Chapter 14
Regrouping, But Not Regretting
Crystal marched right up to the guy and thanked him personally. After that, so did the other three ladies. Clay hung back, debating what to do. I tried to ease the situation and sloshed over to Clay, pushing back my sopping hair.
It always came down to testosterone, didn’t it?
“Jackson, I’d like you to meet Clay.”
Clay reluctantly stepped forward and shook his hand. “Hi, I’m Clay Masters. Thanks for helping Sam.”
Jackson side-glanced me. “Oh, it was my pleasure. It’s not often we get such pretty women to rescue around here.”
I looked down at Clay’s hands. They were balled into
fists. I had to defuse the situation real quick. “I guess we’ll be getting on our way, right, Clay?”
Realizing I was ready to go and leaving with him, Clay finally grinned. I was back in his corner. Relieved I was safe; he shook Jackson’s hand again, “Thanks.”
But Martha wasn’t ready just yet. “You have some property here! How many acres do you have, Jackson?”
I looked over to her, wondering what she was up to.
Jackson smiled, the crinkles around his eyes a bit much.
“I have two hundred twenty-five acres, give or take.”
“What do you mean, give or take?” Betty asked.
“Well, according to the old town records, everything was approximate. Nothing was exact, so they always said give or take, you know, plus or minus.”
“You raise cattle?” I asked now curious myself.
“I figured I’d try something to bring in extra money.”
Betty looked across the field. “What kind of cattle?”
“They’re Herefords, a cattle breed that does well here.”
“You seem to be the odd man out, here,” said Martha. “Everyone else around you has horses. Any complaints?”
Jackson’s eyes flashed annoyance, then crinkled again as he smiled. “Everyone gets along just fine around here.”
“Do you live here with your wife?” Hazel asked.
“I’ve never found the right woman to settle down with.”
“And why not?” Crystal probed.
When he answered her, he looked right at me and winked. “I haven’t found the right woman. I’m looking for someone who can talk and chew gum at the same time.”
I laughed, then looked over at Clay. But he wasn’t laughing, or smiling. “Clay, I think it’s time to head back.”
His eyes cut to mine. “Are you sure?” he asked, but his eyes were asking something completely different.
A Lethal Time (A Samantha Jamison Mystery Volume 4) Page 3