Sleuthing at Sweet Springs (The Sleuth Sisters Mysteries Book 4)

by Maggie Pill

  Having no good answer, I went with Conversational Old Reliable, the weather. “It’s a beautiful day.”

  “I know,” she replied. “One of the girls took me outside this morning. We went all the way around the building so I could see spots where the colors are starting to change. You can feel the crispness in the air.” She smiled ruefully. “They wouldn’t let me go by myself for fear I’ll fall and break a hip or something.”

  “It’s a real problem in nursing homes, I understand.”

  Her lips pursed briefly. “For some, maybe, but at home I fetch wood, feed the chickens, and putter around the lakeshore every single day. I haven’t taken a fall yet.”

  “Sweet Springs is northwest of town isn’t it?” It seemed only right to let her talk about it, since she might never see it again.

  “Yes. Do you know it?”

  “I’ve lived here all my life, so I’ve heard the name, but I don’t think I’ve ever been out there.”

  “It’s a spring-fed lake.” She looked away as if picturing it. “Most people don’t see it, because it’s privately owned.”

  “You own a whole lake?”

  Clara chuckled. “Not by myself. Back in the 1880s, my family came from Canada with three others. They settled around the lake and divided it equally.”

  “The original families still live on the land?”

  Adjusting her glasses, which had slid down her thin nose, she explained. “The Clausens moved to Wyoming in ’07 when the economy crashed. The Warners’ house burned last month, but they live in Detroit and only visit occasionally. That leaves just two old codgers as full-time residents, my old schoolmate Caleb Marsh on one side of the lake and me on the other.”

  “And you’re here.”

  “Temporarily,” she reminded me.

  Avoiding her eyes, I nodded.

  Clara sighed. “The niece I mentioned earlier is a real estate agent. She keeps saying she can get me a nice chunk of money for the property.” She shook her head as if I’d made an argument for selling. “She’ll have to wait till I’m gone to get the commission she wants so much. I can’t imagine not being able to look forward to going back home.”

  ***

  “The poor woman is sure she’ll return to her lake in the near future,” I told Faye as we left the Meadows. We’d come in my vehicle, and she readily agreed to help with the posters. “She was sad,” I finished. “Her niece wants her to sell it.”

  Faye pursed her lips. “Sometimes relatives of the elderly can’t hide their eagerness to make the shift from family to heirs.”

  As I pulled up at the curb, she took the first poster, the hammer, and a couple of small nails and got out. As I watched, hearing the tapping of the hammer as she helped me do my errand, I felt a rush of love and sympathy for my sister.

  Faye’s never had life easy, and it seemed like if one thing got better, a bad thing happened to balance it. Starting our detective agency had been good for Faye, but now her mother-in-law’s condition was rapidly deteriorating. The consultation Faye had just attended concerned enrolling Harriet in hospice care.

  Years ago Dale, Faye’s husband, was disabled in an accident in the woods. Harriet’s other children paid almost no attention to the old woman, which wasn’t surprising given her abrasive personality. That meant the staff at the Meadows considered Faye the old woman’s de facto guardian and had approached her about the need for hospice. Faye wasn’t looking forward to telling Dale that his mother was on a downhill slide likely to end soon. From what I’d heard around town, Dale’s sisters and brother would only take interest when the old woman finally died and it was time to divide her earthly goods.

  More to take Faye’s mind off her troubles than anything else, I went on with my story after she’d hung the poster. “The CNA said Clara shows signs of dementia, but I didn’t see a single thing wrong with her thought process.”

  We reached the next stop and Faye got out, making that grunt of effort I associate with old people. “Some days are probably better than others,” she said before heading off to tack up poster number two. “That’s how it goes.”

  I accepted Faye’s assessment, since she was the one with experience. Harriet’s days were certainly up and down, and her least favorite daughter-in-law got to deal with all points on the Harriet spectrum.

  Chapter Four

  Barb

  Michigan in autumn is one of my greatest joys. Not one for temperatures over seventy-five, I appreciate fall’s cooler days, and no one who has ever seen the change of color can deny its wonders. Maple, elm, and oak trees go from deep green to almost unbelievably bright yellows, reds, and oranges, often beginning at the tips of their branches. Within days the trees are decked out in eye-popping colors.

  As fall approached, I suggested a drive through the countryside. My ’57 Chevy would soon have to go into storage for the winter, and I wanted to take the old girl out a few more times before I locked her up. Retta suggested the four of us could lunch at a little roadhouse famous for good Polish food. She fussed a little, as always, about her fear that a vehicle as old as mine was likely to break down at any moment. I ignored her. Due to my willingness to pay and the skills of a good mechanic, my Chevy hummed like a favorite tune.

  It rained overnight, but the sun had warmed the air nicely by mid-morning. As we drove we pointed out trees that had begun to change. Even some of the roadside shrubs had started turning red. Behind and between the maples and elms, darker green pines and the boles of white birches offered contrast. We were the dullest part of the scene, four middle-aged people passing through miles of natural splendor.

  Faye and Dale sat together in the back seat while Retta rode shotgun. A head injury years ago left Dale sensitive to movement, light, and noise, and being too close to Retta made him edgy. She gestured more than most people, and her voice was pitched higher than Faye’s or mine. In addition, riding in a car for any distance was hard for Dale, since the scenery rushing by made him dizzy. He generally looked down, so as we traveled, I pulled over periodically at scenic spots so he could snap pictures with the iPhone Faye had recently bought him. With Retta quiet for a change and the calming effect of nature, we were all pretty relaxed.

  At one stop we parked along a ridge where the road overlooked hay fields rimmed in the distance with thick woods. We stood along the guard rail, sharing my binoculars as we pointed out spots of color to each other. Thirty feet below us, the hay had been cut and baled, and a tractor chugged along, picking up the huge rolls of hay to take them to storage. Its musty odor brought back memories of our childhood and as usual, the memories were quite different.

  “Those huge round bales they make now are a lot better than the little square ones Dad made with that old New Holland,” Retta remarked. “Remember how scratched-up we’d get hauling those things around?”

  “It took two of us to move one bale,” I said, “but Dad tossed them around like they were made of bubble wrap.” I paused, picturing him in the haymow, taking the bales off the conveyer belt and stacking them into a neat, crisscross arrangement. “The feeling of accomplishment when all that hay was in the barn was worth a few scratches.”

  “If you wore pants and long sleeves, they weren’t that scratchy,” Faye put in. “And we all worked together to get it done. That was a pretty good life lesson.”

  “Sweating, dirty, bloody, and exhausted, the way every family should be,” Retta said with a sniff. “Let’s go. I’m getting hungry.”

  I stopped twice more after that, just to let Retta know she didn’t always get what she wanted. We made it to Kowalski’s just after noon. The place was crowded and noisy, but a cheerful waitress found us a table. We had a sinfully filling lunch of pierogis, kielbasa, and cabbage with noodles, followed by pie and coffee for Dale and Faye, just coffee for Retta and me.

  On the way home I took a different road, one of Rory’s favorites. The chief of Allport’s police department and my boyfriend (for lack of a better term), Rory loved the spot bec
ause the trees grew so close to the road that their branches met overhead, making a tunnel. “This will be gorgeous when the leaves have all turned,” Retta said.

  “The leaf-peepers will be out in droves by then.” Dale referred to tourists who drive north in autumn to see the colors.

  The wind came up, sending waves through the foliage around us. A few leaves lost their hold and skipped across the pavement, reminding us that the year was dying. In a week or so the riotous colors would peak, and then the leaves would fall, leaving bare, gray trunks jutting from dull-brown leaf-beds. After that, snow would turn our world to shades of black, white, and gray.

  As I slowed for a corner Retta called out, “Stop!”

  My tires crunched on the gravel as I obeyed her command. In the rear view mirror, I saw Faye put a reassuring hand on Dale’s arm. “What’s wrong?”

  “The sign back there said Sweet Springs Lane. That’s where Clara’s house is.” I had no idea what she was talking about, but she filled me in, ending with, “I’d like to see it. Do you mind driving in?”

  When Retta asks a question like that, it’s rhetorical. She expects you to do as she wants. I paused, considering how to say no without sounding crabby and having her pout all the way home.

  “Are there signs saying to keep out?” Faye asked. She’d never trespass on someone’s privacy, which is one reason I’ve never told her about my Correction Events.

  “Not that I can see,” Retta replied. “And there’s a real estate sign on that tree. They have to expect people will go in if there’s property for sale.”

  Through a break in the trees I saw a sliver of water that glinted like a sword blade. “It looks like a pretty spot. I guess it won’t hurt.” Backing up, I turned into the road.

  Before I’d gone ten feet Faye pointed out a small sign tacked on a tree. “That says Private.”

  “We won’t even get out of the car,” Retta argued. “I just want to see the house Clara’s grandfather built.”

  Sweet Springs Lane was a dirt road that twisted through a stand of pines, and for perhaps a quarter mile we drove in semi-darkness, the smell of wet needles wafting in through the car’s vents. When the road emerged from the trees and turned along the bright lake, it was as if a curtain had been drawn back. Like a turquoise gem, Sweet Springs shone in the October sunlight. The trees on its far side were already tinged with color, ready to burst into full autumn glory.

  “You were right. It’s a gorgeous spot,” Faye murmured.

  Despite being a city girl most of my adult life, I appreciate a great view—as long as I don’t have to sleep on the ground or sit on a rock to eat my supper. Pulling into a short driveway, past a mailbox with knight stenciled on it in red letters, I parked the car facing the lake. We all sat for a moment, looking at the beauty that was Sweet Springs.

  On our right was a two-story house made of fieldstone, with dormer windows on the upper level and a spacious porch on the side facing the water. The place was tidy except for a large pile of firewood dumped in the yard in preparation for a long winter. Precisely-aligned tools, a shovel, a rake, and a hoe, lined the garden fence, ready for use.

  Though she’d said she wouldn’t, Retta slid out of the car and started snooping. Peering through the window in the front door, she turned to us with raised palms to indicate there was no one inside. Reconciled to waiting until her curiosity was satisfied, I got out and walked down to the lake. The water was so clear it looked like the depth at the end of the dock was only a foot or two, but a measuring stick neatly calibrated and attached to the last stanchion indicated it was actually seven feet. A small rowboat attached to a post was painted blue and silver with the stylized lion of Detroit’s pro football team stenciled on the bow. The boat was as orderly as the rest of the place, with neatly coiled rope under the front seat and a pair of plastic shoes and a fishing net tucked under the back one. Someone around here took very good care of things.

  Steps sounded hollowly on the wood planking, and I turned to see that Faye and Dale had come up behind me. “Is this really a spring?” she asked.

  Watching for a few moments, I detected spots where ripples broke the surface and pointed them out. “I’m no expert, but it’s definitely bubbling.”

  “They say it’s better for you than other water,” Dale said.

  “Why?”

  “Spring water comes from an underground source, so it’s free of contaminants. It’s supposed to taste better, too. I bet all the houses out here have wells that tap into the springs.”

  “A pretty spot and good water, too. Mrs. Knight is lucky.” Recalling she was now at the Meadows I added, “Well, she was.”

  “There’s another house over there.” Faye pointed to the right, where the corner of a structure peeped out from the trees.

  Boot heels tapped behind us, and Retta joined us at the dock, frowning into the harsh light reflected off the water. “And that must be the spot where a house burned recently,” she said, pointing straight across. “See the chimney sticking up?”

  “I wonder how the other property owners get to their places.”

  “The road we came in on must continue around the lake that way.” Dale circled counterclockwise with his arm. “The bank rises pretty steeply over there, so I doubt there’s a way to get back on the main road.”

  My lawyer’s mind leapt to property rights. “The others have to be nice to Mrs. Knight, then, or she could block their access.”

  “Clara’s not that kind of girl.” Retta pointed behind us. “There are chickens in a pen back there. They’re clumped around an empty water trough.”

  “Where?” Faye said, her expression concerned.

  “Back there.”

  We followed Retta to the pen, a 20 x 20 space enclosed in—not surprisingly—chicken wire. Inside were a dozen Rhode Island Reds, huddled together to foster group courage. In one corner was a raised coop where the birds could retreat in bad weather and a roost where they could flock together at night.

  Neat, hand-sized holes along the back of the fencing had hinged coverings that recalled the chicken coop we’d had on the farm. I’d often been sent to collect eggs for breakfast, and the little doors let me reach them without having to go inside and get my shoes dirtied with manure. I’d learned to be careful when reaching in, however. It’s never a good idea to surprise a setting hen, and a chicken’s beak on a bare arm feels like a spike driving into the skin.

  The water fount—a five-gallon bucket fitted with metal nipples, was dry. Beside it, a trough that should have been scattered with feed was also empty. The chickens’ muttered outrage said they weren’t happy about it.

  Never able to abide suffering animals, Faye turned to the outbuildings along the wood line, intent on finding a bucket. Opening doors, she peered in until she found one and took it to an outdoor spigot. Following her lead, Dale rummaged through the sheds looking for feed.

  “I wonder why she didn’t get someone to take care of them,” Faye said as the bucket echoed with watery splashes. “Maybe the woman does have mental issues.”

  Retta regarded Faye and Dale with fond amusement. “Clara’s niece is taking care of them. She probably hasn’t had a chance to come all the way out here yet.”

  “Then she’s not doing her job.” Faye hauled the bucket of water to the pen and untied the piece of twine that held the gate closed. Sidestepping piles of manure as best she could, she filled the water feeder. The chickens clustered around, getting in her way so that some ended up with wet feathers. Finished, she stepped back, still disgusted that someone hadn’t followed through on a promise and left helpless critters to suffer. “Dale, did you find these ladies something to eat?”

  “I did.” He stood in the doorway of an elderly plank shed, holding a metal lid. “There’s a can full of grain in here.” Taking up her bucket, Faye went into the shed and emerged with what she judged the right amount. Returning to the pen, she shook the contents into the trough, tapping the bucket to get the last of the se
ed out. The chickens swarmed her again, clucking as they jockeyed for position. I might have felt sorry for them, since it had obviously been some time since they’d fed, but I knew from experience that chickens act the same way if it’s been five minutes or five days since their last meal.

  “I wonder if we should let the poor things go free,” Faye said. “They could manage on their own this time of year if they weren’t closed in.”

  “The niece might not be as diligent as she should be,” I replied, “but that doesn’t give us the right to release domesticated animals to the wild.” I gestured at the woods around us. “There are bound to be predators in there eager for a chicken dinner.”

  “I suppose you’re right.” Faye was obviously unhappy with the situation. “The pen protects them from foxes and such.”

  “Tell you what,” Retta suggested. “Clara said her niece is a real estate agent. I bet she works for the realty representing the neighbors’ property. What if I stop there on my way home and remind her she has a job to do?”

  “Let me know what she says,” Faye replied. “If she can’t do it, somebody has to.”

  Images of a chicken coop in our back yard sprang into my mind. “You can’t take in a flock of hens, Faye.”

  Tossing the bucket onto the grass, where it clunked to a stop against the pen wall, Faye tied the gate closed. “If the niece doesn’t want them and Clara isn’t coming back, we have to do something.”

  “Calm down, both of you,” Retta’s manner suggested Solomon deciding which mother should get the baby. “I will make sure the birds have a caregiver, so Barbara Ann doesn’t smell bird poop when she goes out her back door and Faye Elizabeth doesn’t lay awake nights fretting about them.”

  “Lie,” I corrected automatically. “People lie awake. They don’t lay awake.”