by Maggie Pill
Since Dale’s the weather expert in the family, I nodded. “Okay. I probably should collect the eggs, though. Looks like no one’s done that in a while.” Hunting up a basket, I began opening the little trapdoors at the sides of the chicken coop. By feeling around I located one egg, then another, and so on. In the week Clara had been gone, the chickens had been busy, laying large, light brown eggs. The hens didn’t seem to mind me taking them but kept up their soft cooing sounds as I filled the first basket. I had to dig up a second one to hold them all, and I proudly showed Dale my treasure trove.
“What are you going to do with them?” he asked, bending to pick up more wood. He’d made quite a dent in the pile, and I set the eggs aside and started doing my part.
“I doubt the nursing home can accept undocumented eggs.”
“There’s likely to be a rule against it.” Dale’s tone said what he thought of rules prohibiting people from eating food fresh from the farm.
“I guess we could give them to the niece,” I said, raising my voice to be heard over the clunk of wood hitting wood.
He snorted in response. “If she wanted them, she should have come out and helped herself. Looks like she couldn’t care less if those birds die of starvation.”
I tried to tell myself that Niece Gail might not be as tuned in to the needs of chickens as I was. Still, Clara would have made clear what needed to be done. Did her failure to follow through make Gail guilty of plotting against her aunt, or was she simply a flawed human being who didn’t recognize the needs of other species?
I couldn’t answer that question, but I did make a decision about the eggs. I’d split them with my sisters and count them toward payment of Clara’s bill with the Smart Detectives.
Chapter Eleven
Barb
On Friday evenings, Rory and I often went for dinner to a little place out of town. Though many of Allport’s citizens were aware their chief of police dated a local private detective, it was easier if we left the city limits for our dates. That way no one came to our table to complain about the city commissioners’ latest non-decision on the new parking ramp. If he was really fed up, Rory would turn off his cell phone for an hour, trusting that nothing earth-shattering would happen before we finished our meal.
When I spoke of Rory to others, I never knew what to call him. My boyfriend—? lover—? soulmate—? Whatever he was, he looked good when I picked him up at his place. Rory’s American Indian blood showed in his shiny-black hair and dark eyes. His Irish mother’s genes had contributed an impish smile and a tendency for his hair to curl if he let it grow beyond a half inch long. Climbing into my car, he leaned over to kiss me lightly on the cheek. I caught the scent of Irish Spring as I accepted the greeting before pulling away from the curb.
I knew people—my sisters included—talked about us, wondering when we’d “set a date” or move in together. The truth was that neither Rory not I wanted to give up the independent lives we’d carved out for ourselves. There were no marriage plans. There’d be no common household. We understood each other even if no one else did. Still, it was nice to have someone to spend an evening with, someone who cherished the time we spent together. Maybe that was the correct word: Rory was my Someone.
“Any more snitch reports this week?” I asked, picking up on conversations we’d had over the last month. Mayor Dan Rygwelski had received several emails about Rory, and Janet, the city’s secretary, had received several calls about the chief, none of them flattering.
“Yesterday, in fact. Lady Tattletale called to report I took an hour and forty minutes to eat my lunch.”
“She’s timing your lunches now?”
He huffed in disgust. “Apparently she didn’t notice I was taking notes like a college freshman. It was a working lunch with the chief from Clare, discussing how to deal with Halloween pranksters.”
“You’re plotting against Trick-or-Treaters?”
Rory tapped the dashboard absently. “The City Fathers expect us to prevent the more harmful mayhem that comes with America’s current favorite holiday. Chief Jackson and I were comparing methods, so the long lunch was justified.”
“Rory, you don’t take advantage of your position in any way.”
He shifted position on the bench seat. “Someone thinks I do.”
“You have no idea who’s filing these complaints?”
“None, except it’s a woman.” I slowed to make the turn into the restaurant as he went on. “Dan just laughs about it. Janet is disgusted because she’s been told she can’t argue with the caller. So far, it’s a joke to them.”
I didn’t find it funny. “But you work so hard. To not be able to confront your accuser is the worst kind of injustice.” Pulling into a parking space and shifting into park, I turned toward him. “Can you trace the calls or track down the source of the emails?”
He shrugged. “The woman knows technology. It would take more resources than we’ve got in a small city police force.”
“Why don’t you bring in the state police?”
He spread his hands. “For some loon who makes up stories? It would be embarrassing, not to mention overkill.”
“Maybe Lars would look into it.” When Lars Johannsen, an FBI agent from New Mexico, helped with a recent case, he and Rory had become friends. Lars and Retta had become…close friends.
“I’d feel silly asking.” Rory looked out the window at the darkening woods opposite the lights of the inn. “We’ll just hope she gets tired of picking on me and moves on to someone else.”
The restaurant was dimly lit and smelled of prime rib. Sounds of clinking silverware were softened by the violins and cellos of classical music. Once we were seated, I ordered from the light menu, as usual, and Rory had the beef with mashed potatoes and gravy. He’d have dessert too, probably tiramisu, while I sipped at a second cup of tea. Such is the metabolism of the over-fifty woman.
As we ate, I described our visit to Sweet Springs and Faye’s fondness for Clara Knight. Rory’s interest was piqued. “I haven’t been out there,” he said, “but the fire marshal mentioned it this week.”
“The fire marshal?”
“I sat next to him at a county-wide meeting, and he mentioned he’s investigating a fire out there. These people had just built a big new house on the lake, and then it burned down. He felt bad about it because the fire was suspicious, which means the owners probably won’t collect a cent.”
I recalled the property we’d stopped at across the springs from the Knight place. “Insurance won’t pay if it’s ruled the fire was set?”
“There’s an arson clause in their policy—pretty common, I guess.” Rory tasted the coleslaw he’d been given and took a second, larger bite. “Ray says the couple had sunk a lot of money into the place.”
“So it wouldn’t make sense for them to burn it down.”
He took a roll from the fragrant basket the waitress had left at the center of the table. I considered having one but decided against it. “If they’re telling the truth, nobody benefits from the crime. So Ray’s asking himself why someone would torch a newly-built home out in the boondocks.”
“A pyromaniac? Teenagers looking for a thrill? Someone who was angry at the owners?”
Rory nodded. “He passed all those theories on to the state police.”
Our main dishes arrived and the conversation went on to other things, but the arson on Sweet Springs stuck in my mind. An old lady claimed she’d been forced into a nursing home. A family had lost a structure to a suspicious fire. An old man had fallen to his death. One lake and three property owners in trouble. A series of odd, unfortunate events.
Around midnight, I let myself into the house, using the front door to avoid disturbing Faye and Dale, who occupy the back two-thirds of the ground floor. Slipping off my shoes, I climbed the stairs to my comfortable apartment.
When I entered my bedroom, frenzied scratching sounded at the window screen. Dropping my shoes into a corner, I hurried to the window and s
lid it open. The cat—my cat, I’d begun thinking of her—waited outside, her green eyes wide with anger. Accustomed in the last few months to being fed around eight, she was letting me know that four hours late wasn’t acceptable.
“Not to worry,” I told her softly. “I know you prefer fresh food, so I brought you some of my dinner.”
Sliding the screen aside, I set a piece of chicken on the window sill. The cat lunged for it, her head shaking as she tore off bits and swallowed them. I reached out to scratch her ears, which didn’t slow her enjoyment of the meal one bit. Her fur was matted and snarled, but experience had taught me that attempts to detangle it weren’t welcome. She wouldn’t come inside, and she tolerated only one or two strokes before growling to signal it was enough. No sloppy sentimentality for this feline. Our deal was food in exchange for the honor of a nightly visit.
I’d come to anticipate those visits as if they were gifts.
As girls on the farm, we’d had lots of pets: cats, dogs, cows, pigs, even geese. When I left Michigan to practice law on the West Coast, there had never seemed to be a right time to get a pet. Apartments didn’t allow them, and my days were packed with busy-ness. Animals aren’t meant to be left alone in an apartment all day long. I convinced myself I wasn’t a pet person.
But this cat had arrived in a new chapter of my life. Settled into my Victorian home on a side street in Allport, I was less hurried these days. When we met, the cat had been hungry, wild, and afraid of everything. Over time I’d provided food and, gradually, affection. Beginning with encouraging sounds, I’d moved to light touches on her head as she ate. We’d come to the point where she sometimes allowed me to stroke all the way down her back, with a little squeeze along her spine that made her twitch with pleasure—at least until she remembered how tough she was. She’d come to trust me a little, and I enjoyed the feeling.
“Sorry I was so late, Brat,” I told her softly. I needed to choose a better name for her, but so far nothing better had come to mind. She was a brat, and I liked her that way.
“I owe you a kitty treat, since you had to wait for your supper.”
To remind me who was in control, the cat left while I went to get the bag.
Chapter Twelve
Retta
Faye felt sorry for Clara Knight. Barbara admitted her case was sad but didn’t see anything criminal in Gail Sherman’s actions. I was somewhere in between.
The property that was marked for sale but apparently wasn’t kept coming to mind. The sign might well have been left up due to an oversight, but the fact that the other realtor in Gail’s office was left in the dark was more puzzling to me. Working in the same office, the same room, the two women should have heard each other’s calls and discussed each other’s prospects. It was hard to imagine Gail not mentioning she had a buyer.
I had a theory. If Gail thought she’d soon get her hands on her aunt’s place, she might have bought the property next to it for herself. The owner of half of Sweet Springs might do something with it, like build a resort. The area was quiet, and there was plenty of space for cabins or even condos, along with lots of nearby state land for hunting and the springs for fishing. The practicalities of developing a property that far from Allport were hard for me to imagine, but I’d be the first to admit I knew nothing about real estate.
Faye had pointed out that Clara’s place didn’t seem like the property of someone with dementia. “Everything is put away,” she’d told me in a phone call the night before. “The house looks well-kept.”
I’d formed the same impression during our stop, but we’d only seen the outside. The house might be a horror, with butter in the oven and dishtowels in the refrigerator. Clara might be like those people you see on TV who put balls of cat hair in dresser drawers and stack stinky, unwashed milk jugs in the hallway.
Saturday is the day I miss my husband the most. Don seems to linger in the corners of our house and yard. In autumn I can almost see him raking leaves, composting the garden, or cleaning out the garage so two vehicles will fit inside during winter. I can almost feel the cold he used to bring back inside, clinging to his flannel. Because of that, I find it’s better if I leave home entirely and find something to keep my mind occupied. Barbara sneers at the number of organizations I join and activities I support, but she’s always been alone. I had to find things to do after Don died and the kids left home, or I’d have gone crazy. And as I said, the loneliness is worst on Saturdays, when everyone else is doing things with their families.
Added to my need for distraction is my dog Styx, who loves new places to explore. He’s a Newfoundland, so some of his happiest moments come when he finds water he’s never taken a dip in before. Therefore, in a blend of curiosity, boredom, loneliness, and doggy indulgence, I drove out to Sweet Springs early Saturday morning—well, early for me. Before we left I spread a couple of old blankets over the back seat of my car so when Styx was done swimming, he could ride back there.
The drive was even more scenic than last time, since the colors were really starting to pop. It had rained overnight, so the road was wet, but the temperature had already risen to the fifties with bright sunshine. There was no wind. The lake was peaceful and still when I pulled into Clara’s driveway. The house looked as empty as before. When I opened the car door, Styx just about knocked me down as he rocketed out of the car, ran directly to the lake, and plunged into the water without even putting a toe in first to check the temperature.
While he enjoyed his cold bath, I turned to Clara’s house. My thoughts about butter in the oven made me wonder if the inside of the house would reveal the owner’s incompetence. Climbing the steps to the front door, I peered in. Everything looked the same as it had the first time I was there. I checked the back door and all the windows I could reach. Locked. Ignoring the little voice in my head that said I shouldn’t, I began looking for where she’d have stashed the spare key. Everyone has one, and it’s just a matter of thinking as they think. Would Clara put a key where it was most convenient for her or where it was least likely to be found? I figured somewhere in the middle—not too hard to get to, but not in plain sight either.
I didn’t find it on the porch. My spare key hangs in my garage, but Clara didn’t have one of those. That meant it was probably in one of the sheds. Getting a flashlight out of my car, I went through them, searching three of the four before I saw it. Along the outside of the doorframe was a nail, and on the nail was a key. Not easy to find in the dark space, but low enough for Clara—and for me—to reach without stretching.
The key fit the front door, and, with a slightly guilty glance around to be sure I wasn’t being observed, I entered Clara’s house. I was not snooping, though I could almost hear Barbara Ann sniffing in disapproval. Clara had asked for our help, and I was trying to get an understanding of exactly what her situation was. In the end, what I was doing would help everyone.
The place smelled musty, as old homes do after being closed up for any time at all. The entryway had pegs on the wall for outerwear, and I noted an assortment of old coats on one end, probably for working outside, and better ones on the other, no doubt for going into town.
Beyond that, the living room opened to the whole width of the house. Only one corner seemed occupied: a comfortable chair, a table stacked with books and magazines, a television set into a cabinet so it could be hidden from view, and a laptop leaned against the table leg. Noticing the chair had distressed patches, I concluded there’d once been a cat. Since Clara hadn’t mentioned it, I assumed it had crossed the Rainbow Bridge.
Husband and cat both gone. Poor Clara. No one can replace your spouse, your other half, but the love of an animal helps. I pictured her seated in that rocker, holding her cat each night until it, too, died. No wonder she’d turned her affections to her “girls,” the chickens.
Pulling myself out of that particular pit, I went on to the kitchen, which was more modern than I expected. Twin ovens hinted at a love of cooking, and the large refrigerator held
more than two people could eat, much less one little old lady. The plants I’d expected were located there, where they got lots of light. I couldn’t name most of them, but I guessed that Clara, being a scientist, had interests beyond raising geraniums and spider plants. The soil in the pots felt dry, so I watered each of them generously, hoping that would sustain them until a decision was made about Clara’s future.
I took a quick look at the rest of the house, which was cute in the same old-fashioned way my parents’ home was. The most heart-wrenching part was Clara’s bedroom. Half of the space in the walk-in closet was dedicated to what I guessed had been George’s favorite outfit: a plaid flannel shirt, a pair of bib overalls, and some beat-up brown boots. I understood completely. I kept some things of Don’s, too. There’s comfort in seeing them, touching them, smelling them from time to time.
When I finished looking through Clara’s house, I locked the door and put the key back where I’d found it. Nothing I’d seen indicated the owner was failing mentally. The dishes were neatly stacked in the cupboard. The laundry had been kept up. Even the film of dust I found on the furniture was minimal, easily the collection of the week or so she’d been gone. Clara had not neglected her housework or her outside chores. A point in her favor—and Faye’s.
Dusting off my hands, I called to Styx, who was still swimming after the ducks and biting at the water. He didn’t obey, even after several commands, so I finally got a treat from the bag I keep in the glove compartment of the Acadia. That brought him to shore. Once he swallowed his treat, Styx shook himself off (I stayed well back). Then I dried him off with one blanket and opened the back door so he could lie (or lay, since Barbara wasn’t around) on the other, which I’d spread on the seat. He stayed there all of twenty seconds before joining me in the front. Styx’s size made squeezing between the seats quite an adventure, but he was determined.
“You smell like a wet dog,” I told him in mock disgust as he settled his big butt on the passenger seat. Completely getting the joke, he grinned at me and leaned against my shoulder, dampening my shirt.