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

by Maggie Pill

  To my surprise, there were no questions about why or how or who was to blame. Retta was on a completely different tack.

  “Lars and I talked about Rory’s stalkers,” she began. “He thinks we should confront them privately rather than arresting them and making the whole thing public.”

  That seemed an odd position for an FBI man to take until I thought it through. “If they’re arrested and tried, people will take sides. Their lawyers will accuse the mayor and the police of protecting their own, and they’ll have to bend over backward to prove they aren’t doing that.”

  “Exactly,” Retta agreed. “If half of Allport believes a quarter of what they say, Rory’s reputation will be damaged beyond repair.”

  Glancing out the window at miles and miles of trees, I thought of the whispers that would persist, even if Miss Tattletale and her partner were found guilty. “It’s sad, but many people believe the worst of others, especially when they’re cops.” I returned my gaze to Retta. “Does Lars know how to stop them?”

  Retta grinned. “I think I do, but here’s the deal: Barbara Ann isn’t going to know a thing about it till it’s over.”

  I raised a hand in a gesture that ended up looking as if I were fending off a blow. “Retta—”

  “What, Faye? She went behind my back to do something she intended to be a good thing, right?”

  “She just wanted to—”

  “—let me know she disapproves of my behavior.” An abrupt wave dismissed Barb’s wants. “I can’t say I’m not glad to see Lars. But she needs to know what it feels like to be left out of things. Lars and I are going to take care of Rory’s problem, and Barbara Ann will find out about it when it’s done.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t—”

  “What? Help Rory save his job?”

  “Well, no, but it might be dangerous.”

  “I’ve got Lars, which is almost as good as the whole FBI. We can handle this.” With that, Retta stepped into the bathroom and closed the door in my face.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Retta

  Barbara Ann thought she was clever, and I let her think it—temporarily. Because she liked Lars and didn’t approve of Rick, she’d set me up for a weekend reconciliation. Talk about acting like my mother!

  I looked a mess when we arrived in Algoma, which gave me more reason to be mad at her. My snooze in the back seat had made my hair flat on one side and rubbed off most of my makeup. I had dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, not what I’d have chosen if I’d known Lars would be seeing me.

  Barbara’s interference backfired, as interference usually does. Even as I hugged Lars and acted pleased with the surprise, I was deciding I would definitely see Rick again as soon as Lars went back to New Mexico. In the first place, Rick was sweet, too, and in the second place, Barbara needed to learn to keep her nose out of my business.

  For the record, I wasn’t upset with Faye. It was obvious to me that Barbara had masterminded the surprise and Faye had done as she was told, as usual.

  I had to admit it was good to see him. Lars is handsome, fun to be with and the type of manly man my Don was. The problem was that I like to be the one doing the inviting. Barbara Ann was going to pay for trying to micro-manage my love life.

  Weaseling the details out of Lars as we hiked the trail was easy, because as long as you’re nice to a man, he will spill his guts. As Lars recounted how they’d set me up, I realized he’d come to Michigan only because Barbara invited him. He was clueless about Rick and so pleased with his part in the plan that I couldn’t be angry at him.

  When we reached the end of the railroad line, Barbara suggested Lars and I ride back together in his rental car because she, Dale, Rory, and Faye were all going into Allport. The implication was that Lars would be staying at my house, but I didn’t comment on that one way or another. Let her wonder if her little scheme was working.

  On the ride back to Allport, we discussed Rory’s problem again. I’d told Lars everything I knew except Cramer’s name, but he had me repeat the story in more detail.

  “Are you certain her source is good?” Lars asked when I finished.

  “I’m not one to go off half-cocked,” I replied. “I used Barbara Ann’s phone and called him myself to make sure he knew what he was talking about.”

  “Who is it?”

  I licked my lips. “Lars, what he did isn’t exactly legal. He was trying to help, but—”

  Lars chuckled. “What we’re going to do won’t be completely legal either. I won’t tell on your guy if you don’t tell on me.”

  It was both scary and exhilarating to hear him say that. We were going to save Rory’s career, but the method wouldn’t be “completely legal.”

  “Faye’s son Cramer is a whiz at computers,” I replied. “He hacked the email server and figured out who’s sending them.”

  “Cramer,” Lars repeated. “Tell me everything he said.”

  I tried to be thorough. “Cramer said this Gager’s pretty good at hiding, but Cramer’s good, too. He said something about IPs, or maybe it was IGs. I get confused when people start using all those letters. Cramer would know, though.”

  Something Cramer had said in our conversation came back to me, though I didn’t pass it on to Lars. “I knew you could fix computers, Sweetie,” I’d said to him, “but I didn’t know you understood internet stuff.”

  “I kinda wish I didn’t sometimes.” It had been an odd statement, and I’d waited to see if he was going to explain it, but he didn’t. Cramer was a real introvert, and I didn’t always know how to communicate with him. It always seemed the more questions I asked, the fewer words he used in answer.

  Lars seemed ready to accept Cramer’s word, but he was anxious about the timeline. “I have to fly back to Albuquerque on Monday.” He scratched his wide, rather pale forehead. “I can hunt the guy down and threaten him with prosecution. He won’t know I’m out of my jurisdiction, and that might end it.”

  “What about the woman? We have to stop her, too.”

  Lars nodded. “I know, but like I said, time isn’t on our side.”

  We both thought about the matter as the miles slid by. The day was dying, and clouds scattered in the west were turning pink and orange as the sun passed behind them.

  How could we get Gager to lead us to Ms. Tattletale?

  “I have an idea.” As I explained my plan, Lars asked a couple of questions. After some thought, he added some things that would make it work better.

  “We’ll need help. We can get Barb and Faye to—”

  “Not them.” When he looked at me, his eyes wide with a question, I told half a lie, half the truth. “Faye couldn’t play a part if you paid her to. She’s too honest. And Barbara…is busy with another case we’re working on. I’ll get someone to help.”

  We talked about it all the way through the U.P., across the bridge, and down US-23. It was nice to have Lars with me, and I couldn’t help thinking that we made a great team.

  Once we had the details worked out, I made two calls to set things up. Cramer said Gager was scheduled to work at the bar, and he agreed to be half of our back-up team. Gabe and I engaged in a lengthy argument about whether he would step across the threshold of an establishment focused on the consumption of alcohol. First I heard that Mindy wouldn’t like it. Then I heard that Mindy’s mother wouldn’t like it. Finally I heard that Jesus wouldn’t like it.

  I salved Gabe’s conscience by offering fifty bucks, assuring him neither Mindy nor her mother had to know where he was going, and arguing that Jesus, though he would definitely know, would approve of Gabe helping Agent Johannsen and me stop a despicable criminal.

  When I ended the call, Lars gave me a smile. “You’re really something, you know that, Retta?”

  I fished a little. “Is that something good, or something else?”

  He reached over and patted my thigh. “Oh, you’re something good and something else.”

  Okay, maybe Barbara’s expectation that Lars wo
uld be spending the night was correct. Not that I’d ever tell her.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Faye

  Rory dropped Dale and me off at home, and he and Barb went on to his place. I guessed they needed each other for comfort, he for his trials at work and Barb for awareness that Retta was probably at this very moment arranging some sort of payback.

  I had missed my Saturday at the farm, but I drove out early Sunday morning to get the girls for church. Afterward we stopped for Dale and Buddy and drove back out for the afternoon. My car was full, which reminded me of our kid-raising days, though without the punches boys seem compelled to engage in when confined in the back seat. As we traveled Dale pointed out the farm where he grew up. He did that nearly every time, but the girls were always polite.

  “Were you and Aunt Faye childhood sweethearts?” Iris asked.

  “Not until senior year,” Dale replied. “We lived just a couple of miles apart, but the Evans girls were way above me on the social scale.”

  “Dale, that’s crazy!” Too late, I realized that was a bad thing to say to a man with a brain injury.

  He put a hand on mine, and I felt the familiar roughness of his fingertips. “I was a woods rat from day one. You could have found somebody who would have made a lot more money.”

  “I never wanted money.”

  “You never had the chance to find out what it would be like to have it, did you?” The look he gave me said what he was thinking: I’d gotten pregnant with Jimmy at eighteen, and that was the end of my choices.

  It was partly true. The pregnancy had narrowed my options, but I’d had options nevertheless. I’d never looked forward to college. All I ever wanted was Dale. Despite the embarrassment, the pain I caused my parents, and his mother’s undying resentment, I wouldn’t have changed a thing.

  The girls had returned to whispering among themselves, and I let the subject drop. Dale and I would discuss this further when we were alone.

  When we arrived at the farm, Dale and Bill disappeared into the tractor shed to do whatever men do where there are tractors. The girls went to change their clothes, and I began helping Carla with some canning. There’s a great sense of accomplishment in seeing rows and rows of vegetables neatly packed into glass jars lined up on the kitchen counter, waiting to hear the pops that signal they’ve sealed. It’s work, of course, and we’d been through it many times already this fall, with green beans, corn, carrots, tomatoes, asparagus, peas, and beets. Knowing we’d have nutritious, tasty food on hand was worth the effort, and the cooler temperature outside meant we could open the doors and get a breeze through when all that steam started building up.

  Carla was an eager student, and my mother’s secrets had come back to me, though I hadn’t canned in years. We worked together amicably, and I realized how happy I was to have her as my daughter-in-law. I hardly knew Jimmy’s wife, but what I’d seen of her left me unmoved. I’d tried to be kind to Cramer’s wife April, but she was so self-centered it was hard to know how she felt toward me. I’d felt guilt but also relief when he finally admitted she was hopeless and refused to take her back a third time.

  I liked and admired Carla, and I thought she liked me. I hoped she felt she’d been lucky to get me as mother-in-law, since we don’t have much choice there.

  Chapter Forty

  Barb

  I came home to an empty house. As soon as I entered my apartment, however, I found that I wasn’t alone. The cat was waiting, and she clawed at the window screen, obviously unhappy with me. I hurried to replenish her food dish. Hungry as she always was, she refused anything that wasn’t fresh.

  Once I’d fed her and been allowed my three pets, she darted off. I wandered down to the office and checked for voice mails on our business line. There was one, and I heard a slightly familiar voice. “This message is for Ms. Evans. It’s Enright Landon, the person you spoke to at WOZ Industries. Something occurred to me when I saw the local newspaper tonight, and I thought perhaps I should tell you about it.”

  He gave a number where I could reach him, and I thought about it for a moment. It was Sunday morning, but he’d called us at ten on a Saturday night. I decided it was permissible to return his call right away.

  “Mr. Landon,” I said when he answered. “It’s Barb Evans.”

  “Oh, yes, Ms. Evans. You got my message.”

  “I was away overnight. I should have given you my cell number.”

  “Not necessary. I’m not sure this information is valuable in your investigation, but I saw the report last evening that Gail Sherman died recently on the springs your other operative, Mrs. Stilson, mentioned to me.”

  “Yes. She was arranging property sales out there.”

  “Ms. Sherman was our agent when we bought this house. My wife and she became acquainted.”

  I wondered where this was going. “Did Ms. Sherman even mention Sweet Springs to you?”

  “Not that I recall.”

  He didn’t say more, and I wondered again what his purpose was in calling. “The news report reminded you of something?”

  “Only that Mrs. Sherman was an acquaintance. I’d seen her at work and at my home. And of course she sold us our house.”

  He seemed to be finished. “I appreciate the information.”

  “Yes, well, I just wanted you to know. Have a good day.” He ended the call.

  Well, that was odd.

  I paced the width of the office a few times, turning abruptly on my heel as I reached each wall. What was Landon trying to tell me? Did he suspect his boss of conniving with Gail Sherman? Did he think Gail had tried to engage him in her illegal activities? Or had he colluded with Gail and was now trying to distance himself from her? Was he afraid he’d be a suspect in her death?

  He’d made a point of saying that his wife and Gail had become acquainted, whatever that meant.

  That was it. He knew we’d uncover connections, and he didn’t want us to link Gail to him. He’d called to convince us that she’d been his wife’s friend, not his partner in crime.

  Chapter Forty-one

  Retta

  The Ugly Bar was aptly named: no frills and no atmosphere, unless you count the odor of stale sweat. A beat-up pool table in a corner was too close to the walls, so black marks showed where the cue-butts bumped them as players lined up shots. I’d have bet the cheap brown carpet underfoot was filthy, but it was too dark in there to tell.

  I entered wearing an outfit Mom would have called trashy, an off-shoulder top I’d bought on a whim and never worn, tight black jeans I’d found in stuff my daughter left behind when she went to college, and boots that came up to my knees. I’d added Don’s old motorcycle jacket, slopped on too much eyeliner, and covered my hair with a knitted hat. I hoped no one I knew would be in the bar, but it was a pretty good bet they wouldn’t be. Even if a friend was slumming, I hoped he or she would have a hard time recognizing me in that getup.

  Taking a seat at the bar, I ordered a screwdriver and slumped on my elbow, looking sad. Gager was waiting on someone at the far end. He was slight, blond, and just handsome enough to get by. His nose was a little too big, his jaw slightly too far back, but he moved with confidence and had Christian Bale eyes. He needed some fashion help, but most men in Allport did. I found myself comparing Gager’s khakis and T-shirt to Rick Chou’s silk shirts and perfectly-fitted trousers. Rick did without the sweat-stains, too.

  Gager paid no attention to me after serving my drink, but that was okay. When he went to clear some tables, I reached over the bar and poured it into the basin of soapy water used for washing glasses. When he came back, I ordered another.

  After he’d served me a third round in fifteen minutes, he asked, “Rough day?”

  I rolled my eyes. “It’s turning into a rough life.”

  He raised a brow. “That’s harsh.”

  Turning slightly, I nodded over my shoulder. “See that guy?”

  “The big dude in the suit? Yeah.”

  I spoke with
exaggerated lip movements. “F.B.I.”

  Gager’s forehead wrinkled as he examined Lars, who sat facing us at a table in the corner. He was listening intently to a man whose back was to us. “For real?”

  “For real. He says he’s in town to investigate some cyber-crime, but I don’t believe it.”

  “Cyber?”

  “If it’s cyber-crime, then why is he asking about stuff that’s got nothing to do with computers?”

  Gager lifted one corner of his lip, Elvis style. “Like what?”

  “Like sexual harassment. He wanted to know if the chief of police ever gave me a hard time.”

  “The chief?”

  “Yeah. Neuencamp stopped me a month back and accused me of driving drunk.” I slapped a palm on the bar. “I had one glass of wine with a friend, but the chief got all nosy about it. Anyway, that FBI guy wanted to know if he did anything inappropriate during the arrest.” I shrugged. “I should have said yes. Maybe I coulda got the charges thrown out.”

  “The FBI is investigating Chief Neuencamp?” He couldn’t keep the smugness out of his tone.

  I leaned toward him. “That’s just it. I don’t think it’s about him. The agent asked how much I knew about computers.” I gave him a slushy smile. “I told him I can turn anything on, even a PC.”

  A voice sounded from over my shoulder. “There you are.”

  Turning, I faced Gabe, who’d done his best to create a deep-cover persona. He wore black jeans, a black leather jacket with studs everywhere, a black leather cap that looked like it had been run over by three semis and a Harley, and a black T-shirt that said, Daytona Bike Week—2003. His scent was something that should have said Cheap but Strong on the bottle.