More clicking and dragging.
Beside me, Meghan shook her head. “No, that’s not quite right either.”
“Well, I’m doing the best I can,” Bette said. “I’m used to making people look less real, not more.”
“I know, and we appreciate you doing this.” I looked at Meghan.
“I’m sorry, Bette,” she said. “I don’t even have a clear idea of what I want to change.”
“Didn’t you say the hair was longer?” I asked.
Meghan nodded. “Can we add about four inches, and maybe some curl? And make it a few shades lighter?”
Bette did as she was asked. Back and forth they went, my patient housemate providing suggestions while Bette tried to follow them. Finally, Meghan stood up with a relieved expression. “I think that’s as close as we can get.”
The bird lady did look significantly different. “Is there any way you could make her look a little … more lively?” I’d almost said, “Less dead?”
Bette made a sound of distaste.
“You mean like a smile or something?” Meghan asked me, her own lip curling in disgust.
“Uh, no,” I said with a pointed look. “That would be creepy. But could you brighten the color? That blue tinge makes her look like … well, like a vampire.”
Bette moused over some controls, clicking away, and a lighter, yellow tone replaced the blue wash. It didn’t really look better, but at least the woman didn’t appear as if she was about to turn into a bat.
“That’s great.” I stood and moved around to face Bette. “Barr said he showed you the first picture last night. How about this one? Does she look familiar now?”
She looked up at me, then back at her screen. Her lips thinned into a horizontal line. “No.”
My shoulders slumped. “Oh, well. Maybe it’ll jostle someone else’s memory. I’m going to take both versions out to the Turners’ and ask around during the vegetable distribution this afternoon. Can you save a copy to my flash drive?”
She peered at the screen again, drinking in the image.
“Bette?” I prompted.
“Sure.” She saved the picture, closed the program, and stood. Handing me the drive, she said, “Well, good luck. I guess I’ll see you out at the farm later.” She seemed more relaxed now that she wasn’t staring at the picture of a murder victim. I couldn’t really blame her.
Bette had never struck me as the hugging type, so I held out my hand and we shook. “Thanks again. I know it was a pain, but maybe something will pan out. I know Barr will be grateful for your help, too.”
She nodded. “I hope you find out what happened to her.”
“Me, too.” I walked through to the living room/studio. Behind me, Meghan walked up to Bette and gave her a big squeeze, which our much taller friend returned with enthusiasm. Huh. So much for my read on her. Of course, Meghan had that effect on people.
Outside, Alexander and Brodie had collapsed panting onto the grass, their faces turned up to the sun. When we came out to the porch both got up, and our corgi grinned and waddled over to Meghan. She bent down and smoothed the fur between his ears while I ruffled the thick, dark fluff around the German shepherd’s neck. On the public sidewalk out front, we latched the gate and waved goodbye to Bette standing in the doorway before setting off briskly for home.
“Is it always so hard to get people to help when you do your little investigations?” Meghan asked.
Ignoring her reference to my little investigations, I said, “Not always, but sometimes. A lot of people would rather stick their heads in the sand than get involved.”
She was silent for several steps. “Like me, you mean.”
“Nah. I didn’t mean you in particular. But I bet you understand why some folks are resistant. They’d rather live their safe little lives and not think about the fact that bad stuff does happen, and often right next door. Or even closer.”
Her chin dipped in thought. “Yeah. I get it. Now I’m starting to see why you tend to jump in with both feet.”
I began to protest, but she held up her hand. “You do it because
it matters. Because someone has to, especially since so many other people don’t. I bet that’s how Barr feels about his job, too.”
I stopped in front of our house, breathing in the scent of the tea rose that twined up one corner of the porch support. “I hadn’t really tried to pick it apart like that, but yeah—you’re right.” I turned and met her gaze. “It matters.”
_____
The front door was unlocked.
“Erin? You home?” Meghan called, propping it open all the way to let the warming breeze inside.
No answer. We looked at each other.
“I thought you locked up when we left,” I said.
“I did.”
Music started up in Erin’s room then. Meghan rolled her eyes and headed down the hallway. I headed toward the kitchen and the stairs to the basement. I wanted to see how the girls were getting on with Winding Road business and print out copies of the bird lady’s picture.
“Erin?” I heard Meghan say, and paused. “Can I come in?”
Poking my head around the corner, I saw my friend standing in front of Erin’s closed door. Hmm. Two days in a row. That couldn’t be good.
I didn’t hear the response, but Meghan said, “Well, I’m coming in anyway.” She twisted the knob, then stood in the open doorway, her mouth agape. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Uh, oh. I padded down the hallway to join them.
Erin sat on the bed, feet dangling above the floor, glaring at her mother. At least I thought she was glaring—it was kind of hard to tell with the peacock blues and greens around her eyes. Also, she was blinking a million miles a minute, and tears streamed from her reddened right eye. The telltale smear of black underneath betrayed her attempts to apply mascara.
“Ow,” I said. “Stuck yourself in the eye with the applicator, huh.”
Beside me Meghan was quiet. Really quiet. Scary quiet.
Erin said, “Can you show me how to do it right?”
I glanced at her mother. “Um. Maybe later, okay? Right now we should wash out your eye.”
She waved her hand at me. “Oh, it’s all right. I cried the goo right out. It doesn’t even hurt now.”
Meghan opened her mouth. Closed it again without saying anything. That meant she didn’t trust herself to speak.
I took a step forward. “I don’t really think green is your best color, Erin. Or blue.”
She bristled.
“See, you want eye shadow to show off your eyes, not dominate them. A nice, soft mushroomy color, maybe with a little smudge of pink, would emphasize the pretty gray in yours.”
Erin knew her mother was on the edge of blowing, and she dealt with it by carefully ignoring her. Now she slid off the bed and went to her desk, where she’d propped a mirror against her computer. She gazed into it, turning this way and that.
“Huh. I guess I see what you mean.” She faced us. “Seems like a lot of trouble, though. I don’t know how anyone can get that gunk to stay on their eyelashes anyway.”
“Go wash your face,” Meghan said.
Erin scooted past her and went down the hallway.
I laughed. “Do you think it’s because she loves Halloween so much?”
Meghan gave me a look that would have withered every single plant in the Turners’ greenhouse.
I grinned back at her. “Let’s make lunch. I’m starving.”
In the kitchen we stuffed soft goat cheese, slow-roasted tomatoes, and fresh lettuce into chewy pita shells. Then we drizzled homemade yogurt mixed with grated cucumber and ground cumin over the top to create a kind of vegetarian gyro. Meghan went to get Erin out of the bathroom, and I went down to see if Cyan and Kalie were interested in joining us.
They were, so I sent them upstairs and ducked into the storeroom. Plugging the flash drive into the computer, I set a half-dozen copies printing before returning to the kitchen.
>
Erin had managed to remove the first layer of colors, but there were still hints of blue and green, and her right eye was still pretty pink. But she tucked into her pita sandwich with enthusiasm. Gradually her mother’s ire lifted.
Good thing, because I was getting tired of playing referee.
Ten
After lunch one of Meghan’s regular clients showed up. I didn’t know his name, but he was a big, hairy guy I’d seen several times before. I spent a few hours helping Cyan and Kalie finish up the foot scrub, then set them to packing more orders into boxes while I inventoried my supplies and made lists of items to order. At a bit before three o’clock we were finished with the Winding Road tasks for the day and began planning the next day’s work. It felt like a luxury, not having to put in twelve hours before feeling like I was finally on top of things.
It also worked out well because CSA members would be stopping by to pick up their shares at Turner Farm starting at four o’clock and continue to straggle in until seven. I planned to get there early and stay late.
“Do you want to come with me?” I asked Meghan. Big hairy guy had left, and she was wiping flour off the counter. Two loaves of bread rose under a clean dish towel on the table. “It’ll be the perfect opportunity to see everyone.”
She shook her head. “I’ll leave that to you.”
“Sure?”
“I’ve still got one more client coming in, and then a pile of blueberries to freeze.”
Guilt arrowed through me. “You’ve been doing more than your fair share lately. Wait to prep the berries, and I’ll help tonight. Or tomorrow.” Or when I could get to it.
But she waved away my protestation. “The workload around here always works out in the end. Besides, I’ve had enough of looking at that poor woman’s photo for a while and don’t envy you having to show it around even more.”
“I’ll go with you,” Erin piped up.
“No, you won’t,” her mother said. “I’ll need some help making dinner.”
“Mo … ommm,” was the whining response.
“If you’re old enough to wear eye shadow, you’re old enough to mix up the rub for the baby-back ribs. Get out the kosher salt, chili powder, thyme, and brown sugar to start.”
“Geesh,” Erin grumbled as she went to the cupboard and began pulling out spices. “I’m not even going to wear eye shadow any more. Cyan told me my eyes are prettier without any distraction.”
Now why hadn’t I thought of that? I grinned at Meghan.
She made a face back. “Grab a few extra summer squash, okay? I want to make up a bunch of zucchini bread to freeze.”
“Sure.” I slung my tote bag over my shoulder and headed for the door. “See you later.”
_____
The bumper of Tom Turner’s stepside Chevy was snugged up to the side of the farm stand. As I pulled my old Land Rover in beside it, he nodded to me and hefted a crate of glossy purple eggplants to his shoulder. Another crate of multi-colored peppers sat in the bed of the truck.
The shutters on the front of the small stand were open, and tilted wooden bins displayed the surplus vegetables available to the public. The Turners didn’t have time or manpower to have someone waiting on the infrequent customers, so they relied on the honor system for the few hours per day it was open to the public. People took what they wanted and left their payment in the wide-mouthed Mason jar. So far that had worked out well, a gratifying testament to the good nature of most folks.
He carried the eggplants inside as I grabbed the file folder with the photos and opened my driver’s door.
“Hey, Tom.”
He placed the last one in a bin. “Hey, Sophie Mae. You’re here early.”
“And I’ll be sticking around for a while. We have an updated picture of the woman Meghan found yesterday, and I want to show it—and the original—to the farm members, see if anyone recognizes her.”
He frowned. “Let me see.” He held out his hand.
I gave him the picture, and watched his face carefully. Was that a flicker of recognition? Or was I just making that up?
“Do you know her?” I pushed.
“She looks different here.” He looked up at me. “Different than the photo your husband showed us last night, I mean.”
“That’s the idea.”
His eyes searched my face, but I didn’t offer more of an explanation. He returned both renditions of the bird lady. “Sorry. I can’t help you.” Abrupt.
Or wouldn’t help me. Curiouser and curiouser. Barr definitely needed to follow up with Mr. Turner. “Is your wife around?”
“She’s at the house.” His words were clipped.
“How about Hallie and Nate?”
He shrugged. “Hallie took Clarissa shopping at that mall in Lynnwood. God knows what they’ll come home with this time. Nate’s around here someplace. I’ll tell him you’re looking for him.”
“Thanks. Anything you need me to do while I’m hanging out?”
Tom considered. “Well, the popcorn needs to be picked sooner than later, so it can dry out of the weather. You could get started on that. Take the yard cart out to the field, and we’ll store the ears in the back of the farm stand here.”
Oh, wow. Homegrown popcorn. An image arose of sitting in the living room with Barr and Erin, Meghan and Kelly, eating from a huge bowl of warm, fluffy kernels loaded with butter and sprinkled with salt. Throw in the wind howling outside, an apple-wood fire crackling on the hearth, and a big jigsaw puzzle, and it sounded pretty much like my idea of heaven.
“Sounds good!” I grabbed a couple of canvas shopping bags from the back of the Rover and walked around to the distribution shed.
Volunteers took turns harvesting the farm produce on Tuesday mornings before pickup and then arranging it so members could drop by and help themselves. The double, barn-style doors at the end of the small building were wide open to let in light and air. The dusty pile of burlap bags I’d perched on to take my temperature the day before—was it really only yesterday?—now bulged with freshly picked goodies. They sat on the floor and lay open on the rustic tables that ran around the perimeter. Two scales nestled between the bags so people could measure out the vegetables offered by weight. A dry erase board on the back wall listed what was available for each member’s share that week.
9 tomatoes
3 bell peppers
1 acorn squash
6 ears corn
½ pound raspberries
1 pound green or wax beans
1 cucumber
1 eggplant
1 head lettuce
1 oz. parsley
2 oz. basil
As much kale and zucchini as you can stand
We hadn’t eaten much kale before participating in the CSA, so it had been a challenge to know what to do with all of it. Kale, it turned out, grew really well in the Pacific Northwest, and there was always some left over after everyone had picked up their share. So far we’d tried it in soup and stir-fries, cooked it in peanut sauce with Thai basil for a tasty side dish, and even added it to hummus. But my favorite way to eat kale so far was kale chips. Dressed with a little oil and kosher salt and then baked all crispy in the oven, they were pretty darn awesome. Not homemade potato chip awesome, mind you, but close.
As for the zucchini, everyone in the house was already a fan, even Barr. We never seemed to get as many as we wanted from the one start we planted each year in our small backyard garden. That might sound crazy, but cool, damp northwest summers don’t always make for the best summer squash. So we were glad to take some overages. Besides Meghan’s zucchini bread, it was necessary for good ratatouille and minestrone soup, great added to frittatas and fritters, grilled in big rounds and doused with mustard, or sliced thin and sautéed in brown butter with basil. My dad had even passed on his recipe for zucchini Carpaccio.
Each week there seemed to be a glut of something new at the farm. Lately, the pole beans had been going crazy. As long as I was going to be hanging around
, I would try to trade the lettuce and parsley from our share for more green beans, and see if there were any left at the end. We had plenty of salad makings in our backyard garden, but extra beans could be pickled or frozen. All part of the plan to stock up for the winter. Soon we’d be getting root vegetables like beets, carrots, parsnips, and turnips in the share, and we already had a plan for a makeshift root cellar—bins of sand in a cool crawl space—to keep them fresh for months.
I loaded up the bags, leaving the items I hoped to trade in the distribution shed, grabbed some extra zucchini for Meghan’s bread and some extra kale to make more of those strangely yummy chips, and hauled everything out to the Rover. As I shut my door, Tom climbed into his truck and started the engine.
I went over and leaned into the window opening. “Barr mentioned Nate was gone last night.”
He nodded. “Went to a movie.”
“Who was his date?”
One shoulder lifted and dropped. “Guess you’d have to ask him.”
I smiled ruefully. My guess was Daphne Sparks. I’d seen how they clung to each other in the wake of the bird lady’s discovery.
A car I didn’t recognize pulled into the parking lot. A young girl gazed at me through the window as a stout woman got out. “I’ll be right back,” the woman said to her, grabbing a basket from the back seat and striding toward the distribution shed. I waved goodbye to Tom and trailed along after her.
“Excuse me,” I said from the doorway.
Her eyes flicked to the list on the dry erase board, and she reached for a dimple-skinned cucumber. “Yes?” She grabbed the eggplant next, sparing me an impatient glance.
I held out the photos. “Do you recognize this woman?”
Her gaze raked across them before returning to the share list. “Never seen her. Why?”
“We’re just trying to identify her.”
She stopped and turned, finally curious. “Why? Who is she?”
“No one seems to know. She was found … nearby. Deceased. She might have had some kind of connection to the farm.”
“She’s dead? Good Lord! Let me see that again.”
I handed her the pictures.
“Where did they find her? Is this her sister? Were there two of them? Are you with the police? How did she die? How come I didn’t hear about this on the news?” The questions came fast, and her voice got louder with each one until she sounded smack dab on the edge of hysteria.
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