by Maggie Pill
“True.” Barb tossed her tissue and picked up another. “But with three daughters and no money, she might not have had anywhere else to go.”
CHAPTER TEN
Retta
On Wednesday afternoon I went back out to the farm. Faye had talked her boys into moving out there, and I wanted to make sure the bunkhouse was suitable for habitation. Faye’s proposal was that Cramer, Bill, and Carla would take a year’s lease on the place. The deal was that Bill would take over the farmhouse with his wife Carla, and Cramer would move into the bunkhouse. They’d take care of the animals until we decided what to do with them. In addition they agreed to move the previous tenants’ stuff upstairs until we located them or disposed of it some other way. For me, Faye’s idea meant a lot less headaches.
On the other hand, I don’t have much faith in Faye’s two younger sons. They’re nice boys, but neither Cramer nor Bill seems able to get control of his life. Bill is always hatching some half-baked scheme, and Cramer has let that wife of his—ex-wife now—lead him around by the nose for almost a decade. I wanted to believe they’d be good tenants and good animal tenders as well, but I try to practice logic like a good detective should. With that in mind, I was withholding judgment.
Aside from being dusty, crowded, and full of cobwebs, the bunkhouse looked okay. It was no palace, but honestly, all Cramer wants is lots of electrical plugs for the computer equipment he collects. Looking at the rather stark interior, I decided to buy some colorful curtains and throw rugs. He probably wouldn’t notice, but it would make me feel better.
The thought of decorating Cramer’s space reminded me of Barbara Ann’s need for an artist’s touch. Faye was preoccupied with her sons, and Barbara planned to go out of town for the weekend. It was the perfect time for me to spruce up her office.
Everyone says I’m the artistic one in the family, but my sisters didn’t consult me when they started their business. Faye’s office, which is also the entry area, isn’t too bad. She’s created ambiance with a half-dozen plants and scattered displays of glass figurines she collected over the years. Some of them were our grandmother’s, and they’re really quite beautiful.
Barbara’s office, on the other hand, is as cold as Superman’s Fortress of Solitude. You’d think an antique wooden desk and rows of books would result in a comfortable atmosphere, but there isn’t a single decorative item to add interest. The light walls and dark woodwork cry out for accent colors, and there’s almost no fabric to soften the perpendicular lines: no curtains, no pillows, nothing that doesn’t serve a business purpose. Once I suggested she do a wall montage with some of her pictures and awards from Tacoma, but she said that was all in the past. Past or not, visitors would be impressed to see Barbara Ann pictured with a senator and the former vice president.
Though I had my eye out for just the right things, so far I hadn’t found them. There was no doubt I’d find just what she needed, and Barbara would get some unexpected gifts. I love buying things for people!
When Styx and I got to the farm, I was pleased to see the animals had fresh food and water. Gabe and his girlfriend must be early risers.
Styx had already lost interest in chasing chickens and cattle, and while I wandered around looking into various bins and barns, he returned to sniffing at the lawnmower he found so interesting the day before.
I let myself into the house, less overwhelmed by the clutter since there’d soon be someone here to remove it. I wandered through the rooms, looking idly at what my renters had deemed too unimportant to take with them. In the corner of the dining room was a battered roll-top desk that had been our father’s business center. Raising the roller, I found stacks of paper: full-size sheets, notepads from feed stores, and scraps torn from old letters and envelopes. Rose’s filing system wasn’t organized, but there were notes on what she’d earned at craft shows, and what they’d made from the sale of farm goods: eggs, milk, and the occasional whole animal.
I sifted through the papers, not looking for anything in particular. It occurred to me there wasn’t any sort of tax information, no large envelopes numbered with the year of filing, no forms or bundled receipts. None of the stuff the IRS says you’re supposed to keep for five years or seven years or forever.
On the floor beside the desk sat an ancient electric typewriter, probably a cast off from some office or school. The letter I received from McAdams had been typed, with strike-overs and uneven ink. I wondered where Rose had found ribbons for that old dinosaur.
Wandering into what had been my parents’ bedroom, I took a few minutes to strip the sheets off the bed. Faye and Dale planned to spend a night at the farm to get things ready for her two horses and her two boys, and it wasn’t right for them to have to sleep in someone else’s bed linens. Digging around in the closet, I found paper-thin but clean sheets and mismatched pillowcases. I’d have aired the mattress if time permitted, but I was able to locate an ancient Electrolux and give everything a thorough vacuuming before putting on fresh bedding.
On the bedside table was a Bible, and I picked it up and flipped through its pages. Passages were marked with slips of paper, and masculine handwriting noted specific verses, apparently ones Ben was taken with. I read two, Ephesians 5:22-27 and 1 Peter 3:1-5. Both were passages ordering women to accept their husbands’ will.
Was that why Rose had refused to marry Ben? If she remained single, was she exempt from the Biblical direction that wives “submit to your husbands”? She’d been under Ben’s thumb either way, as far as I could tell. No matter what Rose believed, Ben called the shots.
At the back of Ben’s Bible were several folded sheets of paper. Taking them out, I skimmed the very un-Biblical material. It was from the Internet, which meant Ben had gotten it somewhere besides here. Called “Living off the Grid,” it listed ways to avoid the notice of governmental agencies, federal, state, and local. Readers were advised to buy their guns from private owners, use the Internet only at public sites like libraries, and limit interaction with entities that store personal information.
I shivered as I put the pages back into the Bible and dumped it into the night stand drawer. Ben was creepier than I originally thought, and I was glad he no longer slept in my parents’ bed.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Barb
I woke in the night to a metallic pecking outside my window. Glancing at the clock—3:00 a.m.—I frowned at the closed blind. A second-story man? Doubtful. A curious bird? I waited. The sound intensified. Something was trying to break through the screen.
Taking up the flashlight from my nightstand, I swung it a few times to test its aptitude as a weapon. Solid, and it fit nicely in my hand. Leaving my bed, I crept softly across the room and put my back to the wall beside the window. Slowly, I drew the curtain aside.
At first I saw nothing unusual. My side yard was partially lit by a street lamp some distance away. The porch roof was a foot below me, and a large old maple tree spread its branches toward it, a few of its leaves resting on the shingles. Nothing moved. It wasn’t a branch scraping across the roof.
Dropping the curtain, I moved softly to the other side of the window and looked out. There was almost no light there, but I saw a flash of movement. Something grated against the screen, stopped, and grated again. This time I saw the noise-making implement.
A cat’s claw.
Leaning forward, I aimed the light at the animal and turned it on. Yellow eyes reflected the light back at me for a second before it turned and ran down the porch roof. It was a gray tabby, long in the body and narrow at the hips. Perfect for sliding through alleys and squeezing through fences. In no time the animal was out of sight.
I listened, but the cat was as silent as she was quick. Clicking off the flashlight, I smiled to myself. A kitty ninja, attacking then disappearing without a trace.
I watched the dark street for a while, identifying with the cat. Like her, I sometimes go out on my own at night, not to force my way into people’s homes, but to fix grammatical a
nd spelling errors on signs in the Allport area. Because of my own ninja activities, I know what it’s like to skulk in the shadows and bolt for safety when there’s danger of discovery.
With a lot on my mind, I doubted I could go back to sleep. Turning on a light, I sat down at my desk and took out the list of corrections I hoped to make over the summer. Over the past year and a half I’d fixed the most egregious errors in signs around town. After I wrote several anonymous letters cautioning the local news team about their grammar, they began correcting themselves, sometimes mid-sentence, aligning their subjects with their verbs and their pronouns with their antecedents.
There was always more to do. A new sweet shop was about to open on Main Street, and I had to force myself to look away every time I passed on my morning walks. The sign in the window said, COMMING SOON! GREAT SNACKS AND DESERTS! While that sign would go away once the store opened, I foresaw future problems at that location.
It was my weekly date for a home-cooked breakfast with Faye and Dale, and I came downstairs at 7:00 to the smell of bacon. Dale stood next to Faye as she mixed batter for French toast. He held a bottle of vanilla, and when she paused, he passed it to her. Setting down the bowl, Faye took the vanilla, murmuring, “Thanks, Hon.” They’re so cute together.
As she fried the bread to golden brown, Faye caught me up on news about the farm. “Bill and Carla are coming on Saturday, and Cramer already told his landlord he’s moving out. Gabe’s seeing to the animals until the boys get there to take over.”
Taking the toast from the griddle, Faye put it on a plate which she set at the center of the table before sitting down with Dale and me.
I took some bacon and a piece of French toast. “Gabe has experience with reindeer?”
“No, but I guess the girlfriend does.” When Faye took a piece for herself, Dale set the butter, syrup, and bacon near her elbow, where she could easily reach them. With a man that attentive, it’s no wonder she’s put on a few pounds over the years.
When breakfast was finished and Dale went out to his workshop in the back yard, Faye and I settled at our desks. “Any leads on McAdams or Rose from your sources?”
“None.” She frowned at the computer screen. “I’ve tried everything I can think of.”
“What are they driving?”
She shrugged. “They have an old extended-cab pickup that’s registered in Rose’s name. None of my guys have seen it on the road.” Faye once had a job in a small factory, where she got to know a lot of truckers. They like her, and from time to time she asks for favors such as watching for certain vehicles on the road. It’s surprisingly effective.
“Maybe they left some other way, like by bus.” It wasn’t logical, but nothing about the situation was. McAdams wasn’t in trouble with the law, though he was definitely leery of it. He hadn’t told anyone he was moving away, yet they were gone, leaving most of their belongings behind. It was possible they’d left their vehicle behind too.
Faye picked up the phone. “Let’s ask Gabe if he’s seen the truck out there.” Faye called, putting the speaker on so I could hear Gabe’s answer.
“I guess it could be down in the woods,” he said. “But how would they get where they’re going without it?”
“I don’t know,” Faye said, “but no one’s seen it on the road.”
“Mindy says this Ben guy was breaking the law. His reindeer haven’t got any ear tags, which means the DNR doesn’t know they’re out here.”
“Ear tags?”
“Yeah. You’re supposed to tell the DNR and pay a fee if you own reindeer. They come out and inspect them all the time to make sure they don’t pick up diseases from the white-tail deer around here.”
“Oh.” Faye glanced at me. Another indication that McAdams had been leery of letting the government know what he was doing.
“There’s something else that’s funny,” Gabe said. “Somebody fed all the animals again this morning. Your sister thought it was the guy that rents the land, but he just got here. He says he didn’t do it either day.”
Faye thanked him, hung up, and leaned back in her chair. “It’s like the fairy tale where elves come at night and do their work unseen.”
“Maybe one of their friends knows the family left and is helping out.”
Leaning forward again, Faye checked our appointment book. “My horses are going to be trailered out there this morning, and I want to be there to get them settled. I’ll come back here for our meeting at three then after supper, Dale and I will go out and spend the night.” She smiled. “I need to be sure the new kids on the farm are okay.”
“I’ll ride out there with you,” I said. “I’d like to see the old place.”
Buddy, Faye’s dog, entered the office at that moment, and to my dismay she asked, “Do you want to go for a ride, Bud? Want to ride in the car?”
She always talks to him like he understands, and to be fair, the dance he started did seem to indicate he knew the word car.
I don’t care much for Buddy, and he returns the sentiment. When Faye found him hurt on the road and brought him home, she was already half in love with him. I’d gulped and agreed he could stay, secretly hoping an owner would show up and claim him. It didn’t happen. Since then I’ve learned it’s wise to keep my footwear upstairs unless I want it to look like it’s been through a food processor. Buddy stays downstairs, and when he comes to the office, he naps under Faye’s desk. I don’t snarl back when he snarls at me, and he grudgingly allows me to live in my own home.
We took Faye’s car—no way was I letting that dog ride in mine—and Buddy stayed in the back seat, which was a miracle. He usually rides in front, and I knew his coarse hairs would attach themselves to my clothing. When we got to the farm and Faye opened the back door to let him out, I noticed the leg broken when Buddy was hit by a car last winter had healed nicely. Showing no sign of pain or stiffness, the dog headed immediately to a lawn mower parked at the front of the house. He whined a little, and Faye went over to see what he’d found.
“What is it, Bud?” She walked all the way around the mower, but there was nothing there. Apart from the fact that it was parked in an odd place, it was just an old piece of lawn equipment. Buddy seemed anxious, whining and digging at the tires. Faye asked him several times what was wrong, like he was going to tell her in plain English. In the end we walked away, leaving him to his doggie oddness.
I hadn’t been to the farm in years, but it wasn’t much different. Faye led the way into the large barnyard through the smaller of two gates, dropping a leather strap over the gatepost to keep the larger animals in. The reindeer saw us coming and approached, not cowed in the least by two strange women and a dog. One stuck its nose right over the fence and tried to explore my jacket pocket, apparently looking for treats. I moved back to avoid it, but Faye let the animal nudge her, leaving a wet stain on her shirt. “Let’s see what’s available for horse feed,” she said.
The cattle were out, and the two cows looked over their shoulders at us with that bored expression they all seem to cultivate. The bull regarded us with belligerence when I opened the gate, but taking up a shovel that leaned against the gatepost, Faye brandished it at him. The bull backed away, choosing discretion for the time being.
Watching where we stepped, we circled the barnyard. The animals had indeed been fed recently. There was a shiny new salt block at one corner of the barnyard, and the stable had been mucked out fairly recently. “Somebody’s watching out for these critters,” Faye said. “Neighbors?”
“The nearest neighbors can’t even see this place. How would they know the tenants are gone?”
“Maybe Ben or Rose asked someone to look in on them.” We’d come full circle, and Faye gestured toward the house. “Let’s look around inside.”
She had some difficulty convincing Buddy to come with us, but he finally left the lawnmower and followed us up the front steps.
It felt odd to enter our parents’ house and find it adapted to someone else’s
liking. I poked around the living room while Faye walked through, cataloging in her mind what Bill and Carla would have to do to make it theirs. As I passed a window, movement out by the barn caught my eye. “There’s someone out there.”
Faye hurried over to look. “I don’t see anybody.”
“It was just a flash, but it wasn’t an animal. There was pink.”
We went back outside, shading our eyes with our hands as we stared at the spot. “Whoever it was went from the hayloft into the woods behind it. It wasn’t very big, not a man, I’m pretty sure.”
“Neighbor kids?” Faye asked.
“Aren’t they still in school?”
“They should be. I heard from Madge last night after you went upstairs. Nobody at the school knows why the Isley girls left and as far as she can learn, the girls never contacted any of their friends once they withdrew.”
“You don’t suppose McAdams murdered them and took off, do you?”
“If he did, it was very recently. Madge said one of the teachers buys eggs from them, and she saw the girls last weekend.”
We’d walked up the hill to where double doors on the west end of the barn allowed entry to the hayloft. I stayed close to Faye, since the bull was once again eyeing us and she had the shovel.
The door was ajar, though we had closed it when we left earlier. The hayloft looked much the same as it had when we were kids, a large space with double doors at the opposite end for loading bales for storage, and a trapdoor in the center for dropping them down to the animals as needed. It was almost empty at this time of year, since the animals needed less hay now that there was tasty green grass to eat.
We stood looking around, seeing nothing unusual and hearing only the ticks of the tin roof as the sun warmed it, expanding the metal. Even Buddy found nothing exciting. He marked the loft for his territory then returned to Faye’s side. As we turned to go, a glint caught my eye, and I stooped to see what it was. I picked up a barrette, pink with a single rhinestone at one end, and showed it to Faye.