by Maggie Pill
There was no sign posted, but I stopped when I saw a rickety wooden dock with a sailboat tied to it. Using the binoculars from the glove-box, I took a closer look and saw the name Rory had mentioned: Mr. A.I.
Since there wasn’t a driveway, I pulled off onto the grass. Dale and I got out, and I opened the back door for Buddy. I left his leash on, afraid he might run after a rabbit or deer and get lost. He sniffed happily around my feet, taking in new territory he’d no doubt claim for his own.
The view of the water was spectacular, and the spot reminded me of an old poem where the guy says something about peace dropping slow. As the quiet sat on my shoulders, they relaxed. I hadn’t even realized they were tense.
On either side of the lot were trees, mostly scrub pine but farther back a few oaks. The smell of evergreens swirled toward us, pushed by a breeze off the water. Along the tree-line wildflowers peeped shyly out, preferring shade to sunlight. There were a few ducks on the water, some with rears up as they searched the bottom for food. Dale touched my arm, pointing upward where a hawk flew above us in a slow arc.
“The deer up here are almost tame,” he said softly. “I saw a woman feed one bread out of her hand.”
I watched the boat to see if there was anyone aboard. It seemed empty, bobbing gently in the waves that pushed at the shore. Apparently used for fishing, it had a single rod set upright in a holder on the near side.
For a few minutes Dale and I stood enjoying sights and sounds that were not man-made. After a while, we began our search, circling away from each other and weaving slightly to cover more ground. Dale’s path led him into the trees, while I crisscrossed the open space.
I’d almost reached the shore when movement on the left caught my eye. Turning, I saw a man coming toward me, fishing tackle in both hands. He wore ratty jeans and an equally worn denim jacket. Pulled low on his forehead was a camp cap pierced with fish-hooks and enameled metal pins. When he got closer, I saw that at least some of them were military.
The guy was walking with his head down, so we saw him first. Buddy started barking, and the man stopped. “Who are you?” he demanded.
Though he wasn’t a big man, his manner was threatening. He glared at me, neck stretched toward me and eyes glittering with animosity. His mouth didn’t quite close when he finished speaking, and I got a glimpse of what looked like a mouthful of canine teeth. Movie villains came to mind, the kind with no moral boundaries. If I had to describe him in one word, it would have been creepy.
Mushroom hunting didn’t explain me walking the shoreline. “I-I was looking for stones,” I stammered. “I collect pretty ones.”
“On somebody else’s property?” he asked harshly. He dropped the creel and pole he carried to the ground and took a step toward me. He had big hands for his size, and I pictured them closing around my neck.
“I didn’t realize--”
Buddy stepped in front of me, barking furiously. He heard the threat in the stranger’s tone and was more than willing to defend me. The man’s hand went to his waistline, and I saw a pistol holstered there.
“Don’t!” I cried. “He’s on a leash!”
The stranger paused, leaving his hand close to the gun but not on it. “You got no right here,” he said, flashing those pointy teeth. “I ought to--”
“Hey, there.” Dale’s voice came from behind me, and the stranger stepped back. When I turned, Dale was approaching faster than I’d seen him move in years. In one hand he held a stout tree branch. It might have been a walking stick, but the way he carried it made it look like a weapon.
The fisherman’s expression changed from malevolent to blank, and the threat I’d felt a few seconds earlier melted away.
“Hey, man,” he called to Dale. “How you doing?”
Reaching my side, Dale stopped. “Sorry if we trespassed on your land. It’s just such a beautiful view from here.”
“No problem,” the guy said. “It ain’t my land. I was just passing and saw her.” He spoke as if I wasn’t present or perhaps didn’t matter. “I knew she wasn’t the owner.” He pointed past us. “My place is farther down.”
“I see.” Dale’s tone was doubtful. “All the same, we’ll be going.” He took my arm, and we started away. I turned several times to look back, afraid he’d pull that gun and shoot us dead.
The guy didn’t move. When we got into the car, he was still standing where we left him.
“What was that?” Dale asked in a low tone.
Shaking my head I replied. “He looks like a nut case.”
“I thought he was going to attack you.”
It was better not to mention the gun. No sense making Dale as scared as I was. Putting the car into gear, I pulled back onto the road. “Quite an over-reaction to seeing people on someone else’s land.”
Dale sighed. “At least we checked the place out. No sign of a hidden weapon or other anti-government paraphernalia.”
I glanced in the rear-view mirror. “Wish we’d got a look at that boat.”
We dined on whitefish and fresh asparagus, watched a beautiful sunset, and relaxed in a charming, quiet room. Breakfast was at 6:30 the next morning. Our ferry was scheduled to leave at 9:30, which allowed us enough time to drive past Ferrell’s lot again. The boat called Mr. A.I. was gone, but we did see a pair of eagles, swooping and rolling over the water in search of prey.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Barb
Retta finally called Monday morning, and I pushed aside my cereal and half-eaten banana. “What’s up with Faye?” I asked. “Why did they take off so suddenly?”
She was surprisingly tight-lipped. “She’ll tell you about it when she gets home this afternoon.” Apparently that was all she had to say on that subject, because she went right on. “I called to ask if the girls could stay at your house for a while.”
I haven’t often been asked to kid-sit, but the idea appealed to me now. The Isley girls were easy, being old enough to take care of themselves and so close they didn’t argue much. “Sure,” I said. “They can frost the cookies Faye made yesterday. She must have forgotten them when she got called away to do whatever it is that you won’t tell me about.” It was a shameless attempt to pick information out of Baby Sister, but for once she refused to share.
“I might be away from my phone for a while, but if you text, I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.”
“You without your phone? Are you having major surgery?”
“Ha, ha. We’re almost there, and I’m going to drop the girls off and go. I’ll talk to you later.”
It was only a few seconds later that I heard her car stop outside, followed by three doors slamming closed as the girls got out. Typically, she’d asked for a favor assuming I’d agree. I hurried to the door to catch her, but she was already pulling away. Though she waved enthusiastically, she didn’t stop.
There were secrets here. Faye had made cookies then went somewhere with Dale for an overnight trip, leaving them in the refrigerator, unfrosted. For Faye, that was unheard of. Retta had to know where Faye had gone and why, but she wasn’t willing to share. Now she was off on a mysterious adventure of her own, and I was not privy to those details either.
I thought about pumping the girls for information, but it didn’t seem right. After asking casually where Retta had gone and getting a vague answer about errands she had to run, I gave up.
“There are cookies to be frosted,” I said, “are you interested?”
Of course they were. I set them up with the tools for the job, and they got busy with icing and sprinkles. Daisy lost interest once she’d frosted two cookies, and she sat down at the kitchen table to eat her creations.
Pansy and Iris were old hands, and while Pansy’s work was acceptable, Iris was a cookie decorating master. I stood around for a while, sharing little tidbits about cookies, icing, and such. They seemed interested in learning where vanilla comes from and how food dyes are made for a while, but when they began repeating the same “Cool!”
and “Wow!” comments, I left them to their work and went down to the office to check our messages.
As I entered the room I was humming, but I stopped abruptly. Things were different. My space had been invaded.
At one end of my desk was a lamp that looked like it came from the early 1900s, and its mate sat on the bookshelf across the room. Lined up on a shelf were three vases, alike except for size. On each, in silhouette, a frock-coated man offered flowers to a lady in a wide-skirted dress. In the bottom left corner of each window was a small pillow in shades of blue, green, and lilac.
I hated them all on sight.
Here’s the thing. I like clear spaces and hard angles in my office. The only place I want softness is on the seat of my chair. The only colors I require are the tones of different woods. Decorative objects are nice in bedrooms and living rooms, but offices are places of business and should, therefore, look businesslike. I went to work putting things back the way they should be.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Retta
I left the girls with Barbara Ann for a while so I could do a little role-playing. I didn’t stop because it’s hard not to tell Barbara what she wants to know, and right then I had two secrets. Faye had made me promise not to tell about her bad experience, and I was going to go to the River of Fulfilling Life Church to find out what I could about Ben McAdams and who his friends were. When Faye got back, I‘d sit down with both of them, and we would compare notes.
I stopped first at the local Salvation Army store. The girls there all know me because I give away really good stuff. One of them told me once that the staff takes what they want from my donation bags before they put the rest out for resale. It isn’t quite fair, but I guess if you work somewhere, you get the perks.
Telling them I was shopping for someone else, I chose an outfit I wouldn’t otherwise have worn in a million years: a dowdy cotton dirndl skirt, a plain, pale yellow blouse, white crew socks, a knitted beret, and tennis shoes with drops of blue paint on one toe. In the far corner of a large parking lot, I climbed into the back seat and fumbled my way out of my clothes and into the new-old ones. I’ll admit I worried a little about how clean they were, but I told myself a detective has to make sacrifices in order to succeed. Next I used a couple of the wipes I keep in my car to take off every bit of makeup I’d put on so carefully that morning. Tucking my hair into the beret, I took off my earrings and bracelets then did something I seldom do. I turned my phone off and after giving it a little caress, hid it in the pocket of the skirt.
A glance in the visor mirror told me I looked dull as dishwater, as Mom used to put it. Leaving the car, I walked the two blocks to the River of Fulfilling Life Church, hoping I didn’t see anyone I knew. The entry door was blocked open with a chunk of wood, and inside were five women standing around a large table. Some sort of project was in progress, which was perfect.
The women looked up when I temporarily blocked the light coming in the doorway. Most just looked at me, but one of them smiled. “Hi, there,” she called. “Can we help you?”
“My name is Margie,” I replied. “I’m new in town, and someone told me this was a good place to meet people.”
“It certainly is.” The woman stepped forward. “I’m Dee. This is Carrie, and Pam, and Joan, and that’s Diane.”
“Nice to meet you,” I said to the group. “Is the pastor in?”
“It’s his day to visit the sick,” Dee said. “You’re welcome to wait.”
“I guess I can stay a few minutes.” Gesturing at the table I asked, “Can I help with what you’re doing?”
“It’s a mission project.” I think it was Carrie who spoke. “We’re filling packets for a birthing hospital in Ethiopia. Joan makes these cloth backpacks, and we add things the new mothers can take home for themselves and for their babies.”
Eagerly they showed me the array of items they’d either made or collected to send overseas. “A nurse who worked at a hospital over there came and spoke to us about the needs they face. We decided to help out.”
“It’s a Christian hospital,” Diane put in.
Picking up a bag, I looked it over. Simply made but sturdy, it had straps that allowed it to be worn as a backpack, freeing the hands. The straps were particularly clever, made from the often useless cloth belts that come with dresses, sweaters, and tops. Thinking of the collection of those I had at home in my closet, I vowed to get them to this woman, who made practical use of something most people toss away.
“The bags are really great, Joan.” She didn’t reply or even smile, but she gave me a brief nod of acknowledgement.
I was given the task of rolling receiving blankets so they could be stuffed into corners of the packets. Carrie showed me how to place them so they cushioned the other objects and kept them from crashing together.
We talked, as people do when they’re engaged in a mutual project. They were nice women, and I began to feel bad about lying to them. It also felt weird to have my phone turned off. Used to having it, I missed the discreet ding every few seconds that lets me know someone is thinking of me.
Since I was already there and the lie had been told, I followed through with my charade. In response to questions I spun a story about moving from Detroit a few weeks before. “My husband wanted out of the city,” I told them. “He chose Allport because an old army buddy of his lives on a farm out of town. But something terrible happened. The friend died in an accident a few days ago. Now we don’t know anybody.”
“Do you mean Ben McAdams?” Pam asked.
I smiled. “Why, yes. He’s the one who told us about this church.”
“Ben used to come at least twice a week,” Carrie said. “But we hadn’t seen much of him lately.”
“That’s funny,” I said. “He told us everyone here is real nice and the Word gets preached every Sunday.”
Joan looked up from her work as if judging the truth of my statement. Her gaze made me nervous, but after a few seconds, she went back to packaging tiny socks in zip bags.
“I saw Ben at the credit union a couple weeks back,” Diane said. “I told him we missed them at church. He said he was busy on the farm. Rose and the girls too.”
Joan spoke for the first time, and it sounded like the voice of doom. “I pray he was ready when the Lord called on him to explain how a man can be too busy to come to church.”
The other women nodded, and one of them added an “Amen.”
When the last backpack was in the shipping box, the pastor still hadn’t returned. “I guess I’ll come back tomorrow,” I told the women. “It was nice meeting everybody.”
We left the building as a group, but Dee put a hand on my arm. “Walk with me.” She locked the door then pointed east. “I live over there, and it won’t take a minute to make us a cup of tea.”
Joan hung back, obviously hoping to be invited along, but Dee wished her a good day and turned away. I got the impression Joan wasn’t the type people hang around with any more than necessary. Godly, yes, and capable, too. Just not much fun.
On the other hand, Dee seemed good-humored and upbeat, the kind who doesn’t let the shadows of evil in the world block out the rays of sunshine. She grasped my arm. “I’m going to have to lean on you a little,” she said. “Got a bum hip, and standing on that tile floor has started it barking at me.”
Dee chatted about the neighborhood as we walked the block to her house, a clapboard-sided remnant of the 1950s. In her sunlit kitchen she put the teakettle on, set out two china cups with saucers, and gave me my choice of Earl Grey or Orange Spice tea. Once she poured hot water over the bags and set the kettle back on the stove, she sat down across from me, met my eyes, and asked, “What are you up to, Mrs. Stilson?”
My face burned with embarrassment. Though it had been years since Don’s death, my picture had been in the paper plenty of times back then. A hat and glasses might fool some people, but there’s always one sharpie who’s paying attention.
Something in Dee’s forth
right manner made me answer honestly. I told her about the detective agency, the farm, and the girls. She listened closely, at first, I think, to see if I was lying, but later with interest in the story.
When I finished, she said, “Those poor girls! Rose is a bit impractical, but she’s a good mother. I doubt she’d run off and leave them with Ben.” Looking away for a moment she said, “It’s a sin to gossip, and the Devil loves it when somebody starts, so I’ll tell you only what I saw and heard myself. There’s been plenty of talk, but I won’t pass that along.”
I twitched in my chair. This was what I’d come for, though I wasn’t exactly getting it the way I planned.
“I love our church,” Dee began. “It’s small, and it isn’t under the thumb of some national organization that tells us we have to let gay ministers baptize our babies or change the litany to suit somebody’s idea of politically correct wording.” She gave me a hard look. “God is a He as far as I’m concerned, because that’s what the Bible says. And while I have no desire to stone gay people, they don’t belong in my church until they stop doing what the Bible tells us is an abomination.”
“I understand.”
She smiled grimly. “That’s your way of saying you disagree, but let’s leave it at that. As I said, I like my church, but for the last year or so, we’ve had some trouble.”
“With Ben McAdams?”
“Colt Farrell is the ringleader, but Ben and a few of the men and even some of the women agree with him.”
“About what?”
“About women and their place in the world.”
Things the girls had said came back to me. “You mean that we’re meant to be ruled by men.”
Dee pointed an arthritic finger at me. “That’s Bible teaching. We are weaker vessels, and we’re to submit to our husbands.”
I was confused. “If you agree, where does the trouble come in?”
Dee sipped at her tea, shoving the bag she’d left floating in the cup off to one side. “First Colt said women shouldn’t get to vote on the church’s business. He and his bunch argued it’s fairer if one person—a man—represents each family.” She set her cup down with a clink. “I don’t have a man anymore, so I don’t get a vote. I didn’t like it, but I told myself I could still voice my opinions.”