Murder in the Boonies: A Sleuth Sisters Mystery (The Sleuth Sisters Book 3)

by Maggie Pill

  “You changed that sign, didn’t you, Barbara Ann?”

  I sighed, resigning myself to what was coming. “It was incorrect.”

  Conclusions were reached behind her eyes. “You’re the one who’s been fixing spelling errors around town. People have noticed.”

  I looked around nervously. “Do we have to do this in the street?”

  “No.” She was still smiling. “Let’s go into the house.”

  She parked her car out front. I waited for her to get out then led the way inside, glancing nervously around to see who might be watching. “Where are the girls?”

  “There’s a puppet show at the library. I came over to make sure we’re ready for the trip tomorrow.” She gestured toward the sign, humor dancing in her eyes. “And what do I find!”

  She sat down at the kitchen table. I delayed, offering iced tea and some of Faye’s famous peanut butter cookies. Retta accepted both, but her sly look let me know I wouldn’t get off easily.

  “I should have known it was you.” She took a dainty bite.

  Honestly seemed best. “Retta, I can’t eliminate child abuse or war or corruption in our government. For decades I worked for justice, but the world is still wrong in a lot of ways.” I paused, and for once Retta didn’t comment. She merely waited for me to go on. “Grammatical mistakes are different. You find something that’s wrong; you fix it, and it’s right.”

  “You do that. Not most people.” She sipped her tea. “In fact, nobody I know of—at least until now.”

  I shrugged. “Errors bother me.”

  She was silent for a few seconds. “Know what bothers me?”

  I didn’t answer because I was going to hear it anyway.

  “It bothers me to be an auxiliary investigator in my sisters’ detective agency. It bothers me to get called in only when you need my social and business contacts. I have a brain, you know.”

  “Retta—”

  “So here’s the deal.” She met my gaze, letting me know she was serious. “I know about your—” She stopped, unable to think of a term for what I do.

  “Correction Events.”

  She smiled, amused that I had a proper title for my improper actions. “—Your correction events. If I were caught at something like that, I’d laugh it off, but I know you. You don’t want anybody, not Faye and especially not Rory, to know about it, am I right?”

  I nodded.

  She shrugged lightly. “Well, I’m willing to keep your secret.”

  A rush of gratitude hit, followed by a sense of dread. With Retta there’s always a trade-off. Being the youngest, she learned early to negotiate, and she’s ruthless about getting what she wants.

  Retta raised her hand as if swearing an oath. “If I become a full member of the Smart Detective Agency, I will never tell anyone about your Correction Events.” Now her hands made quotation marks in the air. “Ever.”

  There it was. How much did I want Retta excluded? How much was I willing to give up to keep my secret?

  It didn’t take me long to make the decision, since there were only unfortunate options. “Agreed.”

  “Great!” In a remarkably humble tone for Retta she added, “I promise I’ll try not to take over or boss you around.”

  I appreciated Retta’s admission that she might do that, even if it was a promise she could never keep. It was like me promising to join the Allport Follies and dress as a clown. “Thank you.”

  “And I actually appreciate what you do.”

  “You mean creeping around nights like an aging Batgirl?”

  She chuckled and took another bite of cookie. “You’re not the only one who notices all those errors out there, Barbara Ann.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  Faye

  Cramer had the trailer hitched to his truck when I got to the farm the next morning, and soon we were driving north. “Bill called from Traverse City last night,” he told me, driving with practiced ease. “He says Carla really likes the Isley girls.”

  Something in Cramer’s voice said there was more. “And?”

  “Well, we got to talking about it. The farm’s what they know, and the house is certainly big enough for more than Bill and Carla, so we wondered if they could stay out there.”

  “You want to take the girls in?”

  “Well, not me. Bill and Carla would petition to become foster parents.” He frowned. “The girls might not want to come.”

  “Oh, I think they would, but Bill and Carla don’t know them very well.”

  He adjusted his side mirror slightly then rolled the window back up. “From what I’ve seen of the system, foster parents usually don’t. You take in a child, or children in this case, and you make it work if you can. Carla’s a great role model, and Bill and I could learn a lot from them about taking care of the animals.” He added, “They got a bad deal. We’d like to give them a better one.”

  My heart swelled in my chest at evidence that my sons are good men. Not rich, not socially or physically impressive. Good men. That’s enough for me.

  We met Doc Hopkins, the vet who’d agreed to help with the horse, at a restaurant, where we bought him breakfast. Hopkins brought to mind a banty rooster Dad once had on the farm. Small, energetic, and unlikely to defer to anyone, Hopkins greeted me and Cramer with brisk friendliness. “Bought you a horse farm, eh?” he said as we shook hands. “You don’t look crazy.”

  I explained about the renters who’d left us with a mix of animals, ending with, “I’ve always wanted to keep horses, and Cramer and Bill, my other son, agreed to give it a chance.”

  “Hope they’ve thought it through,” the doc said. “Animals tie a person down. If you’ve got two or three people working together, though, it might be okay.” He took off his cap, rubbed his bald head, and set it back in place. “If there’s anything I can do to help out, call. I don’t practice anymore, but that doesn’t mean I gave up caring for critters.”

  “We’ll be grateful if you get this horse across the straits for us.”

  “Won’t be a problem as long as she can stand up.” The waitress set a plate piled with pancakes before him, and he reached for the syrup. “What else you got on this farm?”

  I listed the animals, and Hopkins lifted a brow. “Reindeer, eh? Do you plan to breed them?”

  “Yes,” Cramer replied. “Pansy says they lost a couple, though. Last year one was born dead and another only lived a few days.”

  “Soil around here lacks selenium,” Hopkins said. “That can cause failure to conceive and calves that don’t thrive. You need to supplement their diet with selenium salt blocks.”

  Cramer took out a pen, and I handed him a scrap of paper from my purse. “Selenium,” he said, writing it down.

  The two men talked as we ate, and I mostly listened. Cramer told Hopkins things he’d noticed, and the vet gave advice.

  When the plates were empty, Hopkins piled his silverware and trash on his and leaned his elbows on the table. “Sounds like you had an interesting time the last few days.”

  Cramer smiled, catching my eye. The vet didn’t know the half of it.

  Hopkins slapped the table in a gesture of readiness. “Let’s get your horse back here and into the truck so you can start getting acquainted.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  Barb

  I almost changed my mind as Faye bustled around getting ready the next morning. What seemed like an adventure at first now shifted to a trial with crowds of people, cold winds off the Straits, the smell of horse manure, and Retta’s chirpy chatter. Only the thought of seeing Pansy having a good time made me stick to my decision to go.

  “They’re very excited,” Retta had said during her third call to finalize our (her) plans. “Iris is dignified about it, not out of control like Pansy, who keeps jumping around the kitchen singing some song about being crazy over horses. Daisy doesn’t really know what Mackinac Island is, but Pansy’s got her acting silly too.”

  In my head, I defended the girl’s act
ions as perfectly normal for a nine-year-old. Iris was a more sedate child, to be sure. It would be nice if Retta favored sedate dogs as well as sedate children.

  Faye left long before we did. Cramer would do the driving required to get the horse to its new home. Faye had quipped, “I’m the horse whisperer; Cramer’s the horse chauffeur.”

  They planned to meet the retired vet in Mackinaw City and buy him breakfast in gratitude for his help. Retta, the girls, and I would meet them at the boat dock at nine, and we’d ride over together. While Faye and the men arranged for the horse’s transport, Retta and I would show the girls the Island. By late afternoon we’d be back in Mackinaw City with the newest member of Faye’s family.

  The day was warm and sunny. When Retta picked me up in her Acadia, she and the girls had hats, and I realized I should have brought one too. Pansy had a Detroit Tigers ball cap that had probably once belonged to Retta’s son Tony tucked into her jeans pocket. Iris and Daisy wore straw hats about as practical for the Island as diamond tiaras. “It’ll be windy on the boat,” I warned. “Caps would stay on better.”

  “These match their outfits,” Retta said as if that settled the question completely.

  Retta’s phone interrupted my thoughts. She reached for it, but I beat her to it. “You’re driving.”

  “It might be important.”

  I read the screen. “Tiffany is calling. How important can it be?”

  “I should talk to her.” Her hand flailed at me, but I pulled the phone out of her reach. “At least see what she wants.”

  I hit the icon. “Retta Stilson’s phone.”

  “Um…Is Retta there?”

  “She’s driving.”

  A long pause told me the caller didn’t see why that was a problem. “I’d like to talk to her.”

  “We’ll be stopping soon,” I said. “She’ll call you then.”

  When I hung up Retta said, “I can talk on the phone while I’m driving, Barbara. I do it all the time.”

  “Why don’t you use that hands-free thing?”

  “It doesn’t sound right, and everyone in the car would hear.”

  “Better than everyone dying because you’re distracted.”

  She made a sound that indicated I was being silly. “I’ll give Tif a call before we get on the boat. Look, girls! There’s the bridge!”

  Mackinac Island is a little jewel set in the waters of Lake Huron on the eastern side of the Mackinac Bridge. With no cars or motorized vehicles, the place feels like a step back in time. Most visitors reach the island by ferries that run frequently during the tourist season from either Mackinaw City, at the tip of the Lower Peninsula, or St. Ignace, at the northern end of the bridge.

  Retta chose the transport line with the rooster-tail ferries, thinking the girls would get a charge out of it, which they did. As we surged through the choppy water she acted as tour guide, pointing toward St. Ignace. “That’s the Upper Peninsula,” she told them. “People up there are called Yoopers, and it got added to the dictionary as an official word this year.” With a glance at me she added, “Spelled Y-O-O-P-E-R.”

  We’d had the discussion before, but Retta never drops anything. My preferred spelling is Y-U-P-P-E-R, which better suggests upper, but that isn’t what the dictionary writers chose. Retta thinks it’s funny that my spelling is wrong according to Merriam-Webster.

  Shooting her a look, I said, “Let’s go below before the wind blows someone overboard.”

  In the cabin was a large banner welcoming WALL to Mackinac Island. The letters stood for something I’d heard of but couldn’t bring to mind at the moment. There’s always some sort of convention on the island between May and October, and the weather was certainly cooperating for this one. Aside from some wind, which is normal for the straits, the day was perfect.

  We docked less than an hour after we boarded, following herds of chattering people, most of them women, onto the road that rings the island. The Straits of Mackinac has a long history of commerce in furs, fish, and forestry products. Today’s trade is focused on tourism, so fudge and souvenir shops abound.

  There the streets were full, but we wormed our way along, giving the girls a chance to spend the mad money Retta provided. As we trailed behind them, uninterested in plastic replicas of the Mackinac Bridge and T-shirts with clever sayings, Retta observed, “The people seem better dressed than usual today. See those women in heels and skirts? And those ladies over there don’t look like tourists. No tank tops or cargo shorts.”

  I muttered something neutral, uninterested in whether visitors to the island were fashion conscious or fashion clueless.

  Within a half hour or so, each girl had chosen her souvenir. Daisy bought a fairy-thing with no apparent purpose, Iris (after much deliberation) got a book about Indian legends, and Pansy chose a sweatshirt that said Michigan: 100% pure. Relieved to be done with tchotchkes, I said, “Let’s show these girls some history.”

  We started with Fort Mackinac, a relic of the days when Michigan was controlled by first the French and later the English. Daisy clung to Retta’s hand when they fired off the cannon, but she loved the costumed re-enactors who demonstrated various tasks and crafts of by-gone days. Pansy asked a hundred questions about voyageurs and Potawatomis and pemmican. Iris read every word of every sign. Though her diligent study slowed us down a little, I considered it well worth the time.

  At noon we sat down on the hillside leading up to the fort, where the harbor lay before us like a picture postcard. From a tote bag she’d brought along Retta served up a meal fit for several queens: chicken salad and peanut butter sandwiches, zipper bags filled with vegetables cut in clever shapes, cheese in dice-sized blocks, and a half-dozen collapsible bottles filled with either lemonade or raspberry-flavored water. I wondered what it had cost her to schlepp that much weight around all morning, but she didn’t seem to mind when the girls oohed and aahed at their choices.

  Faye joined us late, but one look at her face told us things had gone well. “She’s ours!” She was panting a little as she dropped down on the grass. “Doc Hopkins thinks she’ll be okay. Her lungs are weak, so she can’t pull anymore, but he says that doesn’t mean she’s going to curl up and die anytime soon.”

  “That’s good.” Retta handed Faye a sandwich, which she held in one hand, too excited to take a bite until she told it all. “Cramer and Dolly got to be friends right away. Since there’s hardly room on Doc’s boat for the horse and the two of them, Doc suggested we meet them in Mackinaw City around three o’clock.”

  Retta frowned. “That’s only two hours from now. We’ll have to hurry if we’re going to walk up and see the Grand Hotel.” Originally, Retta had had hopes of tea on the porch of the Grand, but that happens late in the afternoon, and Faye didn’t want to hold Doc Hopkins up. The compromise was to let the girls see the longest porch in the world up close before we left for home.

  Faye looked toward the harbor. “There! They’re heading for the boat now.”

  “Can we go down there?” Pansy asked. “I want to see her.”

  Retta sighed at the delay but said, “You girls go along. Barb and I will clean up our picnic and meet you outside the Pink Pony.”

  Much as I don’t like Retta assuming I’ll do as she says, I didn’t have a problem with waiting a day or two to be introduced to the horse. Faye and the girls headed down to the harbor, ducking through the crowds of pedestrians, carriages, and bicycle riders to get across and reach the spot where Cramer and a wiry older man led a gray horse between them. The horse looked exhausted. Its head hung low and its steps were tentative. I had a moment of pity for the poor thing: old, sick, and being led out of its comfort zone. Still, it would soon be in a place it could only have dreamed of, if horses have dreams: no work, good food, and affection.

  Doc Hopkins’ boat was pulled directly onto the shore. It looked like a miniature version of the LST’s I’ve seen in WWII movies, half raft, half boat. With deft movements the vet unhooked a chain at each side an
d a panel at the front dropped, forming a ramp for the beast to walk on. When he made a come-along gesture, Cramer led the horse forward. Hopkins took hold of her halter on the opposite side, and together they coaxed her onto the boat. Once she was aboard, Hopkins fastened the lead rope to the boat’s stern. From the easy way he reassured her, I guessed this wasn’t the first time Doc Hopkins had rescued an island horse.

  “Looks like they’ve got things under control,” Retta said behind me. “Let’s get this cleaned up and get down there. It’s a bit of a hike to the Grand.”

  Much of it uphill, if I remembered correctly. “We don’t have to go up there. They saw the hotel from the ferry.”

  “You can’t come to the Island and not visit the Grand.” Her tone indicated despair at my inability to comprehend the good things in life. “These girls might get adopted by people who live in another state or who never leave home. We should show them what we can while we’ve got them.”

  I didn’t like the thought of the girls moving away. I’d become accustomed to having them around, and I liked the feeling of being—not like a grandmother to them, but perhaps like an aunt.

  With a sigh of acquiescence, I turned to helping Retta pack up our things. Retta does some things well, and today she’d served a simple but delicious meal with hardly any trash to dispose of and only a few items to carry home. If I were jealous of people who are clever at planning social events, I’d be jealous of Retta.

  Brushing the grass from our rears, we stood side by side, looking toward the public harbor to see how the Dolly situation was progressing. I squinted, since the sun turned the water into a million tiny mirrors. Taking my sunglasses from my forehead, I put them on. It helped my vision, but I realized again that I should have brought a hat. My face was going to burn and I’d have the raccoon-eye effect for the next few days.

  Digging in her purse, Retta came up with a tube of sunscreen and handed it to me. I took it, muttering thanks, and she smiled, pulling the brim of her pretty little sun-hat lower. She was feeling smart for having worn it, but for once she didn’t say so out loud.