My father. My mother. My grandparents. All four of them.
An unexpected shudder ran through me. I forced myself to stop the morbid train of thought before I could say, poor me.
I dragged my eyes away from the photograph and looked at Joe, who had followed my fleeting glance at his wife’s portrait. I wondered what had happened to the dog. He never spoke of a pet.
Had the dog died, too?
“Is that Jeanne?” I asked gently.
Joe took the picture down and dusted the frame. “Yeah. That’s my Jeanne with Dunster. He was a great dog. A wonderful friend.” His mouth tightened and he swallowed hard.
Realizing we were in dangerous territory, I looked away .
It would be better not to talk about such things today.
Joe must have agreed with me. “Two creams, no sugar, right?”
“Right.”
He poured coffee into three chipped cups from the shelf behind his desk, motioning for Adam to join us at his desk. I took a sip and pulled up a chair, and Adam rolled over next to me.
Joe sat down, laced his arms behind his neck, and put his feet on the scarred desk. “So, what are we going to do about this mess, gentlemen?”
Adam cleared his throat. “I’ve started digging into the profiles of each suspect. For the adults, that includes criminal, work history, military, and high school records. For the students, I searched juvenile records, previous schools attended, and hobbies. The data’s just starting to come together, but I’m going to need help to compile it all and make more phone calls.”
“You got it, kid. Good job.” Joe sat up in his chair and massaged his forehead with one meaty hand. “I can’t believe it went this far. From a few rough pranks to attempted murder—and a sharpshooter at that. Checking military history is a good idea, Adam. Oh, and add in gun club memberships. This guy was one helluva shot.”
Something he said sparked a memory. It was something Cindi had whispered just before she passed out.
“When Cindi went down, she said ‘he took Boris’. Does that mean we can eliminate the female half of the list?”
Joe and Adam exchanged glances.
I continued with my thoughts. “I know we've gone through this before, but Cindi was really scared. Correction, she was petrified. I think she'd been recently threatened and slapped by the guy she was about to accuse of kidnapping Boris.” I remembered the ragged, red, blotchy handprint on her face and felt sick. “She must’ve confronted him and told him she was going to blow him in. So he followed her to my place. But what doesn’t sit right, what doesn’t ring true, is why in the world he would kill her to hide the fact that he broke into Camille's house.”
Joe looked up from his notebook. “Maybe that’s not all he was hiding. But if he had been discovered, he might have been charged for more than vandalism and breaking and entering. We might have bagged him for attempted murder on the stage platform. Or in that field of sunflowers. He tried to mow you down, didn’t he?”
I nodded, I’d forgotten about that.
“Lord knows what other crimes he's hiding,” Joe said softly.
I paused momentarily, sitting up straighter. “Armand is still in the county jail, right?”
“Yup. He’ll be there until the trial. His mother couldn’t make the bail money. There's no way he's the shooter, Gus.” He stood and walked to the window. “What about the show? I'd hate to recommend canceling the whole thing after all the work the kids have put in so far, but if Cindi's death is related to the pranks played on the cast...”
I scooted closer to Joe’s desk, leaning toward him. “I know this is probably out of the question, but is there any chance you could post some men at the school until the first weekend in December? That way the show could go on and the kids would be protected.”
Joe and Adam talked for a minute, discussing personnel schedules.
Adam looked up at me. “I could do the night stints, Gus. I don’t have a hell of a lot going on right now. If Joe can rotate the other three men in the department, we’d be covered.”
Joe frowned. “Normally, I’d have to laugh at such a request. It’s big bucks, Gus. All the overtime, you know. Tell the truth, though, we’ve had a pretty light caseload this season. A couple of guys escaped from the minimum-security prison, a girl was assaulted at the college, and we’ve had several drug arrests, but it’s all been wrapped up. We’re in pretty good shape right now for manpower. ”
We agreed to the plan. Joe filled our cups again, and Adam changed the subject back to the suspects.
“Professor, did you see anything at all when the guy who shot Cindi drove past you?”
I started to say “No,” but stopped myself and cast my mind back to Sunday. “It was such a blur.” I closed my eyes and leaned my head back against the wall. “My attention was on Cindi, because she was about to divulge a name to me. Then there was the roar of the engine, the sound of the gunshot, Cindi fell down, and a black blur whizzed by the barn. I'm pretty sure it was the same guy who dug up my lawn and tried to mow us down in that field. Of course I couldn't see his face, because of the visor. The rifle was slung across his back.”
Adam looked relieved and sighed. “Good. I mean, it’s not good that you can’t identify him, but it’s good that he won’t think you can. I was a little worried about you and your family. If you'd seen his face he might have…” His words trailed off and a worried scowl creased his brow.
His concern touched me. Adam’s relationship with my daughter, Freddie, seemed to have flourished as rapidly as the baby who had grown inside her. This decent man kept coming around, in spite of the new child that was due any day. More impressive was the fact that he didn’t care that the child belonged to another man. I watched him rather fondly as he scribbled notes on his pad of paper.
Joe cleared his throat and leaned forward. “I need to ask you something, Gus. I want to tap into your subconscious observations. You’ve been in the vicinity and you’ve seen him in action, so to speak.”
“I’m listening,” I said.
“Do you think all of this has been aimed at Camille? Is there any question about it being an act of hatred against her personally, or could it have been a broader attack on the school?”
I sat for a moment, reviewing my own theories. I had rejected the idea of a general attack against the school because of the break-in at Camille's, the tearing up of our lawn, and the assault in the sunflower field. These actions had been too personal to have been driven by generic hatred. I assumed the reason I was privileged to join the ranks of the tormented was because of my relationship with Camille. I went over these ideas with Joe and Adam.
“It’s too personal to be against anyone but Camille, Joe. Everything has centered on her. The pranks in the school are about the show, her pride and joy, her one chance to shine in front of the community.” I paused for a moment, digging down deep into the pool of dark thoughts swirling beneath the surface. “The thing that scared me the most was the sound of his voice when he pushed her off the stage. He must have been lingering, waiting for an opportunity to act. He moved so quickly when the lights went out, that the emotions had to have been building inside him for a very long time. When he swore at her, it was with such venom. Such hatred. He sounded very disturbed, if you know what I mean.”
“You mean he’s a real sicko,” Joe said.
“Yeah,” I sighed. “A real sicko.”
Chapter Sixty
O n Thanksgiving morning I woke up at quarter to six. After a quick shower, I headed into the kitchen. It was still pitch black outside and freezing cold downstairs. I stirred up the woodstove and added some logs, then flipped on the lights, turned on a lemon-scented essential oil diffuser, and opened the refrigerator. I poked at the twenty-four pound bird sitting on the lower rack, glad it felt soft. After defrosting in the refrigerator for four days, it was ready to roast.
I lugged the bird to the sink and removed the plastic wrapper. Just like my parents had done many years ago,
I ran cool water over the surface, fishing out the giblets and remaining chunks of ice crystals. Whistling the tune for “Free to Love,” I patted the bird dry with paper towels and hefted it into the roasting pan.
After coating the skin with extra virgin olive oil, I dusted it with poultry seasoning and slid four large sprigs of fresh thyme and lemon slices under the skin. I popped two oranges and three lemons into the cavity to keep the bird moist and to infuse the meat with a citrus flavor. Into the oven it went.
I melted two pounds of butter to go with two boxes of Bells stuffing, and mixed it all with chopped onions, celery, pecans and a little extra Bell’s seasoning. The stuffing went into two Pyrex baking dishes. Our family liked the crunchy texture it developed when cooked outside of the turkey.
I slid the pan into the oven and heard a faint “plop, plop, plop” on the stairs. Tristan, our seal point Himalayan cat, waddled imperiously into the kitchen. He lifted his whiskers in the air and sniffed. Pulling back on his haunches, he prepared to launch onto the table.
“ Don’t even think about it, buddy.”
Tristan looked at me as if I dared imply that he, of all creatures, would have considered such an ill-mannered deed. His huge turquoise eyes crossed slightly, and he began to lick his long, cream-colored ruff. The four-inch fur was so long it stuck to the end of his tongue even after he moved his neck through its entire range of motion. He lifted a paw to pull the ruff from his mouth.
The cat finished his bath and walked to the door. “Rowl.” He turned to look at me, waiting for me to obey his command.
I washed my hands and opened the back door. He hesitated, looked around carefully, glided over the threshold, and scampered toward the garden. A chill filled the air and stars glittered in the black sky.
Lights in the barn shone yellow through the stall windows, and hens squawked inside the barn. Siegfried uttered a loud German curse, probably aimed at Rascal, our moody Rooster.
I shivered and closed the door when Tristan streaked back into the house, eager to reclaim his warm place beside the wood stove.
Once the bird was in the oven, I headed to the barn to help Siegfried with the rest of the chores.
The sun rose, and with it came the awakening household. Mrs. Pierce invited her sister, Eloise, for the holiday. She’d stayed the night, sharing her sister’s large bed on the first floor. Camille recovered from her bout with the flu, and arrived with Maddy around ten. The rest of the guests were due to appear at noon.
Camille wore jeans with a yellow turtleneck and a blue sweater. I’d been admiring her for the past few minutes from my vantage point at the stove. She looked so pure, so lovely, so… Camille. I found it hard to believe she’d be mine in the spring.
She caught me staring and blushed, then gave me a little shove. “What are you staring at?”
I slid my arms around her shoulders and kissed her gently. “My future wife. Is that okay with you?”
“Seriously, mister. We have work to do. Now, how many potatoes do we need? Ten? ”
I smiled indulgently. “We have twelve people coming, honey. Better double it for the big eaters. Plus we’ll need leftovers for the week. We’d better peel the whole twenty pounds. And I’m not sure that’ll be enough, to tell the truth.”
Her eyes widened. “Really?”
“Really. Remember, we’ve got Siegfried, Adam, and Joe, all who have hollow legs.”
“Wow. I don’t know how you do this every Sunday.”
While Camille and Eloise peeled potatoes, Maddy sorted through silver and china, searching for matching sets of one dozen each. “Don’t you have anything that matches here, Gus? My gosh. They’re all different.”
“Heck no, Maddy. That would be way too conventional. Those are all hand-me-downs from my parents and most of them came from antique shops. But we do have matching glasses.”
She muttered something that sounded like “I can’t believe it,” and went about rewashing matching ruby goblets until they shone on the trestle table covered with a silvery white tablecloth.
Mrs. Pierce took her last pie out of the oven at eleven—a mock cherry made with cranberries and raisins—and Freddie and Johnny arranged the cornucopia, pickle dishes, and thin mints.
“Look, Opa!” Johnny walked into the kitchen, balancing a round wooden tray full of mixed nuts still in their shells.
I patted his soft hair and he scrunched up his face.
“How do we eat dem?”
“You need the nutcracker.” I rummage in a drawer and found one. “Here you go. Let me show you how it works. You need an adult to do this for you though, buddy.”
I cracked open a pecan, broke the halves into smaller pieces, and placed the meaty nuggets into his outstretched palms. He happily munched them, his head bouncing from side to side. “I like dem.”
“Chew them carefully, buddy. ”
“Okay. Can I pwease have more eggbob?” he asked.
“Of course you can.” Chuckling, I poured a small amount of eggnog into his Winnie the Pooh cup. He drank it greedily, tossed his plastic cup on the floor, and skipped into the great room to find his mother.
The aroma of roasted turkey and spices filled the house. Siegfried loped out to the garden to pick the last of the Blue Hubbard squash. He dashed it onto a sharp rock, and it broke in half. Repeating the cracking process, he kept at it until the broken sections were small enough for single servings. The tradition had worked for years in my family and was much easier than trying to saw through the tough hull with a knife.
Mrs. Pierce washed and covered the jagged pieces of orange flesh in butter, brown sugar, and cinnamon and added them to the oven. “Better check your leeks, Professor. They’re almost boiling over.”
I ran to the stove and turned them down, then poked them with a fork. They’d started to soften, and should be ready by the time the squash and gravy were done. I went through my mental checklist of jobs. “Oh, no.”
Mrs. Pierce looked up with a question in her eyes. “What’s wrong?”
“I forgot the stuffed celery.”
She chuckled. “I was just about to remind you.”
While humming Spirit Me Away , I washed two bunches of celery and combined the cream cheese, grated onion, milk, and seasonings until they were blended into a creamy dip. I spread the concoction in stalks and sprinkled them with paprika. Satisfied, I arranged them on a platter, and slid it into the refrigerator to set.
Oscar and Millie Stone arrived just before noon. Oscar pulled his sedan as close to the back door as possible.
I walked outside to greet my surrogate parents. “Hi, guys. Happy Thanksgiving.”
“Same to you, Gus.” Oscar lifted the wheelchair from the trunk and skillfully maneuvered his arthritic spouse into the red leather seat .
Millie patted my arm with her arthritic hand. “Happy Thanksgiving, honey.”
“May I do the honors?” I motioned to the wheelchair ramp Siegfried made a few years back.
She giggled like a schoolgirl. “If pushing my chair up that rickety ramp is an honor, then by all means, Gus. I’d be pleased to have your help.” She turned back to wave to Oscar.
“Daddy? The cranberry bread is in the back seat, dear. Would you please bring it in?”
“Yes, Mother. We wouldn’t want to forget that, now, would we?” He reached into the back seat for the bread and followed us up the ramp.
The seventy-five-year-old lovebirds still called each other “Daddy” and “Mother” years after their only son had left home. William died in Viet Nam, leaving them alone in the world. The natural progression had been for us to adopt each other, particularly after my parents passed away. Oscar and Millie were expected at every family gathering and we often visited their treasure-packed farmhouse in Goodland Station.
I wheeled Millie up the homemade ramp, and Oscar followed close behind. When I reached the porch, he touched my sleeve. “Have the police learned any more about the shooter?”
I had to tell them t
he truth about Cindi a few days earlier, because they knew the family and both of them would have been devastated if they thought Cindi had been killed. How could I lie to Oscar and Millie? But both were the soul of discretion and I knew there would be no leaks from their camp.
I shook my head. “Nothing concrete yet. But they’re digging pretty deep into everyone’s past. They might come up with something.”
He pursed his lips and frowned. “I won’t feel comfortable until they’ve arrested the villain and jailed him for life. That poor woman and her family. I know her parents well. They’re worried sick that he’ll try again if he finds out she’s really alive. ”
“I know. Me, too. Thank God he didn’t succeed. Now, if she can make it through the aftermath of those surgeries…” I maneuvered the chair into the kitchen, but something didn’t feel quite right. I looked back at the car. “Wait a minute. Where’s Tinkerbell?”
Tinkerbell, one of Sheba’s puppies they’d adopted after their dog Jasper passed away, frequently rode in the back seat with the couple when they drove around town and usually came with them on visits to our place.
Millie’s hazel eyes twinkled as she looked up at me. “We didn’t quite trust her in the back seat with the cranberry bread, don’t-you-know.”
Oscar took over and wheeled Millie into the great room. The Thanksgiving Day parade commentary blasted from the television. Johnny dashed over to Millie, his face beaming. “I saw pwetty horses in da parade.”
“By golly, those are my favorite. May I watch with you, Johnny?”
Delighted, Johnny pulled his little rocker beside her wheelchair and began to rock and chatter. A twinge of sadness hit me. How Elsbeth would have adored this little boy, how she would have spoiled him and played with him. She would have been a great grandmother.
I brushed aside the sad feelings and got busy again. It usually worked.
Chapter Sixty-One
J ohnny and Millie chatted like best friends reunited after being separated for a lifetime. Oscar snapped photos at all kinds of crazy angles with his venerable old Leica camera. Documenting our family gatherings had been his role for decades. Although we didn’t print photos as much as we used to and the last time we’d put together a family album was sadly years ago —even Oscar received digital files along with his processed negatives—we still shared slideshows on our smart phones and tablets. Even Millie had signed up for Facebook, which seemed to be the easiest way now to share photos within the family. Oscar kept talking about upgrading to a new digital SLR, but he hadn’t made the plunge yet.
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