The Deadly Fields of Autumn (The Foxglove Corners Series Book 25)

by Dorothy Bodoin

  Lucy brought a tray of tea and shortbread to the sofa and said, “What has Veronica done now?”

  I told her about the devil’s food cake she’d baked for Crane’s birthday.

  “She’s certainly forward.”

  We drank our tea, nibbled on shortbread, all three of us, and I prepared my teacup for a reading. After knowing Lucy for so long, I knew the procedure. Drink the tea, drain the excess liquid, turn the cup toward you three times, making your wish while the leaves formed patterns gleaned from your life—and your future.

  “You don’t have to believe this,” Lucy always cautioned, often adding, “It’s just for fun.”

  I was ambivalent about having my tea leaves read. ‘Just for fun’ it might be, but on occasion the events Lucy foretold actually happened.

  Veronica was still in my teacup, skulking around too near my home for comfort. Lucy pointed to a leaf that resembled a coiled snake.

  “That’s her. It looks like she’s making herself at home.”

  Unfortunately she couldn’t see what Veronica would do next. Nobody could.

  I sat back and offered a cookie to a patiently waiting collie.

  “Has she moved?” I asked.

  “I’d say she was in the same place as she’s been before.”

  “There must be single men in the sheriff’s department,” I said. “You’d think she’d set her cap for one of them.”

  “Don’t let her rattle you. She was probably hoping Crane would take the cake home.”

  “The cake holder is still on the kitchen counter,” I said.

  “You should return it filled with doughnuts. Let her know her little gift to Crane doesn’t bother you.”

  That was worth considering. I might do it. But suddenly I didn’t want to waste another minute of my time with Lucy talking about Veronica, so I launched into the tale of the haunted television set.

  Lucy’s eyes lit up. “I would love to see it, Jennet. Do you think I could?

  “Sure, but so far, I’m the only one who’s seen the movie. Come over anytime. We’ll turn on the TV, and maybe it’ll play for you.”

  “So you have another mystery to solve. It’s a fascinating one. I’ve read about rogue appliances and electronics, but this is something new.”

  “It takes my mind off Veronica and school problems.”

  “That’s good.”

  “The trouble is, they’ll still be there, waiting for me at the end of the day,” I said.

  ~ * ~

  The Foxglove Corners Public Library was an old white Victorian on Park Street, named for the park that gave its residents a colorful view in all seasons.

  It had been Miss Eidt’s family home before she donated it to the town, along with several books from her own collection. The library was a unique place where new-fangled innovations such as computers mixed in harmony with vintage series books and an old-fashioned card catalog.

  The cat, Blackberry, kept a vigil on the wicker chair she’d chosen for her own use. The creature stared at me with shining jewel-like eyes as I approached the porch, without a flicker of welcome.

  Well, as I always thought, she wasn’t a dog.

  Miss Eidt was at her desk sorting Halloween cut-outs. She wore her blue shirtwaist dress again with a three-strand pearl necklace, looking cool and serene as always.

  I handed her the box of doughnuts I’d bought at the Hometown Bakery. “It’s a little late for doughnuts, but they look good.”

  “Never too late, Jennet. What brings you to the library?”

  “Research,” I said. “I’m interested in Western movies today?”

  “For school?”

  “For myself.”

  It was time to tell Miss Eidt about the mystifying properties of my purchase.

  She was astonished. “I had no idea. How could you go to an estate sale and buy the only haunted item in the house?”

  “Just luck,” I said. “I’d love to know the title of the movie or, better still, to see it.”

  But Miss Eidt wasn’t finished talking about the new mystery. “A normal TV doesn’t act that way. It’s like it has a soul.”

  I’d never thought of it that way. Miss Eidt’s simple observation led to a chilling thought.

  Not that it was possible, but… What if it did have a soul? If an article acted like a sentient being, how could it be considered insentient? And suppose that very strange television set was alive. What was its purpose?

  Preposterous notions, all.

  “Brent suggested there was a CD inside it,” I said. “Outside of taking it apart, I don’t know how to prove it.”

  “But if you did find a CD inside, what would activate it? It’s almost as if that TV is toying with you.”

  For a moment I wished I’d never taken Miss Eidt into my confidence. Inadvertently she’d given rise to a host of unsettling possibilities.

  “If you find the title, I have some CDs out on the shelves,” she said. “There are some Westerns, mostly classics like Red River and The Searchers.”

  “This movie isn’t a classic,” I said. “I don’t recognize the stars. I’m assuming it’s an obscure film.”

  “There’s bound to be a record of it somewhere.” She held up a cardboard cut-out of a black cat wearing a witch’s peaked hat. “It looks like Blackberry, doesn’t it?” she asked.

  “A dead ringer,” I said, just as something furry brushed against my leg.

  The cat had followed me inside.

  Eleven

  After poring through the library’s resources for an hour, I came to a conclusion. My own books on Westerns were as good as anything Miss Eidt had to offer. Tired of skimming repetitious material, I moved on to the shelves containing the CDs she had mentioned.

  Several well-known favorites were there. I decided to check out The Searchers and three other classics to watch with Crane. At the last moment I added The Old West on the Small Screen, attracted by the rainbow-colored horses on the cover.

  Blackberry followed me up to the desk. I didn’t realize she’d stayed with me. Strange. Didn’t she know I was a dog person?

  Miss Eidt said, “Did you see the new Gothic Nook?”

  How could I have missed it? Although, being a nook, it might be out of sight.

  “Follow me,” she said, leading the way to a cozy space by the back windows. The nook was furnished with Queen Anne chairs and antique side tables. The lamps were Tiffany style chosen primarily for their colors and nineteenth century atmosphere. All the shelves in the nook were well-stocked with Gothic romances, most of them paperbacks that had sold for a pittance decades ago.

  At present no one was there.

  “It’s been popular from day one,” Miss Eidt said. “Some people read books right here in the library and ask me to hold them until the next day.”

  “Can’t they check them out?” I asked.

  “Oh, definitely, if they choose, but some readers prefer our peace and quiet to their own homes.”

  I took The Lute and the Glove down from the shelf. Its cover, depicting a bonneted woman strolling among gravestones, had a long tear, neatly taped by Miss Eidt or her assistant, Debby.

  “I loved this one,” I said, recalling the young woman who had seen the ghosts of a pair of ill-fated Elizabethan lovers. “Few writers can create a ghostly atmosphere like Katherine Wygmore Eyre.”

  Still, I’d like to try. I thought I could write an equally thrilling Gothic. Some day. Once I figured out the secret of the haunted television set. Our green Victorian farmhouse had its own kind of atmosphere, every bit as enthralling as that of an English manor.

  “I think I’ll check it out,” I said. “I’d like to read it again.”

  Miss Eidt said, “The words are small, and the pages are yellow and fragile.”

  “I can see that,” I said. “I’ll be careful.”

  I hadn’t found the title of my movie, but, in all, my morning at the library had been satisfactory. Perhaps I wasn’t meant to know any more about
Susanna’s story than the TV was willing to give me.

  ~ * ~

  Brent had invited Lucy to join us for Crane’s second birthday celebration at the Hunt Club Inn. Both Lucy and I wore black. Lucy had added her signature gold chains and bracelets while I chose my crystal heart and teardrop earrings for accessories. We were all in a festive mood as was the Inn, dressed in autumn colors, both somber and bright.

  The fox head wreath, the one decoration I always tried to avoid, glared down at the diners. In honor of the season, it wore a circle of crimson and yellow leaves interspersed with red berries. It made me feel like crying.

  I supposed I was the only person in the Inn, with the exception of Lucy, who decried the sport of fox hunting, which was why I tried not to think about the poor fox who had lost his body or about Brent, an enthusiastic fox hunter who owned his own pack of foxhounds.

  When we’d given our orders to the waiter, Brent said, “The cook baked a birthday cake for dessert.”

  Cake? This would be Crane’s third cake, but neither he nor I—nor Lucy-—mentioned that other cake, the one Veronica the Viper had gifted him with.

  Crane was speechless.

  “That was thoughtful of you, Brent,” I said.

  “We have to show the sheriff how much we appreciate him, and we do. He keeps the peace and keeps us honest.”

  I glanced at Brent. What an unusual sentiment for Brent to utter, and why would we be anything but honest?

  Finally Crane said, “I appreciate the gesture, Fowler, but I’m not having any more birthdays. This is the last one. Just don’t sing “Happy Birthday,” he added.

  “I’m staying the same age, too.” Brent turned to me. “What’s the latest on the haunted TV?”

  “One time, it played a little more of the Western, but usually when I turn it on, I see today’s news or weather.”

  “I still think there’s a mini CD player inside,” Brent said. “If Jennet would let me take it apart, I could prove it. What do you make of it, Lucy?”

  “I don’t know. I’m hoping to see what Jennet saw. I don’t agree with you, though, Brent. An embedded CD player simply couldn’t work.”

  “I think the movie is a Western romance,” I said, hoping to divert a lively debate.

  “What kind of Western is that?” Crane wanted to know.

  “It’s for women. Sort of like a Hallmark movie. Women were a part of the frontier, too, you know.”

  “A minor part,” Brent said. “Dance hall gals and schoolmarms. Oh, and rancher’s wives, of course.”

  “Don’t forget Belle Starr and Rose of the Cimarron.”

  “Rose who?” Brent demanded.

  “Google her,” Lucy said.

  “In my movie, a young woman, Susanna, comes to a town in Colorado, Jubilee, and right away attracts a cowboy who looks like Crane.”

  “According to Jennet,” Crane said. “I never met a man who looks like me—except for my Uncle Gilbert, and he’s a much older version.”

  “This actor is a dead ringer for Crane, and he’s young,” I insisted. “I’m pretty sure they’ll fall in love.”

  “Maybe I don’t want to see it then,” Brent said.

  “Remember the mystery,” I reminded him.

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Jennet brought Red River from the library,” Crane said. “You can watch it with us, Fowler. You, too, Lucy.”

  At that moment a waiter appeared with our food. Prime rib for the men, pecan-encrusted whitefish for Lucy and me. We dropped the subject of Westerns and rogue televisions to enjoy our dinner.

  The cake was a marvel, three layers of chocolate decorated with a jaunty fox, of course, who wore the badge of a deputy sheriff.

  “The fox has your eyes, Sheriff,” Brent said.

  As host, he offered to cut the cake but mangled the first piece.

  Lucy took the cake server from his hand. “Let me. Since Crane isn’t going to keep track of the years from now on, we’ll dispense with candles.”

  Which was good, as Brent hadn’t thought to bring them.

  The cake was delicious. By the time we were drinking our after-dinner coffee, there was scarcely a crumb left on the plate.

  I sighed happily. We were a solid circle, my well-loved husband and our friends. Try as she might, Veronica the Viper couldn’t trick her way into it.

  ~ * ~

  The dogs marked our homecoming with enthusiastic barking, although Misty included a prodigious yawn.

  I hadn’t taken my phone with me. It lay on the oak table faithfully informing me that I had a missed call from Sue Appleton.

  Should I wait till tomorrow to listen to the voice mail? I didn’t want to deal with a rescue emergency at midnight. On the other hand…

  Curiosity won. Sue had a question or, rather, a request.

  Jennet, will you do the follow-up home visit for Charlotte and Bronwyn after school one day soon? I’m sure everything is fine with them, but we have to follow procedure.

  “All right,” I said as if I were talking to the voice mail. “Nothing easier.”

  And trailed by Halley and Misty, I hurried up the stairs to join Crane in our bedroom.

  Twelve

  Sagramore Lake was still and blue, a smooth mirror reflecting the autumn-turning landscape. I drove to the end of Sagramore Lake Road and found the address Sue had given me.

  Charlotte Gray’s house was a pretty bungalow painted light yellow with black shutters. It had an enviable view of the lake, being the last house on the block. A white picket fence enclosed the entire property, and the grass was hidden under a thick blanket of dark red maple leaves.

  Charlotte had a driveway with a narrow strip of grass in the middle but no garage and no car in sight.

  I opened the gate and crunched down the leaves that covered the walkway. Charlotte hadn’t raked them or even swept them off the pavement. In fact, it didn’t look as if she were home, as the drapes were closed. I knocked on the door, waited, then rang the doorbell.

  Nothing. Not even a dog barking inside the house.

  I glanced again at the Post-It note in my hand. I was at the right address, but obviously I wasn’t going to see Charlotte today.

  Well, I could come back another day. The bungalow was within walking distance of Jonquil Lane. I often took my dogs walking down to the lake, sometimes meeting my young friends, Jennifer and Molly, playing with their collie, Ginger, on the way.

  I turned to leave as the door of the neighboring house opened. A woman with glossy auburn hair brushed back stood on the porch. She wore an orange sundress, its princess lines spoiled by a bulky apron.

  “Wait… Miss?”

  I smiled, wondering if she recognized me from one of my previous walks.

  “I’m Charlotte’s neighbor, Sylvia Eastbrook,” she said. “Charlotte isn’t there.”

  “I guess I’ll have to try again. I’m Jennet Ferguson.”

  “Are you a friend of Charlotte’s?” she asked.

  I paused. I could be, but, “I only met her recently,” I said. “I’m with the Collie Rescue League, here to check on Bronwyn.”

  “Oh, yes, her new dog. Well, you’re the first person to come by since she left. Charlotte has been gone for four days. I saw her drive away early one morning. She had the new dog with her.”

  “Maybe she went on vacation,” I said.

  “Unlikely. Charlotte never goes anywhere.”

  Until now, I thought.

  “Where do you think she is then?” I asked.

  “I can’t imagine, and I don’t know what to do about it. I’m leaning toward calling the police. Only…”

  I waited. Cutting across the driveway, plowing through the maple leaves, she came to a stop next to me, close enough so that I could see the smoky eye makeup she wore.

  “Only what if I’m wrong and it’s all innocent? Charlotte would be upset if I reported her missing and she wasn’t. She’s a very private person.”

  “You seem to know her pretty well,”
I said.

  “I’d say so. We share a garden in my backyard. Sometimes we go out for dinner. If Charlotte is doing something unusual, she’d tell me. She told me all about Bronwyn,” she added.

  I frowned, looking down at the unraked leaves. Then I glanced at the mailbox which appeared to be empty.

  “I’ve been taking in her mail,” Sylvia said. “What would you do if you were in my place?”

  I didn’t have to think about it. Suppose Lucy or Annica were unaccounted for? Lucy not at Dark Gables and Annica missing her shift at Clovers?

  “I’d talk to the police and let them take it from there,” I said. “It’s better to be safe than sorry.”

  “That’s what I’ll do.”

  “And please let me know what you find out. I live nearby, on Jonquil Lane.” I wrote my cell phone number on the Post-It note.

  Sylvia promised to call me as soon as she had news. I said goodbye and walked back to my car, taking one last look at the tranquil Sagramore Lake.

  Sylvia had transmitted her concern to me.

  Disappearances weren’t unusual in Foxglove Corners. On the contrary. Huron Court, one of the roads near the lake, had been known to sweep people into another season and time. There was also Brandemere Road where—if you believed one of Foxglove Corners’ more outrageous legends—the unsuspecting traveler reached the end of the earth and dropped off the planet.

  Then people vanished for purely natural reasons. Sometimes they met with foul play. And here was Charlotte, retired piano teacher, living a quiet life centered around her home. She had just adopted a dog—our latest rescue collie.

  What could have happened to her?

  I drove back down Sagramore Lake Road, and turned on Jonquil Lane, anxious to be home where I didn’t anticipate any turmoil greater than collies clamoring for their dinner.

  That adoption had gone too smoothly. The circumstances were too neat. The perfect owner turning up just as we planned to launch our geriatric match program. It was almost suspicious.

  It looked as if another mystery had landed in my life.

  ~ * ~

  I didn’t have time to think about Charlotte Gray’s vanishing act, nor of Bronwyn, that afternoon. Planning dinner at the last minute, feeding seven collies, and writing a test for World Literature swallowed up my time and energy.