Blackberry Burial

by Sharon Farrow

  “It’s possible someone did,” Trejo said. “There’s no evidence to prove that person was Gordon Sanderling. But we’re far from done with questioning people.”

  I turned to Captain Holt. “I hope you’re careful when you question Theo again. You’ve seen how sensitive he is.”

  “We went to his cottage this morning to speak with him,” he said. “It didn’t go well.”

  “And I’d describe him as unstable, not sensitive.” Trejo looked irritated.

  “Was he upset?” This was all too much for Theo Foster to absorb. Even a man who was more balanced would have an awful time learning that the bones of someone he loved had been discovered. And that she had been murdered.

  “Quite upset,” Trejo said. “Mr. Foster began to shake so much, we feared he was going into shock. But he refused to let us take him to the hospital.”

  I put my head in my hands. “Poor guy. I’ll go over there right now to check on him.”

  “I was about to suggest that,” Holt said. “He seems to trust you. It would also be helpful if you asked him more questions about what happened at the school that summer.”

  Raising my head, I stared out at the happy crowd. I envied them, concerned only with picnics, art fairs, beach outings, and tonight’s fireworks. “I don’t know how much stress Theo is able to handle. And on Monday, the centenary festivities for the Blackberry Art School begin. That will remind him even more of Sienna.”

  “You need to remember to be cautious around anyone connected to BAS.” Holt’s voice was filled with concern. “If Gordon Sanderling didn’t kill Sienna Katsaros, it’s possible someone connected to the school did. That means the murderer could be arriving any day.”

  Chapter 7

  I never understood how Crow Cottage got its name. For one thing, it resembled a shack much more than a picturesque cottage. Little time or money had been spent on upkeep in the past thirty years, and it showed. I’d also never seen a crow anywhere near the place, even though enormous crows paraded along every village road. Maybe the crows appeared at twilight or dawn. However, the plumbing worked, the roof didn’t leak, and the rent was reasonable. Best of all, Crow Cottage’s shabby appearance was offset by a lovely riverine view.

  Located on a cul-de-sac accessed by a gravel road, the neighborhood consisted of three houses hugging the shoreline of the Oriole River. As much as I loved gazing out my kitchen window at Lake Michigan, I’m not sure I wouldn’t have preferred Theo’s view: marshes, gently flowing water, and flocks of swans and Canada geese. There was something serenely majestic about it, and I hoped it had a calming effect on Theo.

  If only I felt more serene. Theo wasn’t answering his door. His car, a dented blue VW Beetle, sat parked on the dirt space allotted for it by the shed. Was he refusing to come to the door, or was he out taking a walk? Maybe he went fishing. I knew so little about Theo’s private life, I couldn’t even speculate on what he did in his free time.

  I faced the road in front of the cottage. Two single-story houses shared the cul-de-sac, all of them spaced far apart along the river. Several bikes lay scattered over one of the lawns, along with a large plastic playhouse. At least one family with children lived here. Did the noise and activity of children bother Theo? I’d never seen him interact with kids. At least it was quiet, although firecrackers sounded in the distance. For weeks leading up to the Fourth, I heard firecrackers being set off with irritating frequency. Even when I arrived at the shop early this morning—two hours before dawn—the occasional popping of firecrackers met my ears. The teens of Oriole Point must stockpile their money all year just to spend it on holiday explosives.

  “Theo,” I called out again. “It’s Marlee. Are you here?” My frustration grew. All the windows were open. If Theo was inside, he could hear me. I had an uneasy vision of my baker hiding in the closet until I left.

  “The police told me they talked to you earlier. I came by to make sure you’re all right.”

  From inside the cottage I heard a voice call out, “Tell the police to stay away.”

  At least he had finally responded. “The police are gone. It’s only me. And Captain Holt and Detective Trejo needed to ask you a few questions.” I moved closer to the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of Theo on the other side of the screen. “The police are trying to find out what happened to Sienna. You and Gordon Sanderling are the only ones in Oriole Point who knew her. They have to question both of you.”

  “No, no, no. I won’t talk to them. Tell them to leave me alone!”

  This last reply sounded on the edge of hysteria. If only I had a key to the cottage. Theo shouldn’t be holed up alone in there, not while he was in such a state.

  “Theo, I’m sorry about Sienna. But finding her body means we could discover what really happened to her. You should want to help the police, not hide from them.” I paused. “Only children hide themselves away when they’re frightened. And you’re not a child. So come out and talk to me.”

  I was met with another long silence. Just as I was about to admit defeat, the front door opened. Theo stepped out onto his porch, which was little more than a stoop. It came as a surprise to see him dressed in a clean white T-shirt and jeans so freshly ironed they were creased. Except for his job interview, I’d never seen him in anything but his baker’s uniform.

  “I’ll help you. I won’t help the police.” Theo craned his neck, looking right to left, as if expecting to see a squad car suddenly appear.

  “Theo, I’m only a shop owner. It’s not my job to track down the killer.”

  “That’s not true. You tracked down a murderer last month. Why can’t you do it again?”

  No use trying to explain that my own life had been in danger. Going after the murderer seemed an act of self-preservation, even if it did nearly get me killed.

  “And you found Sienna’s body after all this time,” he went on. “The police weren’t able to do that. It was you.”

  “That was an accident.”

  “No. Sienna wanted you to find her. And she wants you to find out who buried her there.”

  I saw no purpose in arguing with him. “Theo, I came by because I was worried about you. The police said you couldn’t stop shaking when they were here.”

  “I don’t want the police to come to my cottage again.” Theo wrapped his arms protectively about himself. “I don’t like the police. They put people in jail.”

  “Theo, they have no reason to put you in jail.” At least I hoped not. “I know you’re upset about Sienna. She was your friend, and you cared about her. Think back to your time at the school that summer. Do you have any idea who wanted to hurt her? How about this Christian boy you talked about?”

  “I liked Christian.” After scanning the cul-de-sac once again, Theo finally felt comfortable enough to leave his porch and walk nearer to me. “I don’t think he would hurt her.”

  “So his name is Christian. We weren’t sure if you were referring to his religion instead.”

  Theo looked at me as if I were the confused one. “It was his name and he was a Christian. He went to church every Sunday. He was the only one in the group who did.”

  “What else can you tell me about him?”

  “He made oil paintings filled with lots of dark colors. I didn’t like to look at them too long. The paintings made me sad. And nervous. But he was a good painter. Not as good as Sienna. No one was.”

  “What was his last name?”

  Theo thought for a moment. “I don’t remember. They called him ‘Blue’ sometimes. Because he was sad. Like his paintings.”

  This wasn’t helping much.

  “Anything else?”

  “He was black.”

  I fought back a sigh of frustration. First he was blue, now black. “Do you mean he was African American?”

  “Yes.”

  At least I could tell Captain Holt to ask BAS officials about an African American student with the first name of Christian who attended twenty years ago. With luck, he’d
get more information out of Christian than he had out of Theo. “Are there any other students you remember from that year aside from Sienna and Christian?”

  “Leah.”

  I thought back to when Theo first mentioned her earlier in the week. “Is she the one who did magic tricks?”

  “Not tricks. Real magic. Old magic. She taught me how to call birds. Leah could make them come to her.” He lowered his voice to a stage whisper. “One of the bird calls was secret. She used that one to call people.”

  I didn’t know how to respond to that. “Who did she call? Her friends?”

  Theo nodded. “I love birds. They’re freer than us. Nothing can stop them from flying away. Unless you kill them. Or cage them. But I would never do that.”

  “I have a bird at home. Her name is Minnie and she talks. She says all sorts of things.”

  Theo’s eyes lit up. “Can I come to your house and see her?” My mouth fell open. For seven months, Theo had refused every invitation to my house for dinner or a get-together with fellow Berry Basket employees. Who guessed a mere mention of my African grey parrot would override his deep shyness?

  “Of course. But Minnie is in her cage sometimes. It’s a big cage, though.”

  “That’s wrong. Birds should be free. Free and happy. That’s why I feed them. Do you want to see my feeders?” Before I could answer, Theo began to walk to the rear of his house.

  Hurrying after him, I felt a sense of relief. All this time, I feared Theo was living a misanthropic hermit’s existence in his cottage. But it appeared he had a hobby, something that engaged him during all the hours he wasn’t baking at my shop. And when I rounded the cottage, I realized it was a most extensive hobby.

  Except for the large metal container that stored heating oil for Theo’s cottage, his entire backyard was filled with feeders, from suet holders to Droll Yankees. Some hung from trees; others were attached to wooden or metal posts. Theo also offered his feathered friends shelter as well. Large purple martin houses towered over the grass, three bluebird houses were nailed to an adjacent wooden fence, and a wren darted into a small birdhouse just six feet away. Our sudden appearance startled dozens of birds at the feeders, and they flew off to nearby willow and birch trees. Given that the property stretched right to the river’s edge, I wasn’t surprised the only trees were ones that thrived in marshy ground.

  Theo took me by the elbow and led me to a green metal chair beneath one of the willows. I was surprised Theo had touched me. If he accidentally brushed against me in the kitchen, he blushed and murmured an apology. Maybe being on his home ground gave him more confidence. There was only one chair in the yard; after I took it, Theo sat on the ground beside me.

  He pointed at the bright orange feeders near the water. Baltimore orioles drawn to the orange slices and nectar now returned to their feeding perches. Our appearance had been noted and judged harmless.

  “I like the orioles best.” Theo never took his eyes from the striking black and orange birds. “That’s why I wanted to come to the Blackberry Art School. The school was in a place called Oriole Point. I never saw orioles back home. But I knew if the town was named after them, there must be lots here. And there are. Why is that?”

  “This part of Michigan is known as a fruit belt,” I explained. “Orioles love fruit, and not just oranges. Melons, grapes, berries, pears, peaches. We grow some of the biggest peaches in the country here. The lakeshore orchards must appear like buffet tables laid out just for them.”

  “I’m glad.” He turned to me. “I read that birds can get drunk by eating berries. How does that happen?”

  “When overripe berries fall to the ground, the fruit often ferments, which makes the berries alcoholic. Birds eating those berries become drunk. If they fly in that condition, they may end up dead. Just like people who drive when they’re drunk.”

  “Just like people,” he repeated. “I haven’t seen any drunk birds here, but I saw a dead bird once by a berry bush. Maybe it ate too many berries, got drunk, and died. I don’t think anyone should get drunk. Including birds.” Theo’s serious expression lightened. “Oriole Point seems a happy place for birds. And there are so many. Especially orioles.”

  “The town was founded by Benjamin Lyall in 1830,” I said. “The first night he came here, he camped along the river near where Lyall Street and Iroquois intersect. Legend has it that when he looked out his tent the next morning, flocks of orioles were eating the berries of a nearby mulberry tree. He looked on it as a sign and called the town Oriole Point.” I laughed. “At least that’s what Piper has told every local historian since I was born. Because she’s his ancestor, I assume there’s a grain of truth to the story.”

  “I think the story is true.” He pointed to a bright yellow bird who landed on a tube feeder. “Look, a common yellowthroat. I don’t see many of those at my feeders. Yellowthroats prefer insects.”

  For a few minutes, I was content to bird-watch with Theo. I, too, had a love of birds. I’d grown up with a trio of cockatiels that I still missed and I’d been a member of the Audubon Society since I was sixteen. Maybe Theo would enjoy bird watching with me and a few local members of the society. Although I was happy to learn he had a hobby, Theo needed to let other people into his rather isolated existence. As wonderful as birds were, he should spend time with more than cedar waxwings and orioles.

  “Do you miss home?” I asked finally. “I’ve been to Champaign once to see my cousin graduate from the University of Illinois. It seemed a very nice place.”

  Theo tore his attention from the birds for a moment. “It is nice, but there’s no lake there. The Middle Fork River isn’t anything like Lake Michigan. And the lake makes me happy. I like the river here, too. So many birds live along it. Even swans.” He glanced over at the Oriole River, glittering in the sunlight. Two pairs of geese honked as they glided in for a landing on the water’s surface. “Michigan has so much water.”

  How true. We were surrounded by the Great Lakes, the largest concentration of freshwater on the planet. No place in Michigan was farther than six miles from an inland lake or eighty-five miles from one of the Great Lakes. It was no coincidence our state was called a “Water Wonderland.”

  “Do you miss your family?”

  “I miss my dad. My mother is dead. And I don’t have brothers or sisters. They didn’t have more children after me.” He appeared embarrassed by that.

  “I’m an only child, too. To be honest, I rather like it. I had no one competing for my parents’ attention, so I got all of it. I still do. And you can choose friends who will become as close to you as a brother or sister.” I smiled. “I’d like to know more about your family. If you miss your father, you and he must be close. Why did you leave him to move to Oriole Point last December?”

  “I had to. They mailed an invitation to me.”

  “Who did?”

  “The Blackberry Art School. It came right after Thanksgiving. That’s how I learned about the big celebration this summer. The invitation said all students who had gone to the school were being invited. I had to come.”

  “Why not just come for the week of festivities? There was no need to move here.” I didn’t think I would ever be able to figure out how Theo’s mind worked.

  “I think the invitation really came from Sienna. She’s unhappy because I left before she disappeared. And when I found out she was gone, I didn’t come back. I should have. I loved her. And she must have cared about me. She was wearing my bracelet when she died.” He took a deep, shaky breath. “I should have been looking for her. And the person who killed and buried her. I should have been here all along.”

  “But she died twenty years ago, Theo.”

  “It doesn’t matter. She wanted me to wait in Oriole Point until she gave me a sign. And she did. She led you and that dog to her grave in the woods. When I got the invitation, I knew I had to move back. And I was right, wasn’t I? I was in Oriole Point when you found her.”

  Needing to think, I took th
e rubber band out of my hair and redid my ponytail. Maybe I should call Theo’s father and ask him a few questions. I didn’t even know if Theo was on medication, or if he suffered from anxiety or depression. Then again, Theo was thirty-seven and I felt guilty for regarding him as a child, even if his behavior often appeared childlike.

  “About this student called Leah, the one who taught you how to call birds. Could she have killed Sienna?”

  Theo kept his attention focused on his feeders. “The birds liked her. I don’t think birds like people who hurt others or are mean.”

  “Do you remember Leah’s last name?”

  He shook his head.

  I’d ask Captain Holt to look into school records for a woman called Leah. With luck, both Christian and Leah would show up for the centenary. “Did you know Gordon Sanderling?”

  “Everyone at BAS knew Gordon. Like everyone knew Sienna.”

  “If everyone at the school knew him, he must have been a talented artist.”

  Theo made a face. “Gordon made silly things. He wasn’t like Sienna. Sienna was the best artist. Everyone knew Gordon because he was handsome.”

  This time it was my turn to make a face. I couldn’t imagine anyone calling Gordon Sanderling handsome.

  “Sienna thought Gordon was handsome, too,” Theo went on. “She liked him.”

  I paused. “Did that make you jealous?”

  “Oh, no. I loved her and wanted her to be happy. Gordon made her happy. I think he loved her. But not as much as I did.” Theo seemed about to say more until the arrival of a northern flicker at the feeders distracted him.

  If Theo was correct, Gordon and Sienna had been romantically involved. Things were looking worse for Gordon by the minute. Several blue jays shrieking from the birch trees reminded me of Theo’s comments about the girl who called birds.

  “Theo, you said Leah taught you bird calls. Was she friends with Sienna and Gordon?”

  “Yes. They were in the same Bramble.”

  That made sense. People were housed according to age at the Blackberry Art School. These groups were called Brambles, each with its own corresponding name.