“I saw the shadow of footsteps in front of my door, and the doorknob turned,” she admitted, explaining the reason for her fears.
“No, no, that was Andrew,” she exclaimed. “He came down to check on you last night. Andrew just wanted to be sure that you had locked your door.”
“Whew,” Sylvia sighed with relief. “But, of course that doesn't mean the guy isn't still out there someplace. Normally, I would think that he would have been scared away by almost getting caught, but this man is not normal.”
“He really seems to be after you, or something you have,” Ruby noted. “He always came when you weren't home, not that he knew that. What's the deal about the box? Do you think he wants something in it?” Ruby walked over to casually peek inside. She could blatantly be nosy now that they had officially become friends.
“It's complicated,” Sylvia said. “I have to get going. Debbie needs oatmeal, and I need to get gas and pick up Pops from the hospital. I want to tell you all about it, though. Maybe when I get back.”
“Sure enough,” agreed Ruby. “We'll have coffee and a good long—and overdue—talk. I don't know why we haven't gotten to know each other before. Is there anything I can do for you before I leave for work? I've got a few minutes.”
Sylvia asked her to take the box down to her car and put it in the trunk while she finished feeding the baby her bananas without oatmeal. It was going back to Pevely with them where Greg and Pops could help her go through the things inside before handing it over to the sheriff. She handed Ruby the car keys, and then remembered something.
“Oh, wait,” said Sylvia, stopping Ruby as she was about to go out the door. “I forgot to put this back inside.” She had the red velvet ring box in her hand. “Take a look at this, Ruby.”
“What a weird ring,” she said. “Kind of gaudy for my taste.”
“Go ahead, Ruby,” she said on second thought. “I think I'll show this to Mrs. Martin before I leave. Thanks for everything,” she added giving Ruby a little hug.
The baby was still hungry, unaccustomed as she was to not receiving her oatmeal every day, and she fussed as Sylvia placed the car seat on the floor in front of Mrs. Martin's apartment.
“I'd like to show you something, Mrs. Martin,” she said when the door opened. And she flipped the ring box lid as Mrs. Martin's eyes widened while her mouth dropped.
“That's the ring,” she shouted. “I remember it exactly. Did they finally get that man? Why do you have the ring?”
“This is my father's ring,” she explained. “I don't know why our guy has one, too. It might have something to do with the meat business.”
“Wait a minute,” Mrs. Martin said. “Let me look a little closer.” She adjusted her glasses, moving them away from her nose, and peered closely at the ring. “I am pretty sure the other man's ring did not have a stone in it.”
“Really?” asked Sylvia. “That might mean something. Thank you, Mrs. Martin, you've been a tremendous help,” she said moving away toward the exit. Mrs. Martin smiled and waved good-bye.
Sylvia managed to get what she needed from the Quick Trip, but not without finding a new appreciation for the institution of motherhood. Debbie was screaming by that time, becoming very impatient for her second course; and buying baby food turned out to be an overwhelming lesson in deciphering labels. Having bought a carton of milk, it became evident that the bottles needed to be washed, and the only place to do so was the ladies rest room. She had carried Debbie in without the car seat, thinking it would be a lighter load for her to manage while juggling her purchases.
Experiencing new found freedom in an unusual new environment, Debbie approached the lidless toilet. With nothing to hold on to, she actually took her first steps trying to get to the shiny white basin so she could throw Sylvia’s car keys into the pretty clear water. Thank goodness for the shiny whiteness and the clean water. Luckily, before the baby had achieved success, Sylvia glanced away from her task of trying to get the hardened milk rings out of bottles without a brush.
“You walked, Debbie!” she exclaimed. “Debbie walked! Wait until we tell grandpa and Da-da you took your first steps—in a public rest room.”
Unable get the bottles clean, she scurried back to the cashier and bought one. Who would have thought you could buy such things at a Quik Trip? It wouldn't have surprised her if the clerk had directed her past the lawn mowers and television sets.
She fed Debbie in the car, and then finally was relieved to be on the last leg of her journey—to pick up Pops from the hospital and get on the highway to Pevely. When she walked into the room, it amazed her to find a huge floral arrangement on Pop's bedside table. He was dressed and ready to leave, in spite of having to leave the pretty nurses, and he was overjoyed to see Debbie in Sylvia's arms.
“Did she give you any trouble?” he asked, reaching to take her in his arms.
Instead of giving him all the details, Sylvia just told him she had been an angel. He probably had some idea of the ordeal she had just endured. He also probably knew that she had loved every minute, or most of them.
“Who sent the flowers?” she asked, walking over to check the card. It read, “The Herschfeld Brothers.”
“The management of my apartment building sent them?” she said. “I'll bet they're worried you're going to sue them. Actually, you could. That light fixture is not according to code.”
“Yah, I don't want to sue anybody,” he said. “I just want to get out of here.”
A woman dressed in a business suit knocked and entered the room. “Mr. Devine?” she asked, as if she did not already know whose room she had come to. “We have everything ready for your discharge, and I am here to tell you that you will not need to stop at the office as you were previously told. The liability insurance furnished by the Herschfeld's is sufficient to cover every bit of your bill. There is no need for you to worry, and I wish you a safe trip home.”
That was another matter. Safe it might be, but comfortable—hardly. Sylvia had given it a lot of thought, and since Pops could not bend his knee, she put him in the back seat next to Debbie with his leg propped upon the folded down front seat. She had brought several pillows, and Pops was settled in as best as could be hoped for under the circumstances. It would still be a long, long one-hour drive.
It was nearly two o'clock by the time Pops made it into the living room with pillows, a chair for his leg, and a cold drink at his side. Debbie, thankfully, was down for her regular afternoon nap of a usual two- to three-hour duration, and Sylvia had the box of Marshall's Meats ephemera on the kitchen table before her.
“If you want to bring that over here,” he said, motioning to the coffee table. “I can lend a hand and a pair of eyes. They don't have any cracks in them like my knee and my head,” he joked.
“I thought you'd want a nap,” she said, “but, I'd be happy for some help.”
“C'mon over,” he said. “I had a good enough sleep all the way home. They must've snuck me somethin' in that juice. I never took naps since I was a little kid.”
She thought that a nap sounded good to her, even at her age, considering that she hadn't slept much the night before. But, nothing was going to dissuade her from searching more thoroughly through the box. They sorted it all into piles, and immediately Pops found something interesting.
“Lookee here,” he shouted. “This must be a picture of your dad with a bunch of other men.”
Sylvia put down her pile and sat next to Pops to get a good view. She took the eight-by-ten, glossy black-and-white photo into her hands. It was her father front and center seated behind a shiny conference table of some kind with several men on his sides and an equal number standing behind them all—twelve men in all. A brass placard sat on the table which clearly read, “St. Louis Businessman’s Association—1990.” She remembered reading in the obituary clipping that her father had been president of this group.
“Do you have a magnifying glass?” Sylvia asked. He reached into the side table drawer an
d produced a large one. She held it over the photograph, looking at every detail.
“Look, Pops,” she said. “They are wearing rings, even my dad, and they look like the ring I found.” He hadn't known about the ring, so showed it to him.
“Your father was president,” Pops surmised. “That's probably why he had a diamond in his.”
“Our creepy guy has a ring like this,” she pondered aloud. “He must have belonged to this association, too. Or he stole the ring from someone who did. No one in this picture looks like the man I've heard described. That face would surely stand out. And a mere butcher would not be part of this club.”
“Wonder why your dad didn't wear his ring,” Pops said thoughtfully. “Did he leave the group, maybe have some disagreement with them, or someone in the group?”
“I'm just assuming he didn't like the ring,” she said. “According to my neighbor Ruby, it's gaudy. And, I agree with her. But, you could be right, Pops.” Excusing herself, Sylvia claimed that she'd done enough detective work for the day and needed a horse hug very badly. She decided to visit Nippy for a few minutes before starting to fix supper. Pops was in no shape to stand at the stove.
Greg arrived home to the smell of spaghetti in the air and was shocked to see his father incapacitated. Sylvia explained the details of his physical condition and the flowers which included a promise to take care of all the expenses. Then she told him about the ring and photo.
“Have you called the sheriff?” Greg asked.
“No, I just haven't had time,” she answered in an exasperated tone.
“I bet you're beginning to think being married to me might be more of a bite than you can chew,” he teased, half worrying that the sentiment might not be far from the truth. “How's the situation with your job? You're not in any trouble with them, are you?”
“I love taking care of all of you,” she assured him, patting Debbie on her chubby leg as Greg put her in her high chair. “And, I've been looking into finding something I could do out here, but there's no telling how long that might take. Work is fine; I've got lots of vacation time coming, even a month if I need it.”
“You're not going to find anything nearly equivalent to your job in the city,” he said warily, as if she might not have considered that and might change her mind about wanting to live there.
“I know,” she stated simply. “I don't care.”
They ate spaghetti, and then Greg helped with the dishes, insisting he could finish the job while Sylvia called Sheriff Caywood. Of course, he came right over.
They put the mug shot of Arthur Caplan next to the newly discovered photograph, and the law officer noticed immediately, given his professional training, that one of the men had eyes that matched the suspect beyond the shadow of a doubt. The picture did not list names, but it looked like this was their man seated two spaces away from Sylvia's father.
“Okay, this man has a ring of his own,” stated the sheriff, “not only in the photograph, but from witnesses who saw it on his finger recently.”
“My father's has a diamond,” Sylvia pointed out. “I agree that he probably wasn't looking for the ring. He was looking for something small enough to fit inside a doll, or why would he have torn them all apart. How do we know he didn't find what he was looking for?”
“Because he doesn't want you here,” the sheriff explained. “All this started when you came here to see the lake property. How he found out is a mystery, but he knew that you would discover the trashed cabin and might read more into it than some other disinterested party considering buying the lake. Only, if not for the note, even you might have let is pass as a random crime. That's where he made his first mistake. Don't be so quick to assume he's some master criminal. I don't think he's that smart.”
“Why do you say that?” Sylvia asked.
“Just look at that face,” the sheriff laughed. “I can read faces pretty good. Even in the old photograph, that man looks like he might have some genetic deficiency. It's not profound, but he looks like the kid who always stammered in school when called on to read aloud.”
Greg and Sylvia looked at each other, impressed with the knowledge and insight of this man they had perhaps underestimated.
“He must have been injured somehow,” Sylvia concluded. “Although never a handsome man, the descriptions people gave were pretty horrendous. I wonder when it happened, if he was like that when my father knew him, or if he looked normal when he came to the funeral.”
“Back to the evidence,” the expert continued. “Think if there is anyone at all who could have known that you were meeting a real estate agent at the lake—any neighbors, someone at work, anyone.”
“I didn't really know my neighbors then,” she said thinking aloud. “I didn't tell anyone at work because I thought I was leaving just for the day, a weekend day, and I would be back at work as usual—that's what I thought anyway. The only one who knew I was coming was Ms. Avery, and maybe someone in her office, someone she might have told.”
“The man who gave you her card, Greg,” the sheriff asked. “Have you ever figured out how that happened?”
He answered that they were still confused as to why a man in Stover would happen to have Ms. Avery's card who works from Bolling Brook which was not anywhere in that direction at all. Considering that several other successful real estate offices were located in Stover, it could be no coincidence that he had her card rather than one of theirs. It was deliberate. He wanted Greg to choose Ms. Avery, perhaps so he could keep tabs on to whom she showed the property. He must have some relationship to her or some access to her.
“The only thing I do recall,” he said thoughtfully, “was that he seemed to be a city guy. Just from his clothes you could tell that he didn't fit in around here. I didn't give it any thought because I was just too tired to think much at all.”
“I need to borrow this picture, if you don't mind,” Sheriff Caywood asked Sylvia. “I promise to take care of it and return it to you in the same condition. Ms. Avery needs to look at these men. One of them may be someone she knows.”
“I still think she's an oddball,” Sylvia told them. “After meeting her on the highway that night, I honestly don't think she was involved. There are explanations for her behavior.”
“Are you still considering buying Indian Foot Lake, Miss Marshall?” the sheriff asked.
“Actually, since Greg and I are going to be married, that wouldn't make much sense anymore,” she realized. “In fact, I'm hoping we'll be able to keep it and turn it back into a profitable business venture. Greg has his doubts, but all of that has been shoved to the background now with so much happening at once.”
“Married? Well, congratulations,” said the sheriff, then after a moment's thought he added, “Who else knows about this turn of events?
“No one except Pops, I guess,” said Greg beginning to see wheels turning behind Sheriff Caywood's wrinkled brow.
“Crystal at the cafe thinks she knows,” remembered Sylvia. “She just guessed it. I don't know how much she really knows because she admitted that it was all based on hopeful thinking. I didn't tell her any absolute facts on the subject. Not that she would ever let that interfere with her conversations.”
“That might be a good thing,” the sheriff mused. Greg, Sylvia, and Pops all looked confused.
“Did anyone else know about your little trip back to St. Louis yesterday?” he asked.
“No, it was too sudden,” said Sylvia remembering that there was more she should tell him than just about getting the box. She told him what the neighbors had said and about the police nearly capturing the man as he tried to pick the lock on her door.
“Holy cow! I should have come there,” Greg gasped. “I knew I should have as soon as I knew Pops was hurt. The whole thing worried me, but I listened to your logical explanations. I need to start paying attention to my gut.”
“No, Greg, we really were fine, although I didn't believe it completely at the time. I was surrounded by well-meanin
g neighbors, the police were on alert because of the intruder, and no one was in danger in spite of my jagged nerves that night. I wanted you there, too, in the middle of the night when I was out of my mind with fear. But, it really was only that, just my fears.”
“This man, or men, are very real, Miss Marshall,” the sheriff warned. “Until we nab their butts, you'd better start keeping your doors and windows locked. I don't know why you don't have a dog like everyone else around here. Worth their weight in dog chow, let me tell you, and better than any security alarm you could buy.”
“We'll get one tomorrow,” Greg kidded. “I always wanted one since Sparky died. Remember Sparky, Sylvie? But, training and dealing with puppy stuff was too much to add to all the work involved in taking care of Rita and a new baby.”
“I remember Sparky,” Sylvia reminisced. “He was so sweet. Let's find one just like him.”
Indian Foot Lake Love Story Page 11