by Molly Macrae
“Hold on a sec.” I went over and turned up the volume on the bossa nova. If Clod could worry about an eavesdropper at his door, I’d play that game, too, by making it harder to hear us. “Okay,” I said, rolling my shoulders, ready and facing my posse. “I lied earlier. I haven’t collected just a few threads. I’ve got a whole ball of them.”
Chapter 14
“We might as well include the questions we’ve all had rattling around in our heads since Monday,” I said. I wrote, Why were Shannon Goforth and Will Embree in that field? on the whiteboard and then half a dozen more questions, one below the other:
Did they arrive together?
When?
How?
Did Will kill Shannon?
Did he kill himself?
If he “could never kill anyone,” then how could he kill himself?
“Those are tip-of-the-iceberg stuff,” I said, “or they’re—”
“The starter end of a ball of yarn,” said Thea.
“Yeah, that’s what they are. And you know how sometimes when you pull on the starter end and hope it’ll all unwind beautifully from the center, but instead you get yarn barf? Well, stand back, because here it comes. I’ve heard from two sources, the Spivey twins and a woman named Carolyn Proffitt, who says she was Shannon’s assistant at Victory Paper, that someone was stalking Shannon. Carolyn Proffitt says it was Will. The Spiveys say it was someone else.” I wrote Was someone stalking Shannon? on the board and below it Was it Will? “But if it was Will, how did he manage to do that while supposedly hiding out in the national forest? And how about all these questions?” I wrote:
Eric Lyle—where the heck does he fit in?
Where is he?
Why is he missing but not his gun?
“Wait, go back,” Thea said. “You didn’t write down the one about how Will Embree could stalk and hide at the same time. But if he was good at hiding, he was probably good at stalking, too.”
“But if more than a few people knew he was stalking, then how much hiding was he doing?” I wrote all that down and discovered I’d gotten carried away. Ernestine was probably happy, but I’d written my questions too big and was almost out of room. I felt as though I was percolating, and I must have looked like it, too.
“Keep it together,” Mel said. “I’ve got pen and paper here somewhere.”
While she dug madly through her knitting bag, I dug back through my memory for something I’d heard about Debbie…something—Geneva had said it. She asked if I knew that Debbie used to entertain Will out at her place. I hesitated, then squeezed two more questions into the space at the top of the board:
How much does Debbie know about Will’s recent movements?
How recently was Debbie in contact with Will?
I looked the board over. I’d been right. Yarn barf. We needed organization. We needed a bigger board. What time was Shannon killed? What was Will doing from the time she died until he did? Did anyone see either of them or talk to them earlier that morning? Did anyone hear the shots? Whose baby was Shannon having? Who is the Spiveys’ source? I rubbed the back of my neck, feeling my brains doing the bossa nova at double time.
As I turned around to see if Mel had found her pen and paper, the door flew open. Foiled by my own cleverness—I hadn’t heard Debbie’s light feet running down the stairs over the jazzy music I’d turned up. She was clearly upset—probably over something cloddish Clod had said or asked—and she’d flown back down the stairs looking for refuge or understanding. Looking for friends. She pulled to a stop when she realized we were all staring at her. Then I, slick operator that I was, telegraphed what we were doing and my guilty conscience by looking from her to the whiteboard and back. And then Clod arrived and I should have flipped the board and closed the scene with crossed arms or a challenge. But I needed lessons in that kind of quick, confrontational thinking.
Clod stared at me. That was uncomfortable enough. Debbie’s eyes were now focused on the whiteboard. On the two questions sailing across the top of it above all the others. How much does Debbie know about Will’s recent movements? How recently was Debbie in contact with Will? From the look on her face, the headline for the whole board might as well read, Is Debbie Involved in Murder?
“Debbie, I…”
She made a sobbing noise—sounding less human even than Geneva—turned, and ran. I would have gone after her, but Clod slid over to fill the doorway.
“I expected more of the knit-one, knot-two, yank-it-out going on in here,” he said. “I take it you’re the ringleader of this cabal?” He nodded his chin at me.
I didn’t say anything and didn’t ask him where he’d learned the word “cabal.” Probably in third or fourth grade. He wasn’t listening for an answer, anyway. He was finally enjoying himself.
“Next time you’ll want to put your board here, on this side of the room.” He used the sort of large, repetitive gestures airport personnel perform when directing jumbo jets to their docking gates. “And facing that side of the room.” Again with the repeating gestures, this time with both hands directing all eyes to me. “Oriented that way,” he said, “so the casual passerby won’t be upset by the unexpected and inane.” He smiled, gave a sarcastic salute, and strolled away.
“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” I muttered at myself.
Thea, subdued, took the eraser and started to clean the board.
“No!” I grabbed the eraser from her. “No. We can’t quit.”
Neither Ernestine nor Mel said anything. Thea didn’t offer arguments. They all waited while I studied the floor, my fingertips and the eraser bouncing off my lips.
“Debbie’s reaction,” I said, thinking it through and still looking at the sturdy, wide planks of the floor. “We don’t know for sure what her reaction was about, which questions she was reacting to. We can guess, but her reaction is another reason we need to investigate. It indicates something. And that damage is already done. We can’t go back.” I started rewriting what Thea had wiped away. “We can’t quit. Debbie will see that. We’ll make her see that. And phooey on whatever Dunbar thinks of us. And really, at this point, how can it hurt to go on?”
“All righty, then,” Mel said. “I’ll go make the tunnel of fudge. Bribe or peace offering—either way, it works.”
Ardis agreed to drive with me to Cloud Hollow to make amends to Debbie. We knew we couldn’t afford to lose her as an employee. More important, we couldn’t afford to lose her as a friend. It was close to eight when Mel called to say the cake was cool enough to transport. She met us at the door of the café.
“Want to come with us?” I asked.
“Sorry. Early to bed for me in order to make tomorrow’s sweet rolls rise.” She handed the cake to Ardis. “And this,” she said, handing me a bag. “Cinnamon raisin bagels. Fresh. Her favorite.”
My nondescript Honda had never smelled so good. The concentration of warm chocolate and cinnamon aromas did wonders for my own concentration, too. Despite the dark and the twists and turns through woods and around hills, we went wrong only twice. Ardis was kind and didn’t blame me for that or for the reason we were heading out there.
“Investigations turn a harsh light on everyone involved,” she said. “I think I read that somewhere. And every question on the board was legitimate. After she’s thought about it, Debbie will see that. And we need her to see that because we can’t do without her at the store.”
“Dunbar was right, though. I should have been more careful about where I put the board.”
“But Debbie asked you to reinstate the posse and investigate, didn’t she?”
“Before we left the farm Monday morning. She and Bonny both did.”
“Then she’ll understand. Besides, Cole must have said something or asked her something that upset her. Something happened that made her run out of the study and barge into the workroom like that. Do you suppose he upset her on purpose? So she would run down the stairs and he’d have a chance to sneak up on you?”
That
was far-fetched, but Ardis was stirred up.
“Doggone it. I think he did upset her on purpose,” she said. “And I’ve a mind to speak to him about that kind of behavior in a law-abiding business the next time I see him. Good Lord! Did you see that car on the side of the road?” She twisted in her seat, a hand to her heart, but we’d already gone around another curve.
“Barely.”
“I’ve a mind to speak to Cole about that, too. Overnight parking shouldn’t be allowed on these narrow roads. It’s a hazard after dark.”
We found Debbie’s drive soon after, and I turned in, thinking of her alone out here with her sheep and Bill the dog. She’d told me on the morning of the dye workshop that she grew up on Cloud Hollow farm. She was proud of its being one of Tennessee’s recognized Century Farms—land owned and worked by the same family for at least a hundred years, and in her family’s case almost two hundred. She meant to keep hold of the farm, keep it going, and hand it down to the next generation. I supposed I could understand that fierce loyalty and the hold the land had on her. But with no near neighbor’s lights winking in the dark as we crunched down her long gravel drive, I was glad the place I felt most attached to had streetlights and sidewalks and friends next door.
We pulled in behind Debbie’s pickup in a widened area between the house and the outbuilding she and her late husband had built to be her dye studio. We hadn’t gone inside the house or the dye studio on that interrupted workshop morning, but I’d admired the lines of each. The studio was a single-story frame structure that could easily be mistaken for a cute guest cottage. Its steeply pitched roof gave it the look of a small saltbox out of New England more than something belonging on an east Tennessee farm.
The two-story house was the original farmhouse, built by Debbie’s some-number-of-greats-grandfather in 1832. She told us the bricks were made onsite with clay dug from the banks of the Little Buck. The bricks’ red had mellowed over the scores of years and now gave the impression the house had sprouted and grown along with the oaks surrounding it.
We climbed out of the car, not sure what kind of reception to expect appearing uninvited after dark, but the light spilling across the porch from the windows on either side of the front door gave us hope. The evening breeze shushed through the new leaves on the massive oaks as we climbed the front steps. Bill barked, once, inside. Ardis took the bagels, letting me bear our offering of tunnel of fudge.
“What if she’s getting ready for bed?” I said, wondering why that hadn’t occurred to me before.
“Only Mel goes to bed this early. And if she is, then there’s more for us.”
“Mel called,” Debbie said when she opened the door.
Bill the border collie’s welcome was less guarded, but Debbie took the cake when I handed it to her, and the two of them ushered us back to the kitchen, where plates, forks, and a cake knife were already waiting on the table. When we sat down, Bill went to his bed in the corner, not far from Debbie’s chair. He lay with one white foreleg extended as though showing off his genteel paw.
Ardis took over serving the cake, saying she knew neither Debbie nor I would cut big enough pieces. Her idea of the ideal size was a slab. I remembered Geneva’s unflattering comments about my perceived weight gain and bravely sacrificed my self-image to our quest for renewed harmony. Debbie helped that along by plying us with more sweet tea than I usually drank in a week. Refilling our glasses seemed to make her happy, though, or at least kept her busy.
She updated us on new mother Mabel and the twin lambs. They were getting along well. We complimented Bill on his excellent manners and remarked on the red geraniums filling the windows on both sides of the corner where he sat. Bill’s smile was wider and looked more genuine than Debbie’s. The small jokes and pleasantries we passed were real enough, but Debbie didn’t bring up the questions she’d seen scrawled on the whiteboard and we didn’t ask about her interview with Clod. Ardis carried most of the conversation.
“I don’t believe I’ve set foot in this kitchen since one spring when I had to bring your uncle Harmon home from school after one of the Dillow boys got hold of him. I won’t tell you what the results of Lester Dillow’s attentions were while we’re still eating. That would have been about forty-five years ago, though, and if I remember right, the kitchen looked exactly the same back then. Although I believe your grandmother grew African violets instead of geraniums and you have more up-to-date appliances. I love your red microwave and toaster.”
Debbie shrugged one shoulder. “I’ve always loved this kitchen.”
“Of course you have, hon. You look right at home in it. Your grandmother did, too, and you favor her when you pull your hair back in a braid like that.”
“Ardis is right,” I said. “The kitchen suits you.”
It did. It was a cheerful time capsule I wouldn’t have expected to find in a house of that era. I knew people who took such kitchens and dragged them back to a pseudo-authentic, antique country look or pulled them forward and primped them into something sleek and contemporary. But sometime around the middle of the last century, when Debbie’s family discovered yellow countertops, aquamarine cupboards, and peach chiffon linoleum, they’d latched onto them and hadn’t let go. The anachronisms of the room made me smile. It was a modern kitchen wrapped in a 1950s color scheme inside an antebellum farmhouse.
“And now that I’ve admired your kitchen, may I also admire your bathroom?” I asked.
“Down the hall on your left. Sometimes the door sticks.” I thought I heard her add, “And watch your head,” but the sweet tea had a louder voice than Debbie’s and I didn’t stop to ask.
I found the door in a dark-paneled wall, both of them painted in some bygone decade with a beautiful example of faux walnut grain. The bathroom was tucked in the space under the stairs, so the head warning had been real. After watching mine and after washing my hands, I found out the sticking door was real, too. It took some wrestling and a shoulder butt before it popped open, and I was breathing hard but proud of myself for not quite panicking when it finally did. I felt like a character in a children’s book tumbling back into real life after visiting some other world.
The sounds of Ardis talking and laughing in the kitchen and Debbie softly joining in were welcome and calming. They were the sounds of our small breach healing. Rather than interrupt, I stayed for a few minutes in the hall.
As I listened to the riffle of their voices, I ran my finger over the ripples of the faux grain, imagining the craftsman creating that illusion with gliding strokes of color. The panels on the opposite wall were equally beautiful, and I wondered what other architectural details and treasures the house held. The voices continued murmuring in the kitchen, so I stepped farther down the hall and peeked into a darkened doorway.
And saw nothing, of course, because darkened doorways usually lead to darkened rooms. But as I turned to go, a point of light flashed and caught the corner of my eye. I turned back to the room, not sure where to focus, and saw the light again. But not in the room. Out a window opposite the doorway. Through another window in the dye studio. Someone with a tiny flashlight was sneaking around. My heart forgot all about not panicking.
Chapter 15
I flew into the kitchen and caught Ardis on the tail end of a story about mothballs and squirrels. She looked up when I skidded in, grabbed the edge of the table, and leaned toward them, eyes no doubt goggling.
“Somebody’s in the dye studio,” I whispered, almost breathless. Too breathless maybe. They looked more worried about me than about what I was trying to tell them. Why was I whispering, anyway? The prowler couldn’t hear me.
“Sorry, hon,” Ardis said, “I heard a few consonants in there, but the rest of it sort of disappeared. Take a breath and say it again.”
“Somebody’s in the dye studio. I saw a flashlight.”
That was all Debbie needed. She forgot all about being withdrawn or hesitant, scraped her chair back, and called Bill to her side. He was instantly aler
t but didn’t bark.
“I’ll call 911,” I said.
“Go ahead,” she said, “but I’m not waiting.”
“What are you going to do?” Ardis said. “You can’t think you’re going out there.” She got up and was able to take up enough room that Debbie couldn’t squeeze past.
“I’m going to find out who’s out there in my studio and what they think they’re after.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. That might be Eric Lyle.” Ardis put her hands on her hips to make herself even more of a barricade.
I didn’t hear the rest of their argument because the 911 dispatcher was asking me to repeat myself. I covered my other ear and squinted, as though that would improve reception or help the dispatcher process what I was saying. I told her again what was happening and she asked me to repeat it one more time, slowly, assuring me she was only following procedure so that she was clear on the exact conditions of my emergency and could relay details accurately as the situation unfolded. I closed my eyes entirely and had some unfriendly thoughts she didn’t deserve.
“Listen,” I finally said, “it’s just a few things you have to be clear on. Intruder? Yes. Gun? Very likely. Murder? Here, a few days ago. Situation? Very dangerous. Got that? You can repeat it all you want, but I have to go.” Then I hung up. I felt bad about being short with her and for saying there might be a gun when I knew no such thing, but if that brought a good guy out here faster, one who did have a gun, then I wasn’t going to beat myself up over it. And then I saw there really was a gun. Debbie was standing by the back door with one.