“Of course. Oh well, we can find out later.”
I took a parting glance at the tall security gate and the plain buildings, and wondered what Josephine would have thought of the products stored back there. Would this business have offended her values?
More to the point, what would she have done about it?
CHAPTER TEN
Farrah and I retraced our steps and found our way to the beach. By this time, the sun was high overhead. Farrah shared her trail mix with me before we pushed off and continued down the river. Half an hour later, we approached another sandbank where a colorful flag waved from a metal pole. We turned in, left our canoe upside down in the designated spot, and climbed steep wooden stairs, which ended at a point behind Gil’s canoe shop.
As we neared the little hut, we heard the ringing sound of a hammer on metal. Following the noise, we went around to the side of the shop, where we found a broad-shouldered older man fussing with the coupler on a steel utility trailer. Intent on his work, he didn’t notice us approaching.
I studied him for a moment. With his Bermuda shorts and sleeveless T-shirt, showing off leathery, suntanned skin and sinewy muscles, he looked like he could have come straight out of Margaritaville. I tried to imagine this burly, gray-haired sixty-something as the scraggly-bearded fellow who once posed for a picture with two girls in front of the Happy Hills commune.
I cleared my throat and he finally looked up, squinting as if he was trying to place us. He put down his tools and wiped his hands on his shorts.
“You the gals who were looking for me earlier?”
“You must be Gil Johnson,” I said, stepping forward. “I’m Keli Milanni, Josephine O’Malley’s niece. You and I have spoken on the phone. This is my friend, Farrah.”
He grasped my hand with a large, calloused grip, and we exchanged condolences.
“Sad news,” he said, shaking his head. “Sad, sad news.”
“Yes. And shocking. Have the police spoken with you?”
“Oh, yes, yes. Of course, I couldn’t tell them much. I hadn’t seen Josie in months. Didn’t even know she was in town.”
He sounds like Fern, I thought, but decided to let it go. I was just grateful for the opportunity to finally speak with him in person. Gil led us to a trio of lawn chairs on a patch of scrub grass next to the canoe shop.
“There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you,” I said, as soon as we were all seated. “I have a picture of Josephine and Fern Lopez at the commune where they lived. There’s a guy in the photo with them. Could that be you?”
He grinned like I’d brought up an inside joke. “Can you believe it? What a baby I was, huh? Those were the days.”
“What was it like living in a commune?” asked Farrah. “Was it like a great big campout? Did you work all day and sit around singing songs at night?”
“It was great,” said Gil, with twinkling eyes. “We worked the land, shared our chores, made lots of mistakes.” He let out a hearty laugh. “We learned a lot and had such fun. We were giddy with freedom! Everyone should have such an experience, at least once in their life. In fact, folks are still trying shared living in some places around the country. Experimental communities, I think they’re called.”
I remembered Gil’s tendency to go off on frequent conversational tangents and resolved to stay on topic. “How did you meet Josie?”
“Well, now, let’s see. Some buddies and I started Happy Hills in sixty-eight, I think it was. And we’d get all kinds of folks passing through. We were a welcoming place, always had a tent ready for anybody who needed a place to crash. One night this young couple stopped by on their way out east. A fellow named Roger, and his pretty young lady—Josie. ‘Josie June,’ we called her sometimes.” He laughed at the memory. “Their bus broke down, so they ended up staying longer than they planned. Then they made friends here, saw how great a thing we had going, and decided to stay.”
“Josephine once told me she was highly influenced by the book Silent Spring,” I said. “By Rachel Carson?” I watched for Gil’s reaction, hoping to see a flicker of guilt, or a twitch, anything to indicate that he might have tossed the book on my porch. He was the picture of innocence.
“Oh, sure,” he said. “We all were. Those were exciting times for the burgeoning environmental movement. In 1970, we had the first Earth Day, which coincided with the creation of the Environmental Protection Agency—under President Nixon of all people. Did you know that? Then we had the passage of all kinds of new laws: the Clean Air Act, the Clean Water Act, the Endangered Species Act. Let’s see, what else?”
I nodded, determined not to be sidetracked. “What did Josephine do, specifically, to help the environment?”
“Specifically? Well, we grew our own food at Happy Hills, of course. And we tried to use sustainable practices, composting our waste, recycling our gray water, that sort of thing. But we had a bigger vision, too. We cared about the planet beyond our little neck of the woods.” He gazed into the distance, chuckling to himself. “Josie was all gung ho to clean up pollution. She’d pick up litter in the parks and try to restore blighted land through guerrilla gardening.”
“Gorilla gardening?” asked Farrah. “As in apes?” She screwed up her face as if imagining monkeys with rakes and hoes. Smiling, I kicked her softly with my toe.
“Guerrilla, as in covert ops,” said Gil. “Josie made these seed packets—seed bombs, we called them. We’d hurl them over fences, onto barren vacant lots, so wildflowers would grow there.”
“Ohhh,” said Farrah. “How cool.”
“Was that the start of Sister Seeds?” I asked.
Gil gave me a funny look. “I suppose you could say that. Josie was always a seed planter, and the farther and wider the better. She was our own little Josie Appleseed.”
“Ha! I get it,” said Farrah. “Keli, didn’t you tell me you have a book about Johnny Appleseed that used to belong to your aunt?”
I nodded. Evidently, spreading seeds was a passion Josie had nurtured her whole life, from Nebraska to Illinois to Haiti.
I turned to Gil again. “Do you have any idea why she might have been out in the woods on Friday night?”
“She was always at home under the trees. She was probably just going for a walk. Wrong place, wrong time.”
“So, she wasn’t staying with you over the weekend?” I knew he’d already answered this question, but I couldn’t help asking again.
He shook his head. “She had friends everywhere, but she never wanted to impose. She’d bounce from place to place. Sometimes she’d show up on my doorstep, out of the blue. Maybe she’d stay, maybe she wouldn’t. She’d blow in on the breeze and blow out just as suddenly.”
He smiled sadly as the imagery took on a more poignant meaning. We all fell silent, listening to the rustle of nearby tree branches. But I was still thinking about Josephine’s last hours. If she hadn’t been staying with Fern or Gil—and if she really did have friends everywhere—then was there someone else out there with information about what she had been up to?
“Gil, I’m sure the police asked you about this, but do you know anyone named Ricki? Josephine had that name on a piece of paper in her pocket.”
Gil leaned over, picked up a stick from the ground, and began stripping off the bark. “Nope. The cops mentioned the paper. I guess that’s how they found you, huh? What a shock it must have been. I know Josie wouldn’t have wanted that. She cared a lot about you, talked about you often over the years.”
Farrah and I exchanged a glance. It seemed obvious he was trying to change the subject.
“It was Ricki with an i, wasn’t it?” said Farrah. “With that spelling, it’s probably a girl. And it’s not the most common name; I’m sure the police will track her down before too long.”
“Did Josie ever mention anyone named Ricki?” I pressed.
Gil threw down the stick and looked me in the eye. “All right, I’ll tell you. I didn’t see any point in telling the fuzz, because Ricki Day had absolutely n
othing to do with Josie’s death.”
Now we’re getting somewhere. “How can you be sure?” I asked. “Who is she?”
“I just don’t care for the idea of the fuzz poking around in Josie’s affairs.” Gil pulled a bandanna from his pocket and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. Then he gave me a pained look. “But Josie trusted you. So, I’ll tell you.”
I nodded to give him encouragement. “It could be important, Gil.”
“Okay . . . but leave my name out of it, will you?”
“Agreed.”
“Ricki Day is a county environmental officer. She inspects factories, cites polluters for violations, that sort of thing. I told you Josie cared about cleaning up pollution. If she had concerns about local businesses not following the rules, she’d give Ricki a call. That’s probably why she had her name. Nothing fishy.”
Maybe not, I thought. But could the same be said about Gil’s reasoning? Withholding information from the police seemed pretty fishy to me.
* * *
As we drove away from Gil’s Canoes, Farrah and I talked about what we had learned.
“Do you think he was telling the truth?” she asked.
“I’m not sure. He held back his knowledge of Ricki Day.”
“He did tell us eventually,” Farrah pointed out.
“True. And I do think his description of Josephine was probably accurate.” I let out a frustrated sigh. “Why did she have to be so mysterious all the time? Sneaking into town without telling anyone; wandering around in the woods by herself, when she was supposed to be picking up Fredeline from the airport . . .”
“I hate to say this,” said Farrah, “but have you considered the possibility that she might have had dementia? That might explain why she forgot to go to the airport. Maybe she was lost in the forest.”
I let up on the gas, ready to turn around and go back to ask Gil. Then I had a better idea. We weren’t far from Briar Creek Cabins.
“Hey, do you mind if we make a quick detour? I want to talk to Levi Markham again. He said Josephine was out bird-watching when he saw her on the trails. It didn’t sound like he thought she was lost. But I’d like to find out if he can tell me anything more about how she was acting. Or if he can remember anything she might have said.”
I knew I was probably grasping at straws, but Farrah, loyal friend that she was, told me it was a great idea. “Besides,” she said. “I’ve always wanted to meet an author.”
We drove into the lane leading to the cabins and pulled up next to the only one with a vehicle parked in front of it. Even the office cabin appeared unoccupied.
“Virginia plates,” noted Farrah, as we walked up the narrow stone path.
I rapped on the door and stood back expectantly. Through the open curtains, a face briefly appeared, then disappeared. Then the door swung open.
“Keli!” said Levi. “This is a surprise.”
“Sorry to barge in on you like this. We were in the area and—”
“Come on in,” he said, without letting me finish. “I’m starved for human company.”
He ushered us inside. The cabin was small but homey, with a living room and kitchen on the first floor and a sleeping loft at the top of steep, ladder-like stairs. Levi quickly cleared some folders and papers from the couch and snapped shut a laptop sitting on an old oak desk. “I think I’ve been out here too long,” he said, running his fingers through his hair. “I don’t know how Thoreau did it.” He laughed nervously.
Farrah gave him her most dazzling smile and reached for his hand. “I’m Farrah. It’s so nice to meet you. I think this is so romantic—a real-live author writing a book in a woodland cabin.”
I tried not to roll my eyes, as I nudged Farrah onto the couch.
“It’s not really that romantic,” said Levi. “Can I get you something to drink? Beer, ginger ale, water?”
“Beer would be lovely,” said Farrah, at the same time I said, “No thanks.”
“One beer, then.” He grabbed a bottle from the refrigerator, twisted off the cap, and opened a cabinet.
“I don’t need a glass,” called Farrah.
I gave Farrah a suspicious look. She had used her powers of seduction to gain information in the past. Was that what she was doing now? I had a feeling Randall wouldn’t appreciate the tactic.
As soon as Levi sat down in the rocker next to the couch, I leaned forward. “I wondered if I could ask you a few more questions. I’ve been speaking to some of my aunt’s friends, and no one seems to know where she was staying during her visit to Edindale. Since she wasn’t a guest at the cabins, did you happen to ask where she was staying?”
Levi shook his head regretfully. “No, sorry. I didn’t think to ask that.”
“How was she acting?” asked Farrah. “Did she seem to be lost or confused?”
“No, I don’t think so. She was friendly, pleasant. I think she was excited at the prospect of finding this certain bird she was looking for.”
“She seemed excited?” I asked.
Levi thought about it. “Yeah. Excited, eager. She smiled a lot.”
“And when was this again?”
“I saw her a few times. Once on Wednesday, and twice on Thursday—in the morning and in the afternoon.”
Farrah tapped her nails on the side of the beer bottle. “Can you remember any other details? Like, what were the exact words she said to you?”
Levi wrinkled his forehead. “I don’t recall her exact words. She said, ‘nice morning,’ I think. And, ‘Good weather for photographing birds.’” He turned to me. “I take it you didn’t know she was into bird-watching?”
“Um. Not really.”
“And she didn’t tell you where she was staying?”
“No.”
“Where did she live?”
I hesitated, not sure how to answer, when a cell phone rang from the kitchen counter. Levi jumped up to answer it.
“Would you excuse me for a minute?” He brought the phone to his ear and said, “Hey,” as he opened the front door and let himself outside.
“He’s adorable,” said Farrah. “Too bad he doesn’t have any useful information.”
“I’m not so sure,” I said, standing up. “Watch out the window, okay?”
“What are you gonna do? Snoop?”
“I want to check out these folders. I thought I saw a name . . .” I trailed off, as I began rifling through the papers and folders Levi had scooped up from the couch. The papers appeared to be photocopies of old newspaper articles, but I didn’t take the time to read them. I was more interested in the folders. Each one was labeled with a name, most of which I didn’t recognize. “Davey Winslow, Allen Smith, Jane Marlowe . . . Josephine O’Malley!” I looked up at Farrah. “I was right. I thought I saw her name.”
“He’s coming back! He’s coming back! Quick!”
I dropped the folders back into the stack and dove for the couch. Farrah was still standing, so she grabbed the doorknob just as it swung open. “Oh!” she exclaimed, in mock surprise. “I was just coming outside to find you. Unfortunately, we have to leave. I’ve got an appointment and Keli has work.”
I hopped up and joined Farrah in the doorway. “Yeah, sorry. We’ll try to come back again, though. Think you’ll still be here for a while?”
“Oh, uh, yeah. I think so. This memoir is taking a lot longer to write than I expected.”
“Isn’t that always the way,” said Farrah breezily. “Well, thanks for the beer!”
We wasted no time, and before long we were in the car, barreling down the dusty lane. I tried to make sense of the folders I’d seen.
“Isn’t it more than a little weird?” I asked. “Why does he have a file on Aunt Josephine?”
“Hmm,” said Farrah. “It might not be as weird as you imagine. I mean, think about it. He’s an author. He’s probably always collecting bits of information to include in his stories, right? And he stumbled upon a dead body, for crying out loud. That’s definitely going
to make it in the memoir. It’ll probably get its own chapter.”
I shook my head. “I don’t know what he’s up to, Farrah, but I do know one thing: Levi Markham is not being truthful. Just now, he said he was writing his memoir? The other day he told me he was writing a thriller. He’s lying, Farrah. And not very well, I might add.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
After dropping Farrah at her apartment, I decided to go straight to the office without going home to change first. By the time I stepped into the law firm’s lobby, it was nearly 3:00 p.m.
“I didn’t think you were coming in today,” said Julie, from behind her reception desk. “You should have stayed home.”
“I didn’t want to fall too far behind. What did I miss this morning?”
“Not much. The briefing meeting went on longer than usual, because Crenshaw picked up a new client over the weekend—the Barnsworth estate. You know Barnsworth Stables? Mrs. Barnsworth owned that high-end horse-riding school out on Rural Route 3.”
“Sure. Wow. Good for Crenshaw.”
“Good for the firm,” said Julie. “Oh, and he also reported on the opening of the haunted barn. He said you did a good job. Way to represent.”
“Thanks.” I glanced down at my wrinkled cargo pants, which had picked up a mysterious dirt stain somewhere along the morning’s adventures, and my old field jacket, which was covered in cockleburs. Now that I thought about it, my hair was probably a tangled, windblown mess, too. I wasn’t exactly representing the firm very well at the moment. “Julie, I’m going to hide out in my office for the rest of the day. If anyone comes looking for me, please take a message.”
“You got it,” she said.
I closed the door to my cozy, little private office and dropped into the chair behind my desk. For a brief moment, I stared out the window at the fading light and contemplated the surreal events of the past few days. Aunt Josephine was dead. And everyone I spoke with about her seemed unable to be completely straightforward. Why all the secrets?
I shook myself. It was time to get busy. I swiveled in my chair and turned my computer on, fully intending to check my email. But first . . . , I couldn’t resist a quick online search for Levi Markham. As I typed in his name, my intuition told me what I’d find: a big, fat nothing. I soon found I was right. There was no author page, no blog, no books for sale. I supposed he could be an aspiring writer—he never said he was published. Still, it seemed odd that a guy his age wouldn’t be on at least one form of social media.
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