Berried Alive

by Chelsea Thomas

  Miss May gestured to a window on the far wall. It was small. Maybe two feet high by two feet wide, but no more.

  “So our killer is small,” I said. “Skinny, probably.”

  “That means neither of us will be a suspect,” Miss May said.

  “Hey! I could fit through that window. If I didn’t have any arms.”

  Miss May chuckled. “And that’s not the only clue, either. You do the next one.”

  “I suppose it could be a clue that Rosenberg came here at all. Maybe someone lured him to work after hours. Trapped him here or something.”

  Miss May shook her head. “Everyone knows that guy was an obsessive workaholic. May he rest in peace. Try again.”

  I looked around. On second glance, the mess on the couch seemed unnatural. Rumpled papers. Crushed coffee cup. And the couch itself was askew. One end pushed flush against the wall, the other jutting into the room.

  “There could’ve been a struggle. Near the couch.”

  Miss May nodded. “I agree. But the whole fight didn’t happen there.”

  Miss May crossed back over by the door and squatted to get a look at the wall near the entry. “There’s a dent here. About knee-high.”

  I spotted a similar dent on the opposite wall. “Here’s another. And it’s fresh. There’s plaster on the floor.”

  “So we’re getting a picture of what might’ve happened here,” Miss May said. “Any thoughts on the killer? Gender? Build? Age?”

  “We already said they had to be skinny to get out that window.”

  “Good,” Miss May said. “Go on.”

  “And there was a struggle in the trailer. But there are no signs of forced entry. So whoever left through that window... Rosenberg let them walk in through the front door.”

  Miss May raised her eyebrows. “Or the person was waiting in the trailer when Rosenberg arrived.”

  “How could they have gotten in?”

  “Same way they got out? Maybe that window was open?”

  Curious, I walked over to the window. Rainwater had gathered on the floor beneath it.

  “That’s a good theory,” I said. “There’s a good amount of water here. Looks like it collected over a few hours, not just the past few minutes.”

  Miss May smirked. “I know. I saw the water. What else do we know? Or what can we assume?”

  “I think the killer was male.”

  “Why is that?” Miss May asked.

  “Simple. They won the fight. And Rosenberg was a big guy. Strong, too.”

  Miss May crossed to Rosenberg. She squatted down to get a look at his face. Then she circled the body, never taking her eyes off him.

  She shook her head. “But Rosenberg didn’t die in the fight. There’s no blunt force trauma. There’s no knife in the back. There are no bullet wounds. I’m not even sure the killer drew blood in that scuffle, and I don’t think Rosenberg did either.”

  “Killer could’ve cleaned it up.”

  “True. But look at the couch. The rain. They didn’t clean anything else.”

  “So maybe they argued. Things cooled off. Then... the killer administered poison?”

  Miss May shrugged. “Perhaps.”

  “It’s also possible one person made this mess,” I said. “I know it looks like a fight... But what if the person who came here upset Rosenberg? Rosenberg punched the wall. He kicked it. He flipped the couch over, then set it right later and tossed all that junk on the cushions.”

  Miss May smiled. “I think you might be onto something. Are we getting good at this?”

  “I think we were already good,” I said. “This is just the first time we’ve gotten such a good look at the scene of the crime.”

  Miss May nodded. She held the door open for me to leave. “Come on. Let’s call the cops.”

  8

  Sun Don’t Shine

  ONCE MISS MAY AND I made it back down the muddy hill, we called the police.

  Hercules, a young officer I had gotten to know on our previous case, answered. He said Chief Flanagan would be up in a few moments.

  Hercules also asked if we knew any eligible bachelor-cats for Sandra Day O’Connor, but we did not. Apparently Sandra-the-cat’s love life was official police business in Pine Grove. And that did not surprise me.

  Miss May and I retreated into the warmth of my pickup truck to wait for Flanagan to arrive. Though we were both distracted — for obvious reasons — we tried to make conversation.

  Miss May and I talked about the history of Pine Grove. We complained about the rain, which Miss May described as “angel urine.” And we lamented that Rosenberg had face-planted to his death in one of Miss May’s hand-crafted pies. Callous, but true.

  Then the conversation turned back to our budding investigation.

  “You know what I was just thinking?” Miss May said. “We have one more big clue we have not yet investigated.”

  I looked over at her. “What’s that?”

  Miss May smirked. “Rosenberg’s briefcase. No one knows he left it at the orchard. Once we get home, we can crack it open and see what we can learn.”

  My eyes widened. “Oh. Shoot.”

  “What?”

  “I left the briefcase up in the trailer.”

  Miss May grabbed her head. “Chelsea! You did? Why?”

  Sirens sounded in the distance. Doubtless, Flanagan on her way to the trailer.

  “You have to go get it!” Miss May said.

  “But Flanagan is on her way! Plus, I’m not sure that’s right. Isn’t it kind of stealing?”

  “We’re not stealing it, we’re borrowing it. In the name of justice,” Miss May said. “Think about it. Who do you suppose will use the contents of the briefcase more wisely? Us or the police? Who has a better chance of using that briefcase to bring closure and dignity to Rosenberg’s death? Who has a better shot at finding the killer?”

  I bit my lower lip. “I mean, I feel like I should say the police but you want me to say us.”

  “It’s obviously us,” Miss May said. “We’ve already solved...” She counted on her hands, then gave up. “We’ve already solved a bunch of murders! The police haven’t solved any!”

  “But what if—”

  “If it’s personal stuff that doesn’t relate to the murder we’ll drop it off with Rosenberg’s wife. We’ll tell her we found the briefcase under a chair when we were cleaning up after the meeting. Which is true!”

  The sound of Flanagan’s approaching sirens grew louder, and I knew I had to move.

  “OK,” I said. “I’ll go get the briefcase. But if I get caught—”

  “You won’t. Go!”

  I darted up the hill for the third time that night as the wail of Flanagan’s cop car drew nearer and nearer.

  Once I reached the peak, I could see out over all of Pine Grove. The twinkling lights below seemed almost like a mirror image of the stars above. Pine Grove could be transcendent after a big summer rain. I would have loved to take a deep breath and soak up the beauty. But I could see the red and blue bulbs of Flanagan’s squad car from my perch. And she was coming at me. Fast. So I glanced around to make sure the coast was clear, then slipped into the trailer.

  I muttered as I scanned the room, hunting for the briefcase. “Come on. Where are you? Little brat. Bratty briefcase.” I spotted it over on the couch. “There. Got ya!”

  Three quick steps and I had the goods in my grasp. A few more steps and I was back outside.

  I shot a quick glance back toward the flashing red and blue lights. From the looks of it, Flanagan’s cop car was less than a block away. Then I looked at the pickup truck, all the way at the bottom of the hill. There was no way I could walk down that muddy hill and hide the briefcase before Flanagan arrived. So I did the next best thing...

  I found the slipperiest section of the hill, got a running start, and slid down on my backside, holding the briefcase above my head like it was a newborn child.

  For the first second, it was a fun ride. Then
I felt the gravel scraping against my rear, and it got less fun. But the mudslide did the trick.

  I stashed the briefcase under some farm equipment in the bed of the pickup, bid a silent adieu to the seat my ruined pants, and turned around just as Flanagan squealed to a stop beside my truck.

  Flanagan climbed out of her police car one long leg at a time, like she was the star of a sexy 80’s music video. Her red hair swish-swished across her back as she looked from side to side, surveying the landscape with a swift, brutal gaze.

  I tried to wipe the mud from my pants, but I just smudged it around even more. I took a deep breath. I probably looked like I was wearing a dirty diaper, but that was just going to have to be OK. I mustered my best nonchalant smile and waved to Flanagan. “Sunshine! You made it! We could have used a little more of you on days like today.”

  “It’s Chief Flanagan. Thank you very much. And what you mean ‘days like today’? Rainy days? Or days on which you find a dead body? They seem to happen with almost equal frequency.”

  My smile faltered. “Both, I guess.”

  “Well now it’s night. Everyone knows the sun doesn’t shine at night except during the summer in Alaska,” Flanagan said with absurd seriousness. “Do you want to tell me what happened here?”

  Miss May stepped out of the pickup truck. “Hi there, Sunshine!”

  “It’s Chief Flanagan. Thank you very much.”

  Miss May nodded. “Chief. Right. Almost forgot. Congratulations.”

  Flanagan glared. “Uh-huh.”

  Miss May kept right on smiling. “Hey, why don’t you jump in the pickup? We can talk out of the rain.”

  “Or the two of you could climb in the back of the squad car. I could take you down to the station. Toss you in the interrogation room. We could talk there.”

  “The rain has lightened up,” Miss May said. “Outdoors is fine.”

  Flanagan nodded up at the trailer. “So Rosenberg is up there? Dead?”

  Miss May and I nodded.

  “And what were you two doing here so late at night?”

  Returning his briefcase.

  Shoot. Can’t say that.

  I turned to Miss May, expecting her to have an answer. She was usually quick on her feet, despite her bad hips, knees, ankles and back. But that night she had nothing but a stammer and gulp.

  So I came up with an excuse of my own. ”We came to apologize to Mr. Rosenberg. For how the meeting went.”

  Flanagan’s nostrils flared. “Why? It wasn’t your fault.”

  “Still. We were the hosts of the evening, and our other guests treated Mr. Rosenberg unfairly. That’s bad hospitality. Worse yet, bad business. So we came by to set things right.”

  “And when you got here Rosenberg was dead?” Flanagan looked from me to Miss May. “Is that true?”

  Miss May recovered her voice and straightened her shoulders. “Every word.”

  Flanagan directed us to wait outside as she inspected the trailer. Five minutes later, she emerged, tucking her notebook into her back pocket.

  “Good news, ladies.”

  Miss May looked over at me, then back to Flanagan. “Good news... how?”

  Flanagan stood tall. “That man died of natural causes.”

  “Are you certain?” Miss May asked. “That place was a mess.”

  “Didn’t seem so bad to me. Standard construction trailer. Bound to end up with some dents and dings. Part of the territory.”

  “But Rosenberg was an impeccable man,” Miss May countered. “Just look at the suits he wore.”

  “These contractor guys have their public persona and then they have their work persona. They’re all gruff. They’re all sloppy. No exceptions. That trailer looks just like every construction trailer I’ve ever seen.”

  “Every construction trailer you’ve ever seen has dents in the wall?”

  Flanagan nodded. “Yup. My father worked construction his entire life. Have you been in many of these trailers? Didn’t notice one on your quaint little apple orchard.”

  “Well...”

  “And weren’t you a lawyer before you took over the orchard? Not a lot of construction trailers in that line of work, either.”

  Miss May’s career as a former prosecutor in New York was a frequent topic of conversation, in that Miss May liked to preface sentences with, “When I was a prosecutor in New York City...” On our last case, Wayne had thrown some shade on Miss May’s current standing with the NY bar. When I’d tried to dig deeper on whether or not Miss May still had a license to practice law, she’d shut me down.

  Another mystery that would have to wait for another day.

  “I know what the inside of a construction trailer looks like,” Miss May said. “More importantly, I know how to recognize the signs of the struggle. I know how to recognize when someone has been murdered. Or have you forgotten? Chelsea and I solved the last several murders in this town. No thanks to you or your squad.”

  “That’s not how Detective Hudson tells it. The way he tells it, he ran point on those cases. The two of you got in his way. Jeopardized several dangerous operations.”

  “Wayne has to say that stuff when he’s on the record,” I said. “He knows how much we’ve helped. And he appreciates it.”

  Flanagan laughed. “Maybe he appreciates the slow dance, Chelsea. But trust me. He does not appreciate you or your meddlesome aunt.”

  “You think he appreciates you?” I snapped. “You were an OK detective. But now that you’re chief? This whole town is in danger.” My nostrils flared. I was mouthing off to the police chief, which was stupid. But she was declaring this a natural death, which was even stupider.

  “Are you finished?” Flanagan’s tone was cooler than soft-serve straight out of the machine.

  “No,” I said. “I won’t be finished until whoever did this to Rosenberg is behind bars.”

  Flanagan got in my face. “This was not a murder. Do you hear me? You stay out of it.”

  “How can you say this was not a murder?” Miss May asked. “There were signs of a struggle. Rosenberg was the most hated man in town. The back window was open. Heavy metal was blasting on the stereo.”

  Flanagan turned on Miss May. “I didn’t hear heavy metal.”

  Miss May didn’t miss a beat. “We turned it off when we arrived. So we could hear if Rosenberg was breathing.”

  “So you tampered with evidence at the scene of a crime,” Flanagan said. “I should take you in for that.”

  Miss May crossed her arms. “You said there was no crime.”

  “Exactly,” Flanagan said. “The last thing this town needs is another murder. Our businesses are suffering.”

  “My orchard is doing just fine. Even better since the murders, actually.” Miss May shrugged. “Tourists with a morbid curiosity, I guess.”

  “Forget the tourists,” Flanagan said. “I’m talking about locals. The mayor’s all over me about it. Residents don’t feel safe. They don’t want to walk the streets. Apparently it’s my job to force the people of Pine Grove to shop in our stores and not on the Internet.”

  “So that’s why you’re declaring this an accident,” Miss May said. “And that’s what you were going on about at the meeting. Acting like a home-invasion is no big deal. The mayor is pressuring you to keep up an illusion of safety in Pine Grove. For economic reasons.”

  “I’m declaring Rosenberg’s death an accident because it was an accident,” Flanagan said. “End of story.”

  “You are ridiculous!” Miss May laughed. “You know what’s worse for business than a murder? A police force that lets murderers roam the streets.”

  Flanagan took a step toward Miss May and stared down my aunt with an imposing glare. “My department values nothing more than the safety of the good people of Pine Grove. Hank Rosenberg was not murdered. There will be no investigation. Not by me. Certainly not by you and your little niece. So stay out of my way.”

  Flanagan swung her gaze to me. “I’m warning you too, Chelsea.
I’m not Detective Hudson. I don’t take kindly to interruptions. And I’m not nearly as good of a dancer.”

  Flanagan stormed down the hill without slipping or sliding even a little on the muddy earth.

  Half an hour later, a coroner took Rosenberg’s body away. And all that remained was the mystery of who killed him.

  And why.

  9

  Land and Pleas

  KP OPENED THE DOOR to his cabin and rubbed sleep out of his eyes. He wore flannel pajamas. And the toes of his slippers had googly eyes and a little frock of hair. He groaned when he saw us. “What the heck are you two girls doing here at this abominable hour?”

  “Can you keep a secret?” Miss May asked.

  “You know I can keep secrets, May. You want me to list all the secrets I’ve kept for you over the years? Or do you want to tell me why you’re here so I can get back to my beauty rest.”

  Miss May leaned forward. “Can we come in?”

  KP eyed Rosenberg’s briefcase. “It depends. That thing filled with money?”

  “We have no idea,” I said. “That’s what we need to talk to you about.”

  “I don’t know what’s in there!” KP grumbled.

  “No one does,” I said. “That’s the issue.”

  KP looked from me. To Miss May. To the briefcase. Back to me. Then he stepped aside, and we entered his cabin.

  Like the cabins we rented to guests, KP’s was small and homey. All dark wood and big windows, with a functioning fireplace along the far wall. But KP had decorated his place differently than I had decorated the guest cabins.

  KP’s cabin, for instance, featured quite a few mementos from his time in the navy. My favorite piece was an old, iron anchor propped up on the mantle. His cabin also featured a 65-inch TV, a big Casablanca poster and a signed basketball from the 1998 Kentucky Wildcats.

  KP took a seat on his tattered couch and Miss May and I plopped down on either side of him.

  He patted the coffee table. “OK,” he grunted. “Let’s see what you got.”

  “That’s the problem.” Miss May thunked the briefcase on the table. “We don’t know what we’ve got. Because we can’t get this thing open.”