The Mystery Sisters series Box Set

by Karen Musser Nortman

  “Here’s how that works,” Bess said. “Every fall, the Heritage Foundation buys 150,000 bulbs and plants them at the college, the museum and the city garden. Then after they are done blooming the next spring and the foliage has died, the bulbs are dug up and lined up along the curb for anyone to take. That’s how they’ve gotten so many planted around the town.”

  Max sat back in her seat. “Wow. That’s amazing. Very smart.”

  They drove over a quaint bridge and were back in the business district. “That is the Schild Canal. It goes all the way around the campus.”

  “You mean like a moat?” Lil asked.

  “Actually the name does mean ‘shield,’ but since 1882, when the college was established, I don’t think it’s ever been under attack.” He laughed to himself.

  Max couldn’t resist. “Not even a sneak attack?”

  “Oh, bad. Very bad.” Dean pulled the car into an off-street lot with a sign that said ‘Parade Parking.’ He turned in his seat to look at Max and Lil. “We’ll have about a two-block walk from here. That all right?”

  They assured him it was fine and followed the couple to the courthouse square. People lined both sides of the street around the square. Max, Lil, Dean, and Bess were lucky to find a small gap in the crowd where they could wiggle in for a front row view.

  The spectacular parade featured people in colorful traditional Dutch costumes who rode on floats designed as riverboats, gazebos, and other structures. All of them sparkled with white and blue twinkling lights. Dancers in wooden shoes clogged along the street. High school bands from neighboring towns provided music, their instruments lighted by glow sticks.

  Bess ducked into a bakery behind them and came back with a Dutch letter for each. Lil and Max both raved about the flakey pastry shaped as S’s.

  Dean pointed out the windmill a block down the street.

  “Wow!” Max said. “I had no idea it was so tall.”

  “Over one-hundred-twenty feet,” Dean said, his pride evident.

  “Hey, neighbor!” A gray-haired, bearded man clapped Dean on the shoulder. His outfit seemed a little too contrived for a small Iowa town—khakis, loafers with no socks, a blue button-down shirt and a white sweater slung over his shoulder.

  Dean turned and held out his hand. “Good to see you, James. Been out of town?”

  James nodded. “Just the Dakotas for a couple of days. Chasing some potential donors. That reminds me—have you thought any more about a gift?”

  Dean frowned. “How about if we discuss it later?”

  “Sure, sure. My bad—inappropriate timing.” James turned to Max and Lil. “And who are these lovely ladies?” He held out his hand.

  Oh brother. Max wiped pastry off her fingers and returned the handshake with a forced smile.

  “My wife’s cousins—Maxine Berra and Lillian Garret, this is James Meijer. Max and Lil are here for the Tulip Fest.”

  “Great!” James rattled their teeth with his handshake. “Enjoy it—it’s been perfect weather for the tulips. I hope to see you again while you’re here.” He walked on down the street.

  “If he does, ladies, hang on to your purses,” Dean muttered.

  “Is that the guy you mentioned earlier?” Lil asked.

  “The fundraiser? Yes.”

  Bess put her hand on her husband’s arm as if to restrain him. “He isn’t that bad. You just feel pressured right now because you haven’t made a decision.”

  Dean ran his finger through his hair. “I suppose you’re right. Should we call it a night and head back to the car? I’ve got an early morning.”

  Chapter Two

  The next morning, Max woke to the sun peeking around the edges of the Roman shade. She lay there a few moments reorienting herself in time and place. It looked like another pleasant day—what little she could see of it—and Bess had mentioned several interesting events on the schedule.

  As she turned in the bed, she felt a little stiff and thought she’d better do some stretches. And maybe a walk—Rosie! She realized that Rosie hadn’t been the one to wake her up—a very unusual occurrence. She switched on the bedside lamp and rolled out of the bed.

  The dog bed was still at the foot of her bed. Something must be wrong. When she leaned over to look, Rosie lazily raised her head and thunked it back down.

  “Are you all right, girl?” Max’s concern caused her voice to squeak. Rosie’s tail slapped the polished wood floor. “Can you stand up?” Her stomach knotted at the thought of something awry with her long-time companion.

  Rosie stretched, groaned as if in annoyance, and lumbered to her feet. She looked at Max awaiting her next direction.

  Max studied her and rubbed her back. “You lazy old thing! That bed was just too comfortable, wasn’t it?”

  She continued to keep one eye on the dog as she pulled on sweatpants and a tee shirt. To her relief, Rosie seemed perfectly okay. That was confirmed when she led the dog down the steps and out the front door.

  When Rosie shot across the lawn after a squirrel, Max grew convinced that only laziness and old age had afflicted the Irish setter that morning. She put the dog on a leash and took her on a brisk walk around the neighborhood.

  A couple of blocks from Dean and Bess’s house, Max saw their friend James getting out of a BMW in the driveway of a yellow Cape Cod. He squinted and started toward her. But then he waved and hurried into the house. Kind of an odd fellow.

  When they returned from their walk, Dean stood at the stove making French toast. A plate of sausage links waited on the center of the table.

  “Good thing I went for a walk and burned a few calories,” Max said. “That looks delicious.”

  “Max admires anyone who can cook something besides cereal,” Lil said.

  “I cook,” Max protested.

  “Lean Cuisine.” Lil distributed plates and flatware around the table.

  Max gave her sister the evil eye. She considered herself accomplished at her job and in other fields. It really annoyed her when Lil insisted on throwing her lack of homemaking skills up in her face. Especially in front of others. She took a deep breath. This was silly. There was no point in letting her conflicts with Lil ruin what promised to be a fun day.

  Bess laughed. “Before this gets physical, let’s change the subject. I have a meeting this morning, so Dean will take you down to the windmill and give you a personal tour. There are also the museum and the Founders’ Village to check out on the same grounds. Then we could meet for lunch?”

  “Sounds fine.” Max smiled. “I’m looking forward to it.”

  Max and Lil drove to the windmill, following Dean, since they wouldn’t be leaving at the same time. He pulled into a small parking lot beside the public library and Max parked next to him.

  “We have to walk from here because there’s a 5K race going on down Engle Street which runs by the mill.” He looked at them and grinned. “It’s called the ‘Tiptoe Through the Tulips’ race. It should be almost done, but there will be a few stragglers.”

  Max groaned.

  “It’s only a couple of blocks to walk,” Dean assured her.

  “I was groaning about the name.”

  When they reached Engle Street, the remaining walkers were widely spaced out and it was easy to cross between them. They entered through the museum and gift shop, which was attached to the windmill.

  While Dean reported in to the volunteers’ office, Max and Lil paid the admission for the museum and windmill tour. They then went to the gift shop.

  Max examined the selection of books, many about the plants of the area or the history of tulips. She picked up a box of thank you notes with pressed flowers on the front.

  Lil looked over her shoulder. “Oh, those are pretty.”

  “Yeah, except I don’t write thank yous.”

  “Maybe you should.”

  Max opened her mouth for a crushing retort, but thought about it. Maybe she should. Putting down any of Lil’s ideas or suggestions was an automatic reactio
n. She probably should write a few thank yous, including to Bess after they left. Instead of replacing the box, she took it to the cash register.

  Lil examined a pair of souvenir wooden shoes to send her granddaughter.

  “It would be more educational to send her a book about the Dutch than those silly shoes,” Max said.

  “She’s seven. She’ll like the shoes better.”

  Dean had just walked in and cleared his throat. “Would it work for you to do the windmill tour first before the regular tours start at 9:00? Then you can roam the rest of the museum and grounds at your leisure.”

  Lil nodded. “Whatever works for you. We have all morning and it sounds like there’s lots to see.”

  They paid for their items and followed Dean, who had donned a badge and a high-crowned Dutch fisherman’s cap, through the museum. An elevator at one end of the hall took them to the second story, where a catwalk connected to the windmill.

  Dean held the door to the mill for them. “This floor has samples of equipment used and models of types of windmills.” They wandered around the displays, but Max didn’t have much interest in the mechanical workings and by Lil’s expression, she didn’t either.

  “I’m ready to move on. How many floors are there?” Lil asked.

  “Five. You’ll probably find the next one more interesting. It’s a replica of the kind of quarters the miller and his family would have.”

  “They lived in the mill?”

  “Absolutely. Follow me.”

  They took the stairs up to the next level. A door in the hallway opened into a small apartment. The sparsely furnished room held a short kitchen counter with a sink, and cabinets underneath. Chairs and a round table with a handmade lace tablecloth filled one corner. A couple of wooden rockers sat by a large fireplace. A wooden cradle was dressed with linen sheets, a tiny quilt, and a knitted blanket. An embroidered christening cap and gown lay on top.

  A rumble over their heads meant the windmill was turning. Max looked up. “I would have thought that the noise would drive them crazy.”

  Dean shrugged. “It’s probably like living next to a busy street or railroad tracks. Eventually you don’t hear it.”

  Lil turned around scanning the room. “Where did they sleep?”

  Dean smiled and rubbed his hands. “I was hoping you would ask.” He walked to the far wall and opened the doors to a built-in cupboard. Inside, a mattress, comforter, and pillows made an inviting bed.

  “How neat—and practical. It kept them warmer, right?” Max asked.

  “You got it,” Dean said. Lil admired the colorful pottery and weavings until Max pointedly looked at her watch.

  “Patient as always, huh, Sis?” Lil grinned at her. Max just rolled her eyes and headed for the door.

  “Two more flights of stairs to the working level. Good to go?”

  “Lead on.” Max’s knees cracked most of the way up and she stifled a couple of groans.

  On the top level, in the two story room, they could look up to the huge wooden gears run by the mill blades, causing other gears to turn. Max was not usually much interested in mechanics, but the apparatus and the monstrous grinding stones were impressive.

  Dean had to raise his voice to talk over the din. “Let’s go outside first and look around.” A catwalk encircled the mill at that level, affording an excellent view of the town. Another catwalk led over to the fifth floor of the museum. The huge blades of the windmill turned just above their heads.

  “Oh, look!” Max pointed. A large hot air balloon drifted high above the town.

  “Yes, they give balloon rides in the early morning,” Dean said.

  Lil looked over the railing at the street. “The race must be over.” A few participants, identifiable by the numbers on their backs, bent over catching their breath or stood chugging bottles of water. Remaining spectators and museum visitors milled around on the street.

  Lil got out her camera to snap photos of the mill, the balloon, and the street scene. “I’m surprised there are so many people out this early.”

  “Why don’t you just use your phone?” Max said.

  “I like my camera. It takes better pictures.”

  Lil stuck her tongue out at her sister when Max’s back was turned. Dean laughed.

  “What?” Max asked.

  Dean pointed down at the sidewalk. “Um, nothing. I just saw someone trip, but it wasn’t very nice to laugh. Sorry.”

  Max waved a hand. “No big deal.” She led the way back inside so she didn’t see Lil high-five Dean before they went back inside.

  Dean said, “Now, this, of course, is the main feature of the windmill. We do grind grain here. The flour is sold in the gift shop and a number of the bakeries and restaurants in town use it. When we go back down, you’ll see a big garage-type door on the ground floor. The farmer backs his truck or wagon right inside and unloads the sacks of grain. Then the worker down there hooks a bag on that rope and it’s hauled up through a series of trap doors.”

  He pointed at an area in the middle with a heavy wooden railing around it. A trap door in the center was closed except for the rope going through one edge. “Looks like one of the volunteers put a sack on the winch last night or this morning since the rope is taut.”

  He threw one lever that opened the trap door on each floor and another that began to turn a large windlass directly above the trap door. The rope snapped tight and began to wrap around the windlass.

  “Boy,” Dean said, “I think someone went a little heavy on this bag. They’re supposed to weigh every bag and keep them within certain limits.”

  Lil leaned on the railing and watched the trap door. “Will the rope break if it’s too heavy?”

  “Well, eventually, but it can haul several hundred pounds if necessary. However, we limit it to save wear and tear on the machinery.”

  As the grain bag slowly made its way up five stories, they could hear the trap door at each level slamming shut as the load passed. Each slam got louder. Finally, a bag appeared through the trap door at their feet. Dean reached out to swing the bag over to the rail. As he did so, a seam on the bag ripped open and an arm flopped out.

  Chapter Three

  Dean said, “Oh my God!” and let go of the bag. It swung back and forth, from corner to corner, of the fenced area.

  Max had stepped back, hand over mouth, and Lil gasped.

  Dean leaned over the railing and reached one long arm to grab the rope again. With the other hand, he pulled a cell phone out of his pocket. He thrust it toward Lil.

  “Call 911!”

  Lil dialed, while trying to think what she would say. There was no point in explaining the grain bag; a dead body on the top level of the windmill seemed sufficient. But was the body dead?

  She stammered, “We need help on the top floor of the windmill. There’s a dead or injured person.”

  Silence at first from the dispatcher. Finally, “The Little Sneek Windmill?”

  “Yes. Hurry.”

  “Okay. Please stay on the line.” Lil held the phone and heard voices behind her. She saw Dean looking frantically toward the doorway, shaking his head and waving his hand.

  Max turned and headed to the door where a young woman with two elementary-school aged children were about to enter.

  “I’m sorry,” Max said, her voice only cracking slightly. “There’s been an accident. We’ll have to close for a bit.”

  She started to swing the large wooden door closed. The woman said, “What kind of accident? Do you need help?”

  At that point, the first siren could be heard nearing the mill. “Help is coming. Thank you for your understanding.” Max closed the door.

  Dean still held the bag by the rope. “I don’t know what else to do…” He looked at the bag and shook his head.

  Max regained her equilibrium and took charge. “I don’t think we should do anything, except—can you check if there’s a pulse? I’ll hold the rope.” She reached over the railing and grabbed the rope abo
ve Dean’s grip. She avoided looking at the grotesque sight of the arm protruding from the bag.

  He let go. Max teetered. She hadn't been prepared for the weight, and planted her feet more firmly on the floor.

  Dean opened a gate at the corner to go inside the enclosure. He bent down and took the wrist between his fingers and shook his head. “No sign of a pulse.” He stood and took the rope from Max, just to keep it steady and to avoid that macabre swinging.

  Heavy footsteps sounded on the inside stairs. In a few moments, a man with a shaved head wearing khakis and a red golf shirt entered the room. Two cops in patrol uniforms followed him.

  The man in the golf shirt stopped and took in the odd scene. “What—?”

  “Charles!” Dean said. “I was just demonstrating how the lift works, and this is what appeared.” He indicated the bag. “I couldn’t find a pulse but we haven’t touched anything else.”

  Detective Charles Wilkins moved inside the railing with Dean. As he snapped on some gloves, he said “This comes up from the ground floor, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “That level was locked. We had to come through the museum.” He turned to the two cops. “Graham, go back down and secure that area. We’ll need to take fingerprints, and so on. Janssen, call for an ambulance and get the camera out of the cruiser. Then come back here to cover the scene.”

  “There’re lots of people through there every day,” Dean said.

  Wilkins bent over the suspended bag. “How do we get this off of here?”

  Dean showed him how to unhook the bag. They moved it away from the trapdoor and Wilkins gently untied the bag. He looked around. “I’m going to have to rip this off, evidence be damned.”

  Wilkins had Dean support the bag upright, a job that Dean obviously did not relish. Wilkins gripped the bag on either side of the tear and pulled. The raw ripping sound gave Max chills. As the bag opened, a man’s body emerged, almost like a rag doll, and flopped to the floor. He wore sweat pants and a tee shirt. A sign with a large number ‘87’ was pinned to the shirt.