by Alice Duncan
“She probably did. Onions.”
“You know what I mean, darn it! Why do you always make fun of me?”
“I don’t.”
“You do, too. And you always argue with me.”
Phil heaved a long, deep sigh but didn’t argue. Which made for a nice change.
“I didn’t like either one of them. Dr. Longstreet was a cold fish–”
”Quite an accomplishment on a day like this.”
I swear, that comment made me so mad I wouldn’t have been surprised if onion-scented steam had poured out of my ears. Phil must have noticed, because he said, “I’m sorry, Annabelle. Didn’t mean to interrupt. I know how sensi– . . . um . . . well, I know you’ve had a bad day, and I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“I hated the Longstreets.” My voice was measured and I strove for calm, reminding myself that Phil was here at my request in order to perform a kindness for a neighbor. My urge to perpetrate violence on his person was the result of three stinky-rotten days in a row, and Phil wasn’t responsible for any of them.
“Ah,” said Phil. He probably didn’t dare say anything more than that.
“And then I saw Mr. Burgess sneaking around.”
“Mr. Burgess?”
I’d managed to really surprise him with that. He sat up and stared at me. I nodded. “Mr. Burgess.”
“Um . . . sneaking around?”
“Sneaking around.”
“What . . . how . . .” Phil sucked in a deep breath. I got the impression he was trying to figure out a diplomatic way of asking me how I knew Mr. Burgess had been sneaking.
So I told him before he could make a mess of things. “As soon as he noticed that I’d seen him, he darted behind the barn. He was carrying a shotgun, too, Phil.”
“A shotgun?”
“Finally grabbed your attention, did I?”
“A shotgun?” Phil shook his head. “And darting? It’s hard to imagine poor old Mr. Burgess darting.”
“If you’re going to quibble about my choice of words, Phil Gunderson–”
”No. No, I’m not.” He held up his hand in a placating gesture. “Criminy, Annabelle, you’re sure in a state tonight, aren’t you?” Before I could holler at him, he said, “I know, I know. It’s been a rough few days. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”
He had meant it. I knew he had. However, since he’d apologized nicely, I didn’t call him on it. “He darted,” I said firmly. “Behind the barn. And I’m sure that was a shotgun I saw in his hands.”
“Hmmm. That’s . . . interesting. What the devil could have he been up to?”
“I don’t know, but I suspect something sinister.”
A pause ensued, during which Phil again fumbled for words that wouldn’t irritate me. The very fact that he found it so difficult to communicate made me mad. I wasn’t all that difficult, for crying out loud. All he had to do was show some basic human sympathy, and I’d be like putty in his hands. Well . . . maybe not putty. Still and all, I couldn’t see what was so hard about holding a civilized conversation without insulting somebody.
I helped him out again. “I suspect it was something sinister because I’ve never once seen him around Aunt Minnie’s house before. I find it mighty significant that he showed up right after I discovered Julia Gilbert’s grave in his back yard.”
“Wait a minute, Annabelle. You don’t have any proof that Julia Gilbert is buried under that rock. You’re jumping to conclusions.”
I sniffed. All right, I knew I was jumping to conclusions, but I still thought I was right. “Maybe,” I allowed. “But why was he here?” A notion appeared in my brain in a flash of light, and I cried, “I know! He’s the one who killed that man!”
“Why would he do that?”
I threw my arms out. “How should I know? For that matter, why would anyone kill that man? But Mr. Burgess did it. I know he did it!”
“Annabelle, that’s just stupid. So far you’ve pinned two murders on the poor guy, and all he’s done is bury something, probably an old burro or a dog, and walk across your aunt’s property.”
“He was sneaking,” I insisted, miffed. “Why was he sneaking?”
“All right, maybe he was sneaking, and I don’t know why. But you have to remember that the man is very shy–for good reason–and he doesn’t like people gawking at him, even when strangers aren’t getting murdered around him.”
Phil had a point. I hated to admit it. “Maybe. I still don’t like it.”
“Heck, maybe he’s worried he’s next and is trying to find a clue the sheriff missed.”
“I doubt that.”
“Maybe he’s trying to protect your aunt and Miss Libby.”
“I doubt that, too.”
With a yawn, Phil said, “Why don’t we sleep on it. I’m tuckered, and I’ve got to help Dad with the alfalfa tomorrow.”
The Gundersons raised their own grain with which they fed their cattle. It was a more than full-time job to keep the ranch running efficiently. A stab of guilt for taking Phil away from his legitimate chores smacked me upside the head, and I forgave him for always arguing with me. Besides, I was probably as exhausted as he. After two troubled nights and three horrible days, I was ready to lay my burdens at his big, booted feet and go to bed.
I stood up. “You’re right. And I really appreciate you helping us like this, Phil. You’re a true pal.”
He gave me a look that I can only describe as odd, and I wished I hadn’t used the word pal. “I don’t mind, Annabelle. I’d do anything for you. You know that.”
I did know it, and I took advantage of it, which made my conscience twang unpleasantly. “I know, Phil. Thank you.”
Before he could get any ideas about how I might demonstrate my thanks more fully, I scampered back into the house. Earlier in the day, after I’d finished with the last of the onions, I’d prepared a bed for Phil on the sleeping porch. He knew where the porch was, so there was no reason for me to show him.
“G’night,” I called over my shoulder.
“Good night, Annabelle.” I heard laughter in his voice, and I couldn’t account for it. Most of the time I thought I was smarter than Phil Gunderson, but there were times when I wondered if I had it backwards.
For the first time since I’d left home, I slept through the night without hearing strange noises or being scared out of my wits. The sun had already risen and was glaring in my bedroom window when my eyes finally opened. I sat up, startled, unused to sleeping so late.
When I recalled that my good night’s rest had been a direct result of Phil Gunderson’s good-heartedness, I hurtled out of bed, washed up as quickly as I could (I’d washed my hair the afternoon before in order to get the onion stench out of it), dressed in a neat pair of trousers and a plaid shirt, and rushed downstairs, anticipating a nasty comment from Libby.
I got one, but I hardly noticed since the first thing I saw when I raced into the kitchen was Phil, sitting groggily in a chair, with Minnie and Libby fussing over him. Minnie was pressing a dripping rag to a wound on the back of his head, and Libby was pouring vinegar and something else medicinal into a pot on the stove.
Libby looked up at me and said, “Stop standing there staring, girl, and help us get this poor boy tended to.”
“Phil!” I cried. “What happened?” I rushed over to him, dropped to my knees, and took his arms in my two hands. “Oh, Phil, I’m so sorry!”
He started to shake his head but thought better of it. “I don’t know what happened, but I’ll be all right.”
“He heard noises,” Minnie said ominously. “And he went outside to investigate.”
“Oh, Phil!”
“Stop saying ‘Oh, Phil,’ girl, and get yourself over here. Take this rag and lay it on his head. I’m going to cut some bandages and tape.”
“All right.” Chastened, I didn’t even scowl at Libby, but got up off my knees and did as she’d commanded. “We’d probably better call a doctor.”
“No,” said Phi
l. He sounded peevish, which I suppose might be expected. “I don’t need a doctor.”
“You might have a concussion,” I pointed out.
“Nuts.”
“I’ll get you some of my aspirin powders. They’ll help your headache, Phillip dear,” said Minnie, taking her rag away and allowing me to press mine to his head.
The wound looked ugly. Through his thick brown hair, I could see a big lump that had already begun turning various colors, primary among which were purple, blue, and red. A gash added a gory touch, although the wound had stopped bleeding some time previously. I could tell, because there was a lot of dried blood clotted in his hair. “You really ought to see a doctor, Phil. This looks awful. It probably needs to be disinfected and stitched up.”
“I don’t need to see a doctor,” he repeated stubbornly. “All he’ll do is what your aunt and Miss Libby are doing.”
“He’d probably tell you to rest,” I pointed out.
“Right. I’m sure the alfalfa will understand.”
Offhand, I can’t remember ever feeling more guilty about anything. Because I couldn’t think of anything more logical to suggest, I said, “Why don’t I help your father today, Phil. I know how to drive a tractor, kind of. You should stay here and rest. Maybe we can get Dr. Hanks to come out here and make sure you don’t have a concussion.”
“Darn it, Annabelle, I’m not going to see a doctor!”
“She’s right, Phillip,” said Minnie, entering the kitchen with a packet of powders. “In fact, I think that’s the best thing to do.”
“I’m not letting you out of this house, Phil Gunderson, if I have to tie you to the sofa in the back parlor,” Libby announced. “And it’ll be good for that there gal to do some honest work for a change.”
I had recovered myself enough to shoot Libby a furious glower. Just what did she consider honest work, anyhow? If she thought peeling and slicing three bushels of onions was a walk in the park, she was nuts. But she wasn’t nuts, of course. She was just mean as a rattler, and every bit as poisonous.
Minnie said, “Libby,” but she said it mildly.
After heaving an aggrieved sigh, Phil said, “Well, I guess I’ll have to stay here if Libby won’t let me leave.”
“Right. I’ll go straight over to your house, Phil, and explain what’s happened.” I didn’t look forward to telling Mr. and Mrs. Gunderson that their son had been attacked on Minnie’s property. After contemplating what I’d just said, I added, “Um . . . what exactly did happen?”
“It was right where you found that poor man lying, Annabelle,” Minnie said in a portentous tone.
“What was?”
“I don’t know.” This, from Phil, which didn’t help a lot.
“Well, you must have gone out there for a reason,” I said, trying to sound bright and sunny and wanting to kick him in the shins for being obstinate. For the good Lord’s sake, the man must understand what I needed to know; he was only being sulky and perverse. All right, he might be unconsciously punishing me for getting him into this predicament, but I still required information to give his parents. “You mentioned noises?”
“I heard noises in the night time.”
“Aha!” said I.
He squinted at me in what I could only deem a hateful manner. “They sounded as if they were coming from the cellar.”
Confirmation after confirmation. I nodded and said, “Go on.”
“So I went down to the cellar and looked around, but I didn’t see anything unusual or out of place.”
“Did the noises sound louder from there?”
He made a thoughtful moue with his mouth. “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
Big help. Nevertheless, I remained sunny and gave him an encouraging smile.
“There wasn’t anything going on in the cellar, so I figured the noises must be coming from outdoors. Naturally, I checked the chicken coop first, since that’s where you found the body.”
A general glance was exchanged. I knew we were all thinking the same thing: Phil might have ended up like that man the other day, dead, with a knife in his chest. Not even Libby was nasty enough to say anything cruel.
“Did you see anything out there?” I asked, trying to make my tone sugary. I wanted to holler at him for going outside alone. Even I knew better than to do something that stupid.
“No. I’d just started looking when something hit me on the back of the head and I went down.”
Poor Phil. I rescinded my desire to yell at him. “Were you unconscious?”
“Yeah, I think so. For a few minutes. Not long.”
“How long?”
“How the heck should I know?”
“Well, what time was it when you went outside?”
“I don’t know, Annabelle! Gee whiz, I heard noises, I got up, I checked the cellar, and I went outside.”
And there were at least two clocks along the route he must have traveled. It seemed to me that a competent investigator would have noted the time. On the other hand, I guess I hadn’t checked the time when I’d heard noises, either.
I forgave him and patted his knee. He still looked as if he’d have liked to scalp me if he weren’t feeling so puny. “I’m sorry, Phil. I didn’t mean to interrogate you. I just wanted to make sure I could give a full report to your mother. And I’m definitely calling Dr. Hanks. If the blow knocked you unconscious, you really might have a concussion.”
“Aw, Annabelle . . .”
But I wouldn’t wait for any arguments from him, which he was only making because he was too proud to admit he needed help. I went to the telephone, cranked the dial, and told Olive Mercer to ring Dr. Hanks’ office.
“Don’t tell me you found another dead man,” Olive said, clearly titillated.
“No, not this time. Just a farm injury that needs to be attended to.” It wasn’t much of a lie. Anyhow, Olive would undoubtedly listen to our conversation, so she’s know the scoop soon enough.
After I’d arranged for Dr. Hanks to come out to the ranch and make sure Phil wasn’t going to suffer permanent consequences from his adventure, I ate some breakfast to give me energy for the ordeal ahead, and walked the mile or so to the Gunderson place.
Chapter Nine
I didn’t stay there long. As soon as I told my tale, Mr. Gunderson hitched up the horse, Mrs. Gunderson packed me into the pony cart, and we drove right back to Aunt Minnie’s house. Actually, I drove, because Mr. Gunderson asked me to. His wife was in kind of a dither.
Clicking my tongue at the horse, an old bay named George, I said, “I’m really sorry, Mrs. Gunderson. We never thought anything bad would happen to Phil.”
“I’m sure that’s so, Annabelle.” Mrs. Gunderson dabbed at her eyes with her hankie. I felt like two cents. Maybe less. “And I’m not blaming you. You oughtn’t to be there in that big old house in the middle of nowhere. I can’t understand why Minnie Blue insists on living there all by herself.”
“Well, she has Libby.” Who was big enough and mean enough to scare anyone off. I didn’t add that part. Anyhow, she hadn’t scared off the nightly intruders, blast her. What good was a lousy disposition if all it did was scare people like me, who didn’t mean anybody any harm?
Mrs. Gunderson huffed. “Two elderly women in a big old farm house out in the middle of nowhere. Why does she stay there, Annabelle?”
For a second or two I considered whether or not to tell Mrs. Gunderson the truth, then decided it wouldn’t hurt anything. Everybody in Rosedale knew that Minnie was a few eggs shy of a dozen. “It’s because she claims Uncle Joe’s spirit remains there, and she won’t leave him.”
Mrs. Gunderson turned clear around on the bench seat and gaped at me. “Surely not!”
The truth seemed to have knocked the worry and weeps right out of her, for which I was grateful. “I’m afraid so.” Because I’d been feeling mightily aggrieved these past couple of days, I spilled my guts. “After I found that body, I tried to get her and Libby to move to town, at leas
t until the killer was found, but she wouldn’t hear of it.”
“Good heavens.”
“Not only that, but she claims the ghost of Julia Gilbert is haunting her house. She even thinks poor Julia’s spirit is behind the murder.”
Mrs. Gunderson’s mouth dropped open, and I nodded.
“She also claims Julia’s ghost is interfering with her communications with Uncle Joe.”
“Communications? But . . . but . . .”
Again I nodded. “I know. Uncle Joe’s dead. She uses one of those Ouija board things.”
“Land of mercy, what will the woman think of next?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.”
As if she couldn’t quite believe it–an uncertainty I understood quite well, because who could?–Mrs. Gunderson said, “Does she honestly think the ghost of that poor sweet child is haunting her house?”
“Yes.”
“Incredible.”
“Pretty much.”
“And behind the murder?”
“Yes. She says Julia’s spirit is evil. That’s why she made me–I mean, that’s why she asked me to come out here and stay. For some reason, she thinks I’ll be able to lay Julia’s spirit to rest. I don’t know why.”
Mrs. Gunderson’s brow furrowed under her sunbonnet. “That’s . . . that’s very odd, Annabelle.”
“It is.”
“One might even say it’s . . . well . . . a little crazy.”
“One might.” And did, for that matter.
“But wait a minute. Didn’t that little girl go missing on the other side of town?”
“She did.”
“Then why . . .” She let her words trickle to a stop. She had my total sympathy. It’s tough to put stuff like this into words sometimes.
I answered her anyway. “Search me. Minnie’s taken it into her head that somehow or other Julia’s ghost is evil–and out here at her house–and that it’s interfering with her communication with Uncle Joe, which is nutty to begin with. My mother made me come out here,” I admitted. “I didn’t want to do it.”
“I should say not. I’m sorry, Annabelle.” She patted my knee.