by Mary Daheim
“Hang on for a moment,” Aunt Ellen said amid the sound of paper shuffling. “Where did I put my laptop? Oh, here it . . . No, that’s a cookie sheet . . . Ah! Patience, Judith. It shouldn’t take me long to . . . Yes, here he is. Emory Alfred Stokes, born August fourth, 1907, in Big Stove, Neb—oops! Hold on, one of the balls of yarn I’m using to make an Eskimo sweater for Win just rolled off the table.”
“That does make Codger not far from a hundred,” Judith whispered to Renie. “Farming must’ve kept him in good shape.”
“Yarn rescued!” Aunt Ellen exclaimed. “Does that part help?”
“Yes,” Judith replied. “What do you mean by ‘part’?”
“Well . . . Emory Alfred Stokes died February third, 1911. Are you researching a child?”
“No,” Judith said as she and Renie stared at each other. “Maybe another member of the family was named in the child’s honor. Can you check that?”
“Of course I can,” Aunt Ellen asserted self-righteously. “But Big Stove is a very small town, only a few hundred . . . No, there’s no other Emory Alfred Stokes in the United States.”
Renie leaned into the phone. “How about Canada?”
“Is that you, Serena?” their aunt asked in a vexed voice. “I don’t have access to Canadian vital records. You can sort that out. What are you two up to? Why aren’t you sightseeing or bargain shopping or visiting shut-ins like Uncle Win and I do when we visit the rest of the family?”
Judith smirked; Renie rolled her eyes. Ellen and Win spent most of their time running around like a couple of chimps in heat, as Auntie Vance always put it. Family members saw them only at appointed times: lunch with Aunt Deb; drinks with Uncle Al; dinner with Auntie Vance and Uncle Vince, unless they missed the ferry from Whoopee Island. Judith and Renie were lucky to get together with them for dessert while listening to Gertrude grumble about why they’d bothered leaving Beatrice in the first place.
“It’s some people we met here in Banff,” Judith finally said. “As you mentioned earlier, I’m always curious.”
“So you are, dear Judith,” Aunt Ellen replied with amusement. “I must dash. But be careful. You know what curiosity did to the cat.” She rang off.
Renie flopped into a chair. “I’m so exhausted from listening to Aunt Ellen that I forgot why you called her.”
“Codger,” Judith answered vaguely, and grew thoughtful. “If Emory Alfred Stokes died young, who supposedly was being sent down the river on that bier?”
“Could you ask Adela?”
Judith shook her head. “We can’t ask any of them. If this is some sort of scam, I’m guessing they’re all in on it.” She stood up and paced the room. “There’s money involved, I’m sure of that. The farm. That’s worth a lot of money. If Codger—and I’ll keep calling him that because they do—somehow had control of the farm, that might explain it. Maybe the answer is in Big Stove.”
“We’re not going there,” Renie warned sternly.
“I don’t intend to,” Judith retorted.
“You’ll ask Aunt Ellen to check out Big Stove?”
“No,” Judith said. “I’ve worn out my welcome with Aunt Ellen. I’ll do it myself via phone.” She sat back down, picked up her cell, and tapped in 411 for Directory Assistance. When the operator came on the line, Judith requested the number of Cornelius aka “Pa” Stokes. Jotting it down on the motel’s memo pad, she then asked if there was a listing for Theodore Stokes. After a pause, the operator stated that there was no other listing for anyone with that last name in the area.
“So that tells us the entire family is living with Ma and Pa—that would be Corny and his wife, Delia,” Judith said, tapping the ballpoint pen against her chin. “I wonder if whoever is caring for the children is staying with them at the farmhouse.”
“What wild story will you tell whoever might answer the phone?” Renie asked.
“I’ll stick to our original cover—a magazine article. I’ll be the reporter. You can be the editor.”
“No,” Renie said, with a shake of her head. “I don’t want the responsibility. Make me your gofer.”
“Fine,” Judith agreed, tapping in Corny’s number. The ring had a tinny sound, as if the telephone equipment belonged to another era. Judith figured it could be a relic if the farm had been handed down through several generations. After ten rings, she disconnected.
“Maybe nobody’s staying at the house,” she said.
Renie frowned. “Somebody must be around to feed the animals. Didn’t I hear a mention of cows? Or chickens. All farms should at least have chickens. Now I really am hungry. It’s after noon. Let’s go seek food.”
“Okay, but let me put on some lipstick. And we really should find out what happened with the Odell twins.”
“They’re not your twins,” Renie called after Judith, who had gone into the bathroom.
“Maybe not,” Judith responded, “but if they took the family Buick, Adela and Norman are without a car.”
“Not your problem either,” Renie said as Judith came out of the bathroom. “You just don’t want to lose track of your suspects. Speaking of which, why haven’t you tried to talk to Ada?”
“I don’t know if she can talk,” Judith replied. “But you’re right. I’ve been remiss. Quiet people are often the noticing type. I’ll have a go at Ada after lunch. Where do you . . .” She stopped speaking as her cell rang. “Now, who can this be? Hello?”
The female voice on the other end was unfamiliar. “Who am I calling at this number?” she asked.
Judith stiffened, hesitating to give her name. “May I inquire who wants to know?”
“Someone called me from this number a few minutes ago,” the woman said. “If you’re selling something, I don’t want it.”
“Oh!” Recognition dawned on Judith. “My name’s Judith McMonigle. I’m a freelance magazine writer.”
“Are you selling magazines?” The voice remained suspicious.
“No, I only write for them,” Judith fibbed. “I’m on assignment in Banff, Alberta, and I happened to meet some of the Stokes family members. Are you related to them?”
A momentary silence followed. “We can’t be,” the woman finally said. “Our relatives went on vacation to Disneyland earlier this week. Jens and I are house-sitting for them.”
Startled, Judith glanced at Renie, who had been eavesdropping. “Have you heard from them since they left?”
“No,” the woman replied. “They’re not much for writing postcards. Or much of anything else, come to think of it.”
“No doubt they’re busy having fun,” Judith said blithely. “At Disneyland, of course. Your first name is . . . ?”
“Doris. Is this for your magazine?”
“I don’t know yet,” Judith hedged. “It’s up to my editor.”
“Good. We like to keep ourselves to ourselves. We’ve got our own problems here in Big Stove. Good-bye now.” Doris hung up.
“Not helpful,” Judith declared. “She implied that they’re related to the Stokeses, though.”
“You should’ve told Doris that she’d be in the article,” Renie said. “When did you get a conscience about lying your head off?”
“I never lie!” Judith retorted. “I only tell fibs in my search for truth.”
Renie looked thoughtful, puckish. “What?” Judith demanded. “You’re up to something.”
“I’m considering taking on a responsibility,” Renie replied smugly. “Now that I think about it, I want to be your editor. You just flunked your assignment. I heard the word ‘problems.’ What problems? I’m going to call Doris.”
“No!” Judith shrieked. “You can’t do that!”
“Watch me.” Renie grabbed Judith’s cell to see the number. “This could be fun. Hello, Doris?”
It was Judith’s turn to listen in. “This is Serena Grover, Ms. McMonigle’s editor. I’m afraid she failed to carry out her assignment. What is your full name?”
“What magazine are you talking
about?” Doris asked in an annoyed tone.
“Cornucopia,” Renie replied. “Our readership is made up of persons in the corn industry. Both the edible sweet and the industrial type. May I have your last name?”
“It’s Draper,” Doris replied. “But we don’t own a farm. We’re only staying at this house while other family members are away. It’s a big responsibility. If you know about raising corn, then you realize it’s a huge business here in Nebraska. I have to go now. The chickens need feeding.” She rang off.
Renie stared at the cell. “Chickens eat lunch?”
“They peck around all day,” Judith said vaguely. The calls to Doris hadn’t been very helpful.
“Speaking of food,” Renie said, “are we going to lunch or should I fake my own death?”
Judith was still staring at the cobalt-blue drape that covered the room’s only window. “I wonder if Doris knew about Codger’s last request. Maybe she didn’t.”
Renie looked exasperated. “Maybe she was hungry. Right now I’m thinking of clobbering you with that lamp on the bureau. Why is the lamp shaped like a beaver?”
“Canadians like beavers. It’s a symbol of the fur trade that originally brought settlers to . . .” Judith shook herself. “Okay, okay, you know that as well as I do. I’m trying to think if we learned anything from Doris.”
“We didn’t learn that she does takeout, and if she does, she’s too far away to get it to me before I collapse from starvation.” Renie was already at the door. “Good-bye now.”
“Ohhh . . .” Judith got up, trying to ignore a twinge in her artificial hip, and fingered the locket-like alarm she wore to summon help if she dislocated. She had only used it once when she’d fallen in the basement and no one else was inside the B&B. The last thing she needed on a vacation was a visit to the ER. “I’m coming,” she declared. “You’re too ornery to be on your own. The RCMP might arrest you for biting a local resident’s arm.”
“Sounds good to me,” Renie said. “Not the arm, but the arrest. They feed prisoners, don’t they?”
“Probably.” Judith checked to make sure the door had locked behind them. “What I wonder is if they’re getting close to making an arrest.”
As they headed for the elevator, Renie shrugged. “The Mounties always get their man, right?”
Judith’s dark eyes narrowed. “Yes. But let’s hope that if need be, they always get their woman.”
Chapter 12
At half past the noon hour, the entire population of Banff and its visitors seemed to be lunching in the commercial area. The cousins ended up back at Wild Flour, where they could order carryout items. Clutching a frittata and coffee, Judith motioned to an empty bench in the Bison Courtyard. Loaded down with two croissants and an omelet, Renie staggered over to join her.
“Wha dwee do affa we ea?” she asked with her mouth full.
“We check in with the Stokeses,” Judith replied. “I intend to cull Ada from the herd.”
Renie swallowed whatever she’d been eating. “Ada? I thought she didn’t talk.”
“Maybe she doesn’t,” Judith said, “but I want to find out if she can.”
Renie sighed. “I gather she’s challenged, as they say. Then again, who isn’t?”
“True,” Judith conceded. “But being slow of wit doesn’t mean she can’t observe. I’m also wondering where the twins have gone. Or if they’ve finally come back.”
“If I were them, I wouldn’t.” Renie frowned. “We’re only going to be here for one more full day. You’d better hurry up and solve this case. We need time to shop.”
“I admit I wouldn’t mind checking out their woolens,” Judith said between bites of the frittata. “Remember how we used to go up to Canada to buy school clothes? Their cashmere sweaters and other woolens were better quality than we had back then. The exchange rate favored us, too. The clan tartans made up into really good-looking pleated skirts that went with . . .” She stopped. “Here comes Sergeant Brewster. Is he looking for us?”
Apparently, he was, as the cousins saw him stride purposefully toward their bench. He smiled faintly and doffed his regulation hat. “I was driving by in my cruiser when I saw you go into Wild Flour. I thought I might find you here. When you’ve finished your meal, would you mind coming to the station? I have some questions for you.”
“Of course,” Judith said. “In fact, we have some questions for you.”
He nodded once. “My cruiser’s just up a few doors. I’ll come by and drive you to the station. Five minutes, eh?”
“That’s fine,” Judith replied. “We’ll be done by then.”
Brewster nodded again and left the courtyard. Renie polished off the last of her food and glared at her cousin. “He thinks I’m a mute, right?”
“Of course not,” Judith retorted. “You spoke to him earlier. I think.”
“Maybe I should question Ada,” Renie snapped. “When it comes to talking or not talking, she and I seem to have a lot in common.”
“Coz . . .” Judith’s tone had turned plaintive. “I don’t mean to take over. Really.”
“You’re much taller than I am,” Renie said solemnly. “Tall people always get more attention. It’s a rule of nature.” To Judith’s relief, she laughed. “I’m used to it. My three kids are taller than I am.”
“But they respect you,” Judith declared.
“I guess.” Renie shrugged. “It’s more important that they love me. They can respect Bill and I’m good with that. Let’s stand on the curb like a couple of aging hookers. I won’t ask you to wiggle your hips, but twirl your purse and show a bit of leg.”
“Not funny,” Judith muttered. “We have to unload on Brewster and he’s not going to like it.”
“‘We’? You mean I get to talk?”
“You never volunteer. Here he comes.”
Except for the sergeant’s asking the cousins if they were comfortable, the short drive to the precinct station was made in silence. So was the brief walk to the interview room. Brewster finally asked if they’d care for coffee or tea. They declined.
After they were all seated, Brewster spoke. “Given your reputation, Ms. Flynn, I want to confer with you about any information you may have gleaned since we last spoke. But first I wanted to let you know the crime-scene people from Calgary should arrive later today.”
“Do you need us to talk to them?” Judith asked. “We probably wouldn’t be of much help since you already know what we saw at the campsite.”
“My report should be sufficient,” Brewster agreed. “Have you spoken with any of the Stokes family here since this morning?”
“Only Adela Odell,” Judith responded.
Brewster waited, but Judith didn’t elaborate. “And?” he finally prompted.
“Their twins may’ve taken the family car on a joyride,” Judith said with reluctance. “Naturally, Adela was upset.”
Brewster’s face was impassive. “Well she might be, eh?” he said quietly. “The Buick was found abandoned earlier this morning. It was on a road off the Trans-Canada Highway near the border crossing. Their parents have no idea where the twins have gone. Customs and Immigration officers at the crossing haven’t seen them. The Buick showed no signs of damage.”
“Then Win and Winnie are probably unharmed,” Judith murmured. She switched subjects. “Have you released the victim’s name to the public?”
“Our local paper, the Outlook is a weekly,” Brewster replied. “It won’t publish again until this coming Thursday, so there’s no rush to make an announcement. Why do you ask?”
“The discrepancy about where the family was headed in the first place,” Judith replied, and related Doris Draper’s remark about the family going to California. “So how and why did they end up here?”
Brewster stroked his chin. “That’s a bit puzzling, eh? We’ll contact Ms. Draper. Do you have her number?”
Judith dug in her purse to find her cell and handed it to the sergeant. “The Big Stove number is on the scre
en.”
“Thank you.” He jotted it down. “I’ll be in touch with her directly. Anything else?” The tone of his query seemed strained.
Judith shook her head. “Not that I can think of.”
“Then I’ll drive you back to . . .” He paused. “I assume your car is parked in town, eh?”
Judith had stood up. “You don’t need to. We planned on shopping this afternoon. We’ll walk.”
Two minutes later, the cousins were on the sidewalk. Renie was irate. “‘We’ll walk’? Are you insane? I hate to walk! You know I have flat feet.”
“And I have a phony hip,” Judith retorted. “Face it, we’re both not in mint condition even if . . .”
“What?” Renie asked as they crossed Spray Avenue.
“As we were leaving, I saw Adela walking toward the station. Don’t stare, she’s going in now. You browse that woolen shop while I wait at the door for her to come out.”
“Okay,” Renie said. “I’ll browse, you pounce.”
Good Wools Ltd. was busy with what looked like mostly visitors. Judith had to force herself to keep from pawing the various items on display. She assumed a position next to a wooden rack that held a variety of belts. The pungent smell of leather tickled her nose. Meanwhile, Renie plundered various display items from sweaters to skirts to what looked like a suede firefighter’s hat.
After ten minutes had passed, Judith checked her watch. It was exactly two o’clock. The day was getting away from her. She glanced over her shoulder. Renie had also gotten away, apparently into a dressing room to try on clothes. Turning back to the window, she spotted Sergeant Brewster talking to Adela by the station entrance. Judith hurried to the fitting rooms—there were only two—and called her cousin’s name.
“Come on,” she said after Renie opened the door a crack. “I’m leaving.”
“I’m buying,” Renie snapped. “Go away.”
There was no time to argue. Judith exited the shop just as a frazzled-looking Adela crossed the street.
“Hi,” Judith said in a cheerful voice. “Are you in the woolen market, too?”