Sleuthing at Sweet Springs (The Sleuth Sisters Mysteries Book 4) (8 page)

The chickens had food and water and looked to be content. The firewood was now neatly stacked in a rick close to the house. I should have known Faye would look after Clara, just like she looks after everyone else.

Styx had whined when I left him in the car, but his voice suddenly turned to a threatening bark. He’s not usually aggressive, but he was in a strange place, and I’d gone out of his range of sight. “Calm down, Sweetie,” I called. “I’m right here.”

The growls didn’t stop, so I hurried back. “Styx! Be quiet.” He kept on, interspersing short barks with growls. His nails screeched against the glass as he pushed on it angrily, eager to get out.

“Okay, we’ll go home right now.” He stopped clawing at the window but let out a few more sounds to let me know he was unhappy with the place.

As I started to get in, I noticed a footprint near the rear of my vehicle. It was bigger than mine, and the tread design wasn’t even close to the shoes I wore.

Had Styx barked to let me know someone was creeping around my car? I scanned the area but saw no sign of anyone. The print might have been Dale’s, made when he and Faye came out yesterday.

But the rain overnight should have erased it.

As I stood puzzling over the print, Styx went ballistic, throwing himself at the window. I turned to see a man coming across the yard. He was slightly built, wearing jeans, boots, and a corduroy jacket. His face was hidden by a ski mask, his head by the coat’s deep hood, but his posture was threatening. In his gloved hands he held a hoe, gripping it as if it were a quarterstaff.

Instinct warned his intentions toward me weren’t good. Pulling open the car door, I threw myself inside and locked the doors. The man stopped, shoving the hoe forward in a gesture that said, “Go!”

Styx was making so much noise I could hardly think, but I was perfectly willing to do as the man indicated. Starting the car, I jammed it into reverse, sending dirt flying as I backed out of the driveway and took off toward the main road.

I was shaking on the drive back to Allport, but I tried to rationalize what had happened. In the end I decided it was one of two things. One possibility was that a relative of one of the property owners had been out there for reasons of his own and concluded I was trespassing, (which technically I was). He’d decided to scare me off and been a little too aggressive about it.

The other possibility was that a stranger had happened by and wondered if there was anything worth stealing in my vehicle. If that was the case, my macho dog had scared him off.

“Good boy, Styx,” I told him. I always felt safer when my baby was with me, and in this case, he’d come through like a champion.

For several months, my weekends had been spent at the farm. Sometimes Dale went along, but other times, like when he was deep into the entrails of the neighbor’s snow-blower, he begged off. Around ten on Saturday morning, wearing what Cramer, my youngest son, called my mom jeans, I took Buddy and drove out to the place where Barb, Retta, and I grew up. Cramer lived in the old bunkhouse, which he’d renovated into a home more tech-ish than I could understand or appreciate. Since he tended to stay up nights, he wasn’t usually seen until lunchtime. Bill and Carla lived in the farmhouse, along with three girls they’d taken on as foster children after the girls’ parents died.

When I came down the long driveway and parked on the grass, it felt like I was sixteen again. My mind knew Mom and Dad wouldn’t come out of the house to greet me, but in my heart it still felt like they might. I got out of the car, loving the feel of the place, the sights I’d known for fifty-plus years, even the smells of manure and silage.

The youngest foster girl, six-year-old Daisy, ran toward me, her arms out in welcome. Glad as she might be to see me, her real enthusiasm was for Buddy, who greeted her as if they’d been separated for months. My one-person dog made an exception when Daisy was around. He even tolerated the mutt she’d adopted from the Humane Society, a one-eyed Lab Daisy named Brenda. It should have been Brendan, but since he’d been neutered, no one objected. Brenda limped along behind Daisy, waiting patiently for her to finish hugging Buddy before sniffing at him.

“Bill and Carla are in the garden,” Daisy announced. “Digging ’taters.”

As I passed the barnyard, six reindeer galloped forward to greet me until the high fence stopped them. Sure that I’d have treats for them (which I did and would provide after I greeted the humans), they followed on their side until I turned toward the garden. Daisy and the dogs stayed behind, chasing each other in some game only they understood.

My son, his wife Carla, and Iris, the oldest of the three sisters, were at the far end of the garden, harvesting potatoes. The odor of turned soil rose, and darker clumps of damp earth lay piled atop the drier topsoil. Bill was doing the digging with a pitchfork while Carla bent to pull the tubers away from the plant and toss them gently onto the ground. Iris followed, collecting them in a burlap sack. Three full ones leaning against the garden fence indicated a plentiful crop, and they were only half-way through the patch.

“Need some help?” I asked as I approached. Bill wouldn’t let me do the digging, since it’s hard work, but I would have enjoyed it, at least for a while. Lifting a potato plant and turning up those big, starchy goodies is a little like finding buried treasure.

Bill straightened, bending backward to ease strained muscles. “Pansy wants you to look at one of the cows.”

“Okay.” At the barnyard gate, I let myself in, a tricky task with several reindeer noses searching my pockets and sniffing my hands for treats. I’d cut a couple of apples into slices before leaving home, and I took them out of the zipper bag and distributed them, making sure everyone got his or her share. Then, pushing the deer gently out of my way, I entered the barn in search of Pansy.

If Iris was the Earth-goddess type and Daisy was the budding socialite, Pansy, the middle sister, was the animal whisperer. She was currying Agnetha, smoothing her coat with the curved metal gadget. I greeted the girl and patted the horse that was technically mine but practically Pansy’s.

“We rode up to the top of the hill to look for color this morning,” she said without stopping her task. “It was really pretty when the sun came up behind the trees.”

“I’ll bet it was. What’s wrong with the cow?”

“She got her leg caught in some barbed wire. The cut’s little, so Bill doesn’t want to call the vet—”

Money was always an issue for Bill—in fact, for all three of my sons. While they weren’t as hopeless as their grandmother pronounced them, they probably would never be financially comfortable. It was because they cared about living beings more than they cared about money, and I had no problem with that.

Pansy’s concern showed on her serious face. “You’re worried about the cut,” I said. “Let’s take a look.”

I’m certainly not a veterinarian, but a lifetime of being surrounded by animals has given me some skill with minor illnesses and accidents among our animal friends. I checked the cow’s leg as the girl watched anxiously. The wound was small and almost certain to heal by itself, but I could see that Pansy didn’t want to leave it to chance. “We’ve got some bag balm somewhere, right?”

“Sure, but that’s for udders, not legs.”

“I think it’s just what we need for this.”

Once she located the jar, I patted the cow’s neck and talked to her while Pansy smeared the lanolin-based cream over the cut. She seemed relieved to have done something, and the cow meandered off, unconcerned with the doings of mere humans.

Pansy went back to currying Agnetha, so I picked up a brush and went to work on Dolly, who had once been a cart horse on Mackinac Island. When my sons moved to the farm, we’d let the handlers up there know we were willing to adopt horses too old or sick to pull anymore. We gave the animals a comfortable place to live out their lives, and the handlers avoided the stigma of selling them for dog food. Dolly’s lung problems had made it difficult for her to draw carts up the hills on the island, but she was better since coming to the farm, where life made no demands on her. Bill had already been contacted by a handler who’d be sending us another retiree from the Island’s stock of horses when the tourist season ended in a few weeks.

As we worked, I told Pansy about the hens at Clara’s house. “How could she leave them out there?” she asked in disbelief. Pansy almost single-handedly cared for the flock of peafowl on the farm, since the birds didn’t tolerate just anyone. “Somebody should turn her in to the cops.”

“I made sure they’re okay, and I’ll go back every few days,” I assured her. “I just feel bad that Clara can’t see to them herself.”

“Can’t she tell the people at the Meadows she’s going home whether they like it or not?”

“The doctor apparently thinks she’s in danger out there. She’s old, and she has some mental issues.”

“She’s crazy?”

“Not crazy, in fact she seems perfectly sane to me. They say she has spells of delirium, though, so she could easily get hurt.”

“I guess she does need somebody to look after her, then.”

My answer was more an argument inside my head than a reply to Pansy. “Except if her mental state is declining, you’d expect to see signs of it. Retta says the house is as neat as the yard.” I didn’t want to think about how Retta knew that, but she’d texted me that morning, promising details when we got together.

Giving Agnetha’s rump a final pat, Pansy moved on to Anni-Frid, our third horse. I continued to work on Dolly, a much larger area to cover. While it’s considered a chore by many, grooming a horse is soothing for me, like petting a cat or scratching a dog’s ears. Dolly’s hide fluttered every once in a while as the brush passed over it, relaxing the muscles and removing dirt and loose hair. Lulled into saying more than I should have, I told Pansy about Clara’s contention that her niece wanted her property.

“Clara seemed okay to me,” I finished. “It’s hard to think she might lose her home and her freedom because a relative wants to make a commission from selling her property.”

We worked for a few minutes more before Pansy said, “This lady lives on a lake?”

“Sweet Springs is what’s called a spring-fed lake. The water comes from an underground aquifer, so it’s clear and clean.”

“Mr. Getzmeyer talked in class last week about bottling water. He says it’s usually bad for the environment, but companies make people think it’s good.”

Pansy’s fifth-grade science teacher was a confirmed environmentalist, and his views on natural living and wise stewardship of our planet had made him her current idol.

I thought of Retta’s refrigerator, the top shelf stacked with plastic bottles of water. “I guess some people feel that way.”

“What if somebody wants to fill water bottles out of that lady’s lake? What if they want her in that nursing home so she doesn’t see them doing it?”

“I think there’s more to the process than filling bottles and selling them. There are laws and rules about it.”

“Oh.”

We went on with our tasks, but as I breathed in Dolly’s pungent, horsey smell, I was thinking. In Pansy’s childish mind, Gail Sherman was hauling empty plastic bottles out to Sweet Springs to sell to the bottled water drinkers of the world. Though her mental image was wrong, her basic idea might not be.

By the time I made it back to Allport, it was a few minutes before twelve, which is when my bank closes on Saturdays. On the way I’d decided not to tell my sisters about the man at Clara’s house. Barbara would only sniff and say something about my snooping, and Faye would worry. Nothing bad had come of it, so it would be a secret between Styx and me.

Styx remained in the car, reeking in that wet-dog way, while I went inside. I had quite a few transactions to complete, so the drive-through wasn’t an option. The teller’s manner grew sulky as the clock ticked to almost ten after by the time we got everything done, but the job requires working with customers, even those who show up near closing time. As I left I pretended not to notice the nasty look I got from the manager, who stood at the door, waiting to lock up behind me.

Coming out of the bank, I ran into Rick Chou—literally. I’d stopped for a moment to put my paperwork into my purse, and I stepped forward again without looking. At the same time, Rick rounded the corner, head bent to protect his eyes from dirt the wind had lifted from the sidewalk. When we collided, he put out a hand to steady me.

“Ms. Stilson! I’m so sorry.”

I was glad I’d buttoned my coat all the way to hide the mud Styx had smeared on me, but still, I was a mess from my trip to Sweet Springs. Only a pressing need to visit the bank had made me chance the trip in my state, and of course I ran into the most attractive man I’d seen in weeks.

The best I could do was smile coquettishly. “Totally my fault. I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

Taking my arm, Rick escorted me to a sheltered corner of the bank building. “Your sister called to say you’ve decided to take me on as a client. I appreciate that.”

I was appreciating the way one lock of his dark hair swept over his forehead. “She’s probably on the hunt for your ex-wife as we speak. If travel becomes necessary, that will be my part.”

“Your sisters don’t travel?”

“Barb says she’s seen enough of the world, and for Faye, Allport’s pretty much all there is.”

“But you have a different outlook.” His tone hinted I was the wise one.

“I’ve been a few places,” I said modestly.

“I’d like to hear about that sometime.”

It was the most obvious of hints, and I hesitated for a moment. I’d been seeing Lars Johannsen for several months, but Lars lived in New Mexico. He’d visited a couple of times over the summer, but when he left the last time, I’d been irritated with him. He and Rory Neuencamp had gone out to Rory’s cabin and spent three full days putting a new roof on it. Of course they’d come in to take Barbara and me to dinner each evening, but I still felt neglected. Out of seventy-two hours in Michigan, Lars had spent twenty-four of them with Rory.

Barbara was her usual brusque self when I mentioned it. “Good grief, Retta. The man’s enjoying himself, and the cabin certainly could do with some modernizing.”

That was fine for her to say, since she and Rory could see each other as often as they wanted to. If Lars really cared, wouldn’t he want to spend every minute of his time in Michigan with me?

Rick was waiting for an answer. “I’d like that very much,” I told him, setting a hand on the sleeve of his smooth leather jacket. When we parted, we had a dinner date for Monday evening. Actually, it could have been that very night, but a girl never wants to let a man think she’s got nothing else to do.