Drizzled With Death (4 page)

Could he do that? Was there some sort of oath of office, some kind of professional code that would not permit him to disclose the names of people involved with a distress call? I didn’t know whom I could ask, except maybe Knowlton Pringle, the local taxidermist. He spent a lot of time roaming the woods and encountered at least his fair share of game wardens. Maybe more than his fair share.

He looked a little disreputable and he’d been spoken to about keeping any flashlights pointed toward the ground on a few occasions when he tried explaining he was not out flashing deer, just trying to find roadkill in need of stuffing. At least that’s what constitutes bragging in Knowlton’s world, tall tales of deep woods encounters of the game warden kind. I’d rather stew in my own worry juice than approach Knowlton for information.

If I asked Myra about it, that would only serve to remind her about the incident in the first place and she would be sure to spread it round. If I asked anyone in the family, they’d want to know what I was doing in the sugarhouse when I had a migraine. No solution came to me and my spirits flagged. By the time we reached the house, I was ready to climb into bed and pull the covers over my head. Unfortunately, that wasn’t on the schedule. We were already two hours later getting home than the worst-case scenario I had envisioned, and tonight was the monthly Griddle and Fiddle gathering at the Stack Shack.

I also knew I’d be dragooned into silver-polishing duty and all sorts of kitchen tasks in preparation for Thanksgiving creeping toward us on Thursday. Grandma was already drying a mountain of bread cubes for stuffing and had mentioned me whipping up a maple cranberry sauce. I was trialing a few new recipes at each holiday for possible inclusion at the shop and had even started tinkering with the idea of a Greener Pastures cookbook to sell there.

And I was still starving, having never gotten around to breakfast. I tucked my sneakers into one of the shoe cubbies lining a whole wall in the mudroom. For years the shoes from such a big family piled up helter-skelter and made us all crazy. One morning Loden woke us all with the sounds of a circular saw. By the end of the weekend we had a totally transformed mudroom thanks to his quiet way of taking on a project and solving a problem. I grabbed my pair of sheepskin-lined slippers from the wicker slipper basket and tugged them on as I headed for the savory smells floating out of the kitchen.

The wood-burning cookstove was lit, just as it had been since the middle of September. Grandma stood stirring a pot of stew she’d left on a cast iron burner to simmer while we were gone.

“Just as I’d hoped, not scorched in the least.” She held out the tasting spoon toward me for a slurp.

“I’d eat it, even if it was.” I swallowed the stew too eagerly and burned my tongue in the process. Damn. Now I wouldn’t really taste a thing at the Stack tonight.

“Whoever heard of anyone not getting their fill at an all-you-can-eat pancake breakfast? Better not say that in front of Myra. She’s sure to take offense.” Grandma grabbed the saltshaker and added so little it seemed more like a habit than an actual correction of flavors.

“I meant to eat but Alanza’s death sort of made everything a bit unappealing, safety-wise.” Grandma nodded and reached for the ladle. I moved to a white-painted cupboard and reached up on tiptoe to pull down a stack of soup bowls. The ceilings in this part of the house are lower than those elsewhere but everything still seemed impossibly high. The original builders knew what they were doing in the kitchen. It was housed in the ell, attached to the barn, like so many other New England homes.

It wasn’t built with a full basement underneath, more like a generous crawl space. I can stand up in it but no other adult I know can. Which has led to a lot of time spent down there fetching or placing things no one else can comfortably accomplish. The windows on the north side of the room were small, but they still let in the cold, so the low ceiling helped combat what could be considerable chill. With the stove working away all but three months of the year, the space managed to stay cozy.

I grabbed a handful of spoons and plunked them on the counter next to the bowls. Grandma ladled stew into mine, and I dug into it with a will. I ate the first bowl standing over the sink then refilled it, and after thanking Grandma for her efforts, I took my second helping to the sugarhouse. I had a few things left to prepare for the state inspection scheduled for Tuesday morning. Besides, I was in no mood for the winks the battery-operated Santa my mother had positioned in the kitchen rocker kept sending my way. No matter how many times I snuck down in the night and removed his batteries, someone replaced them by the time I came down for coffee in the morning.

No one else in the family was up for going to the Griddle
and Fiddle evening. Mostly they were too worn out from the excitement of the day, but in Celadon’s case, she couldn’t stand the homegrown music. I grabbed the keys to the farm pickup truck and dashed out the door. I glanced down at my jeans and realized they were too dirty to wear out, even for me. I zipped back inside, dug a clean pair from the bottom drawer of my dresser, and tossed on a fresh T-shirt and wool pullover for good measure. I paused in front of the mirror to check that there were no burrs or twigs sticking out of my hair and twisted my head to check each ear.

Nestled tightly to each lobe was the only bit of finery I generally bother with, emerald earrings, given to me on my thirteenth birthday by my grandfather. All the Greene women had an almost identical pair with an emerald center and her own birthstone set around the outside. Mine had an outer ring of sapphires, and I wore them almost every day. The tradition started with Grampa’s grandparents and had continued down through the generations. Oftentimes, a pair like mine had belonged to another woman in the family and had been saved to pass down. I swiped a quick layer of gloss over my lips and hurried back out the door.

On Griddle and Fiddle night, I always try to get to the Stack early to give my best friend, Piper Wynwood, a hand. She hates to ask the regular staff to come unless they volunteer, and she’s always running around like a crazy person at the last minute. All the way over I thought about the buzz Alanza’s death would cause at the gathering. Generally, the Griddle and Fiddle sessions were pure fun. I wondered if even Piper would be able to pull off the magical atmosphere that usually came so naturally to spaces where she appeared.

I pulled my car around behind the Stack and banged on the back door to be let in. Piper held it open while I carried in a slow cooker full of maple mustard glazed kielbasa bites. I loved the music at the Griddle and Fiddle, but it was also a great place to observe which foods were a real hit and which ones got a wishy-washy reception. Piper used the evenings to trial potential menu items for the restaurant, and I practiced on mixes and sauces we were considering retailing at the shop. Sometimes we combined the two. Piper would use my sauces on a menu item in the Stack and make a note in the menu that it was available at Greener Pastures. We did the same in the shop, mentioning that if you loved it in the jar, you’d love it the way Piper added it to her specialties in the Stack.

Piper lifted the dish out of my hand and set it on a gleaming stainless steel counter. Heat radiated off the grill like a pavement in summer. Enough batter to fill a washing machine drum sat mixed and ready in a container nearby. I smelled coffee brewing and suddenly realized how much I would need a couple of cups if I was going to last the evening.

“You look worn out. Knowlton dropped in straight from the breakfast this morning to tell me you were right there when the old bat keeled over.” Piper never minced words. I wished I could be more like her, assertive without being mean.

“It was a shock. But that isn’t the only thing going on.” I filled her in on the mountain lion and the other loose animals. I didn’t tell her the Fish and Game guy was nice looking. Some things are best kept to oneself. Not that that ever worked with Piper.

“So was he cute?”

“The mountain lion?” I asked.

“The Fish and Game guy.” She scowled at me, which might have been intimidating if I hadn’t known her since before she was old enough to cross the street alone.

“If you like his type, I guess he wasn’t bad looking.” I knew I was being evasive. I even knew it would cause her to dig like a badger into what happened last night. I just couldn’t bring myself to admit I had made a fool of myself in front of a cute guy rather than scoring a date like Piper always managed to do.

“So he was cute. ‘Check out his butt when he’s bent over in frozen foods’ cute? Or ‘ram into his car in the parking lot in order to exchange insurance information so you can stalk him’ cute?”

“He’s not my type so I’m sure I couldn’t say.” I felt prim even saying it. I always sound prim when I lie. I hate that about myself. Lying turns me into a Victorian-era maiden aunt.

“Is he my type?” Piper leaned on the counter, propping her pointy little elfin chin on her fist. All down her forearm a Jack in the Beanstalk tattoo swirled and danced. Grimm’s Fairy Tales were painted on all parts of her body; she was like a flesh-and-blood storyscape. My favorite was the one on her back of Sleeping Beauty at the spinning wheel.

“He might be a little clean-cut for you.” Piper generally went for either similarly tattooed guys or ones in quirky vintage three-piece suits. Men with a normal appearance never seemed to register on her radar.

“Are you calling me a dirty girl?” Piper pouted and blew a giant pink bubble right in my face. I wasn’t sure gum met health inspection regulations, but who was I going to tell?

“Of course not. He’s just a bit pedestrian for your tastes. He was wearing a uniform.”

“A uniform?”

“Yeah. Like a police officer.”

“Nope. Not my type. I don’t do uniforms. You can’t tell anything about a man as an individual if he’s wearing a uniform.”

“I don’t know about that. Clothes don’t make the man.”

“After what happened with Mitch, I can see why you said he wasn’t your type if he showed up in a uniform.” Piper slurped her gum back into her mouth and clicked on the fleet of waffle makers on a nearby counter.

“That was kind of a turnoff for the whole men-in-uniform thing,” I said. Which was too bad since I didn’t share Piper’s view on that subject before Mitch. I mean really, most men aren’t all that great at putting together a decent outfit. In the case of a uniform, a professional has designed it and all he has to do is put it on. I often wish I had a uniform of my own to wear that was a no-brainer and always looked great. The closest I had were jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt. Not really the same caliber as a police uniform, but at least I could usually find something in my size.

“So was the whole Alanza thing as bad as people are saying?”

“What are they saying?”

“She foamed at the mouth. Turned turquoise then fell splat into her plate without so much as a moan.”

“It wasn’t quite like that. Who have you been talking to?”

“Who haven’t I been talking to? Roland Chick is the one I’ve given the most credence to since he was at the competitors’ table when it happened.”

“Yes. He was. He wasn’t sitting right next to her, but he had bowed out of the competition and was simply observing Alanza and Grampa by the time she keeled over. He was in a good position to see everything.”

“So were you from the sounds of it.”

“I was. I was standing right there, just to the side of the table. It was so strange, it almost looked fake. One minute she was cheesing people off and the next she was flopped over in the flapjacks. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but it sort of put me off maple syrup.”

“I wouldn’t let it get to me that bad, sweetie. A good night’s sleep ought to cure you of any bad memories and you’ll be back to swilling the stuff by the gallon before you know it.”

“I’m not so sure. It was pretty gruesome.” I didn’t like thinking about the way the syrup had clung to her face when Grandma had turned her head to keep her airways clear.

“You need to get right back on the horse.” With that, Piper popped open a waffle iron and poured in some batter. Steam rose from the machine when she closed the lid, and the smell of crisp baking waffles filled the air. When the machine beeped, she pried it open and grabbed a plate. Placing a waffle on it, she reached for a syrup jug and uncapped it. “Here, do the honors yourself.” She thrust the plate and jug into my hands and I noticed the Greener Pastures label on the jug. There was no way Alanza was going to turn me off my favorite food. Besides, with my hummingbird-like metabolism, I might just perish without a steady stream of the stuff.

I sat the plate on the counter, drizzled on a healthy slug of golden goodness, and hacked off a bite with the side of my fork. The deep, rich sweetness touched my tongue then filled my throat. The crunch of the waffle combined with the full flavor of the syrup took the edge off the memory of Alanza. Two bites later and I had forgotten I had any concerns about never eating syrup again.

Before I had finished my waffle, the doors opened and community members and people from surrounding towns poured into the Stack Shack like it was opening day at an amusement park. Stringed instruments were tuned, guitars were strummed, and a harmonica let out a few trial notes. Tansey Pringle motioned me over from a big booth in the corner. Unfortunately, her son Knowlton sat next to her, stroking his thin excuse for a mustache, which looked more like a chocolate milk stain than the pelt I imagined he fancied it. Maybe it actually grew quite well, but he had rubbed it off from too much patting.

I screwed up my courage and crossed the room, weaving between friends, neighbors, and acquaintances to slide in on Tansey’s side of the booth. Knowlton lit up like a carnival midway, and I felt like a bad human because of how much I didn’t return his interest.

“Dani, just the girl I wanted to see. Knowlton and I were wondering just what we should bring to your house for Thanksgiving dinner. Your grandmother invited us again this year and we couldn’t be more pleased.” Just one more reason I don’t love the holidays. The family collects stray people like a pound collects dogs. And unfortunately the strays invariably include eligible men invited to free me from my prison of spinsterhood. Tansey is one of my grandmother’s oldest friends and almost since my birth those two ladies have been plotting our nuptials.

“You’ll have to speak to Grandma about that. I just show up and peel potatoes.” I’m a good cook but so are all the women in the family, even my mother, who’d rather snake drains than fix dinner. With so many capable cooks, our broth gets spoiled pretty fast if there isn’t a clear leader. On all major holidays, that leader is Grandma. Celadon plays second in command at Thanksgiving, and Mother does at Christmas. I do it at Easter. My grandfather and Loden are in charge of the Fourth of July barbeque celebration. I could make a fair stab at what Grandma would be serving since a lot of the menu didn’t change from year to year, but I wouldn’t have dared step on her toes by speaking for her about what a guest should bring.

“You know, Knowlton’s a wonderful cook. It’s a wonder no lucky girl has snapped him up already. You’d be lucky to have someone like him around the house if all you can do is peel potatoes.” Tansey leaned over and patted Knowlton’s skinny arm. “Go on and tell her about your squirrel stew.”

“I’ve got to run.” I scootched to the edge of the bench seat, the vinyl squeaking under my jeans. Knowlton reached a long slim arm across the table and locked his slim fingers around my wrist.

“You ought to be careful, Dani. There’s no telling what could happen to someone as small and helpless as you alone at night.” His pale blue eyes, light as thick winter ice, fixed on mine. I always avoided Knowlton, always found him a little creepy and disconcerting, but never was frightened by him. Suddenly, I felt a leeriness that was as unpleasant as it was unfamiliar. Someone had probably murdered Alanza. I felt like I was in a strange land, not the place I was born and raised and eager to leave as a college student because it was so tame and benign. I was looking at everyone with new eyes and that included Knowlton. Was he really as harmless as he had always seemed? Or was he one of those kids who had been pulling the legs off frogs for years when no one was looking?

“I’ll be fine, but thanks for your concern,” I said, tugging my wrist away. He loosened his grip slowly and I hid my arm below the table before I rubbed it to soothe it. I didn’t want him to realize how much he had scared and hurt me. It didn’t seem prudent to appear vulnerable right now.

“Knowlton’s right. A bitty little thing like you’s got no business roaming the dark country roads alone under the circumstances.” Tansey crossed her beefy arms over her droopy bustline. Her raw knuckles looked chapped and weathered from her lifestyle and what I expected was a total lack of moisturizing routine. I wouldn’t want to run into her out in the dark either when it came down to it. She was staring at me in a way that made me uneasy, too. I slid farther out of the booth and popped onto my feet, ready to flee to another table or to a job I’m sure I could convince Piper to give me.

“I’ll keep that in mind, but I’ll get myself home under my own steam,” I said. “Enjoy the music.” I dashed away like a dog who’d caught sight of a squirrel. Or Knowlton, who saw one he wanted to add to his stew pot. Piper hollered my name above the sounds of music getting under way. When I looked, she pointed toward the area in front of the restrooms that served as a stage. Dean Hayes was blowing away on his oboe and Roland Chick was playing his bass. It suited Roland somehow with its sheen and its breadth. Roland was a tall, broad man with a gleaming bald head and a neat and tidy manner of dress that was out of sorts in the community but made him look trustworthy as an innkeeper. Ladies often cited Roland when either criticizing or trying to inspire more care in appearance in their own gentlemen.