Drizzled With Death (8 page)

“So now that Alanza is no longer in the picture, do you think the bird sanctuary has a better chance of going ahead?”

“I hadn’t thought about it.” Knowlton shifted his bag on his shoulder and the tips of his ears pinked as if the temperature had dropped by a good twenty degrees.

“You hadn’t thought about it? The guy who once told me he wanted to name his kids Chickadee, Oriole, and Tanager?” I surprised myself by taking an unprecedented step closer to him.

“Well, maybe I did have a passing thought that since the plans she hatched for the property weren’t going to go forward, the sanctuary might have a chance of happening. But Mother said the property will be going to a conservation land trust group.”

Tansey wasn’t one to gossip and what she did share was usually very accurate. If she went so far as to say something, it was almost guaranteed to be true. Quite possibly embellished and embroidered beyond the easily recognizable, but true at its core. If she mentioned a land trust, there was sure to be something to it. Especially since she and old Lewis Bett had been neighbors and friends of a sort for almost forty years.

“Did she say which land trust?”

“No. I didn’t really pay any attention to that. Once she said she thought the land was going to be protected, I just went back to thinking about the birds. Why do you care anyway? You never pay any attention to birds no matter how much I’ve tried to interest you.”

“It’s not that I don’t care about wildlife. I mean, I was the one who figured out what to do with that camel at church, now wasn’t I?” I had enough problems with the local Fish and Game official without it getting around that I didn’t like animals. And besides, I did like birds. Especially the kind slowly baked in a maple mustard glaze.

“I heard you let that camel get to first base.”

“I didn’t know you were a sports fan.”

“Generally, I’m not, but I’d be willing to play a few rounds of baseball with you, Dani.” His eyes got all moony and he closed the gap between us.

“They’re called innings, Knowlton, not rounds. Golf is rounds.” I stepped back so quickly I tripped and ended up on my backside, completely knocking the wind out of myself. He stood over me as I gasped, and that panicky feeling that comes from not being able to breathe filled my entire being. I scrambled to my feet and hurried away as fast as I could go. There was no way, if I was going to drop dead in the woods like my father, Knowlton was going to be the one to find my body. He’d stuff me for sure. I flew out of the woods, leaving Knowlton calling after me about ordering a cable sports channel when he made it home. I had gotten back to the sugarhouse before I realized I still didn’t know any more about the bird sanctuary than I had when I ran into Knowlton in the first place.

• • •

The back of the shop area houses a small office, and it was there
that I spent a lot of my time since it was built the previous year. We always used to do the books in the main house den, but as the business has grown, I said I wanted to keep things separate for tax purposes but really it was so people would stop using up all the sticky notes. Besides, once something was on a sticky note, I wanted to be able to find it again, and in a shared office, peopled by family members, my notes kept getting stuck to the inside of a wastepaper basket more often than not. No one else liked the shop office as much as I did, and I was putting my own stamp on it.

I paused on the porch of the sugarhouse, looking carefully at the floorboards for any sign of a large cat. A bit of hair, a claw mark in the wood. Even a bit of dried-on feline drool. Zip. I pushed open the door and entered the familiar space. The rough wooden walls and long workbenches were worn smooth in places by generations of Greenes boiling down sap. Down under the bench in the corner my great-great-grandfather had carved his initials in the wall, and when I was six, I found them one summer day playing hide-and-seek with my siblings. When I bragged about discovering them, they said they already knew about them. That’s the thing about being the youngest in a family with a long history in one spot. There’s no new territory to explore unless you make it up yourself or find a new way to look at a place already traveled.

Which was exactly why I was so committed to making the sugaring operation a success. Everyone else had filled a niche in the community. Grandma and Grampa endowed scholarships and funded the building of a new high school. My parents created a summer artist colony in a back parcel of land. Celadon was the driving force behind the historic preservation of the local opera house as well as many other neglected buildings. Loden used his law degree to offer pro bono services to community members in need. What I wanted, more than anything, was to put my own stamp on the community. Building the sugaring business using organic and sustainable methods was my way of doing just that. Our website played an important part in making that happen. Once a week I posted a new recipe or article on green living on our blog attached to the site. I even started selling green products such as stainless steel water bottles and cloth shopping bags with the Greener Pastures logo on them.

I wandered through the shop, running my hand over the stock and checking for dust. Not many people came to the sugarhouse in late fall, but we still did get the odd customer looking for a gift. At this time of year, between fall foliage and skiing, most people who stopped by were locals, but I still wanted to make a good impression. I had made a good case for Internet sales a couple of years before, and their success was one of the reasons I was listened to when I made the suggestion to add a shop onto the sugarhouse. Even Celadon had to stop complaining about crass commercialism sullying the family name when I reported on sales figures and reminded her we were donating all post-tax profits to environmental causes.

I heard creaking on the wide maple floorboards and looked up to see my mother standing in the sugarhouse doorway. Her finger was stuck as a place marker in a book. I squinted at the spine and noticed the title,
The Casting Out of Evil Spirits from About One’s Person
. I had to assume she was looking up what to do about Alanza. God forbid Alanza should cling to any of us in this life or any other.

My mother considers herself to be psychically gifted. She reads tarot cards, dowses, and sees auras. She uses Ouija boards for information the way most people use the Internet. I’m not saying I believe she can do all the things she believes she can, or that such things are even possible, but she is right about enough stuff that I can’t help but try to be open-minded.

She wandered through the sugarhouse, pausing near the evaporator, her peasant skirt swirling and her bracelets jangling as she walked. Everywhere she goes, she swishes and jingles. With her around, it’s like Halloween an extra 364 days each year. She stopped in front of a bench we use to hold jugs.

“Why do I want to bring in a love potion and sprinkle it everywhere in this room?”

“Because you always want to bring in a love potion. Did you need me for something?” I hoped an abrupt topic change would keep her from talking to me about my love life. The last few days had been hard enough without that. She had been following me around all week telling me my aura looked a bit tarnished and plying me with herbal teas designed to realign my chakras.

“Your grandmother was hoping you would run over to Felicia’s to drop off the pickles for the swap.” My mother placed her hand on the bench and squeezed her eyes shut. Grandma and several other women in town had swapped jars of homemade pickles for holiday tables for years. Each of them had a specialty, and the swap allowed all of them to enjoy a variety of excellent choices for no extra effort.

“I’ll be sure to take care of it just as soon as I can.”

“Outdoorsy, a little above average height. Dark hair. Confident. Nice sense of humor. Unmarried.” She’d just described the guy from Fish and Game if his lack of a ring meant anything about marital status. “I’m getting a strong sense of someone like that in here.”

“Are you sure? Do you remember that time when Celadon was in high school and you were sure she was pregnant? You even called the school nurse about it, but it ended up that Celadon’s supposedly male guinea pig was actually an expectant female.”

“That was before I had honed my gift. I’ve improved so much with time.”

“Last month you convinced Martha Rollins to spend her all her disposable income on lottery tickets because you told her you could see an end to all her material concerns.”

“I was right, wasn’t I?”

“She was struck and killed by a log truck as soon as she left the store with her lottery tickets.”

“She had no more material concerns, though, did she?” That’s the thing with Mom’s impressions. If she didn’t try to interpret them, they might actually be spot-on. It was always the reading into them that made a hash of things. You had to take what she said with an ocean’s worth of salt.

“I’d best go tell your grandmother the pickles will be all set before she puts it on her own to-do list,” she said. I followed her out the door and onto the porch, where she came to a dead stop.

“I’m sensing a large presence here.” She pointed to the spot where the mountain lion had made himself at home. I didn’t want to tell her about it, though, because knowing Mom, she’d have a team of investigators, complete with video crew, swarming the place. “I’m picking up on curiosity, and stealth. And doubt mixed with derision. Strange. Not at all in alignment with sugar making.” It looked more than ever like that guy from the state thought my report was laughable despite his apologies.

“Maybe you should come by and do some sort of cleansing ritual.” That ought to distract her from any further interest in big cats or single men. “I wouldn’t want any derision-flavored syrup.”

“What this place needs more than anything is some holiday cheer.” Mom looked around the porch and shook her head sadly at the faded mums and tattered ornamental cabbages. “I’ll take care of it while you’re off on your pickle errand.”

I intended to set off right away to deliver the pickles but
I spotted Hanley in back of the barn with Grampa. Grampa pointed at the trail leading into the north part of the property, and Hanley nodded and started off on his own. Grampa wandered off toward the lower field where he turns out his cows if the weather is decent. I hung back so he wouldn’t spot me following Hanley. Talking about extramarital affairs is not something I wanted to do in front of my grandfather, no matter how much I preferred not to deal with Hanley on my own. Besides, I thought he might be more inclined to tell the truth to just one person instead of a group.

Hanley wasn’t in much of a hurry so it was easy enough to catch up even factoring in the wait for Grampa to disappear from view. I hustled up behind him just as he was coming to a stop in front of a large sugar maple with a broken limb that flopped like a hangnail.

“I see Grampa sent you to one of our neediest.” I hadn’t been trying to be quiet but I must have been doing a pretty good job because he jumped up off the ground like I’d dropped a sledgehammer on his foot. It made me wonder if he had a guilty conscience.

“Dani, you snuck up on me real quiet like. What’re you doing here?”

“Well, I may not be making syrup at this time of year, but I try to walk the property and check on trees every day. I can’t get to all the property every day, but in the course of a week or so, I can get my eyes on most of the trees.” Now to figure out how to insert his affair with Jill into the conversation. “When I was talking to Jill Hayes yesterday, she said she can do hers every day in one short trip.” I kept my eyes pealed on Hanley’s face. He squirmed a bit at her name, tracing a circle with the toe of his boot in the leaf litter at the base of the tree. Gotcha.

“Her property is a lot smaller than this one.”

“Do you service her, too?” I asked. He looked up, startled. “Her trees, I mean.”

“I tend out on her trees. Hers isn’t the biggest account I have, not by a long poke, but every client’s important.”

“Jill said she gets a bit of extra service from you that might not be on the books with Connie.” I felt a little sick and a whole lot embarrassed even letting those words leak out between my lips.

“Are you flirting with me?” Hanley looked like he’d swallowed down one of Grandma’s hot biscuits slathered with butter and drizzled with maple syrup. “Are you asking if you can sign up for extra services, too?” He took a step back from the tree and a step closer to me.

“Was the big bruise on Jill’s face one of the extra services?”

“Did she say I did that to her?”

“She said you’d had a bit too much to drink while the two of you were up at the camp on Friday night and that you let loose on her.”

“I don’t remember things going just exactly like that.”

“But you might not remember if you’d been drinking as much as she said you had, would you?”

“Maybe not.”

“Do remember being with Jill?” I wondered how credible a witness he was. If he didn’t remember hitting her, would he remember her even being around? And even if he did, could his memory be trusted?

“Jill is very memorable, if you follow my meaning.” Hanley winked at me and, even worse, licked his lips. I could do without that picture being seared into my brain, but I guess I had asked for it by poking my nose into police business.

“So she was with you on Friday night?”

“Why do you care? I’m not your husband.”

“Jill wasn’t at the pancake breakfast like she was supposed to be. When I asked her why, she said it was because of the bruise you gave her.”

“Why is it your business?”

“Because it is my business that is being impacted by Alanza’s death. If Jill knew not to go to the breakfast, that looks like she had something to do with what happened to Alanza.”

“Jill was with me on Friday night. But I wished I hadn’t been away from home.”

“Why not? If Jill was so memorable, I would have thought you’d be glad of all the time you can spend together.”

“Because of the goats. I came back to a hell of a mess. Something got into the goat pen and tore things up good on Friday night while I was away. Connie was all shook up about it. She couldn’t get me on the cell phone since the coverage up there ain’t too good.”

“What do you think did it?”

“It’s hard to say. The fencing was damaged; one goat was cut up pretty bad but’ll recover. Another one is just missing, like it was spirited off. It makes me wonder if that Fish and Game guy is really telling all he knows or if there is something more dangerous on the loose around here than he is admitting.” I considered the possibility that Graham was holding something back. Or maybe he wasn’t aware there was a big cat in the group of animals released because the guy who let him out hadn’t admitted it. Next stop, Connie’s, I was hoping to spot evidence of a mountain lion.

• • •

Connie waved me into the hallway of her antique cape, a phone
clamped tightly between her ear and shoulder. I stood in the cramped space trying to shove down my feelings of claustrophobia. Old farm tools with pointy ends and hooks covered the walls and made the hall feel like an inside-out cheese grater. There might have been a hall table in there, too, but it was hard to tell because of the mounds of unopened mail, library books, and firewood stacked every which way. Connie’s dog, Profiterole, curled up in his basket, which mostly blocked the entrance to the kitchen. I wondered what Hanley’s camp looked like inside and if he liked to go there to get away from all the mess that surrounded him at home.

“Sorry about that, Dani. One of my bookkeeping clients needed me to clarify something. So what brings you by?” Connie ran her rough hand through her curly graying hair. She looked more like a farmer than an office worker with her weathered complexion, well-muscled hands, and rugged, earth mother clothing.

“Hanley was up checking our trees today and he told me about the trouble with your goats. I wondered if I could take a look.”

“Well, sure you can, but why would you want to?”

“Let’s just say I have a bet going with the local Fish and Game officer about what might have done it.”

“That sure is a mess with all those animals running around. Do you think this had something to do with all that?”

“I don’t know but it seems strange that the same night a bunch of exotic animals get loose, you end up with your goats getting attacked.”

“If it turns out it was that truck driver’s fault, I don’t know what I’m gonna do. Whatever could that guy have been thinking when he let those animals out?”

“I think he was thinking about how his wife was being unfaithful to him with someone else he trusted.” I tried gauging Connie’s reaction to the topic of infidelity without being too obvious. The lines between her eyebrows scrunched down deeper, whatever that meant.

“That would be disheartening, but even so, you know how I feel about my goats.”

“I do. Hanley said you were all alone when it happened, too.”

“I was. I was too angry and worried for the goats to be scared, so it could have been worse.” Connie pried the closet door open as far as she could, given the stack of newspapers on the floor in front of it. Wrapping herself in a canvas jacket that looked like it belonged to Hanley, she led the way out to the goat enclosure.

The fence was indeed damaged like Hanley had said. Some of the heavy wire sagged out of shape and was distended in several places. The ground inside the enclosure looked torn up like there had been an altercation of some sort. There wasn’t much else to see until we went inside the barn at the end of the enclosure. Connie entered the building and motioned for me to follow. At first it was difficult to see, the light levels were low, and the colors were mostly drab browns and wood tones. As my eyes adjusted, I could make out several animals huddled together at the far end of the barn in one of the old horse stalls.

“Clementine was the one scraped up in the fray,” Connie said, pointing at a white female with a crooked horn. She had a nasty gash along her haunch and someone had covered it with ointment, which glistened against her matted fur. All the goats, except Clementine, took a few tentative steps toward Connie as she clucked at them.

“She seems like she’s still afraid,” I said, noting the way she hung back from the others, cowering against the back wall.

“She must be. Clementine usually runs right over me with her displays of affection.”

“What about the one Hanley said went missing?”

“It was her sister, Susannah. The two were very close. Clementine must be heartbroken.” I wondered if one of them behaved like Celadon. I’m not sure I could see myself feeling as heartbroken if Celadon simply went missing one evening. I might even be the tiniest bit relieved.

“Do you have any idea what might have done this?” I had my own, of course, but there was no way I was going to be the one to mention the mountain lion to her if she hadn’t heard it through the grapevine already.

“Well, I heard you thought you saw a mountain lion, and until this happened, I agreed with the rest of the folks in town that you had finally cracked from all the Christmas hoopla your family puts together. But now, I’m not so sure.”

“So you think it could have been a mountain lion?”

“I don’t know what else could have come in here and then jumped back out with a full-grown goat in tow. Do you?”

“I don’t need to be convinced. I saw the thing with my own eyes.”

“What did Fish and Game say?”

“There is no such thing in New Hampshire anymore.”

“Well, then, maybe it was a yeti.”

“Maybe you had a yeti here messing with your goats, but there was a mountain lion at my sugarhouse and I hope we can prove it.”

“Well, whatever you do, make sure you tell your grandfather to fortify the situation in your own barn. I’d hate for his cows to meet a similar fate.”

“I’ll be sure to tell him. And please let me know if you have any more trouble. I know the Fish and Game guy’s number and would be happy to ask him to give a look around.”

“I’ll do that. And if you see Hanley when you get home be sure to tell him I’m making a tuna noodle casserole for dinner. There’s nothing like making a man’s favorite meal to keep him happy at home.” Maybe Hanley had lied about his favorite meal. Or else Jill was an even better cook than Connie.

• • •

I always loved the ride over to Roland’s place even if the reason was
a mundane errand like a pickle delivery. The road wound through some of the prettiest parts of town, with peeks at the mountains and even a glimpse of the lake along one stretch. I’d been there many times delivering syrup for the inn. Roland and his wife, Felicia, had been kind enough to offer to use only Greener Pastures syrup on their guests’ breakfast tables and even to sell bottles of it at the front desk.

Roland and Felicia Chick had waited until their kids were grown and then set about realizing their lifelong dream of running an inn. Everything about the place spoke of how much care they had lavished on it. The windows gleamed, the paint dazzled, the gardens lulled. Even the birds frolicked in a way that was almost magically cheerful. Every bit of it was enchanting except for the view.

From the gracious, wraparound porch with its gingerbread trim and lush hanging baskets of hyperactively blooming petunias, you used to be able to look out over the gentle rolling hills in the distance covered in dense trees and shrubs. Now, standing out like a cockroach on a wedding cake, a mini storage facility blighted the view. The property line lay just beyond a carefully planted border of flowering quince, lilac, and weigela the Chicks had installed several years earlier. A road leading into Alanza’s property cut right behind the border and some of the heavy equipment used to construct it had demolished some prized specimens and enabled an unobstructed view of the metal shacks. The machines were still there, poised and threatening like an enemy army just beyond a city wall.

Roland had developed angina and a nervous twitch. His wife had taken on the new hobby of constantly monitoring his blood pressure. It was a wonder Roland had outlasted Alanza. With the breakfast rush over, Roland leaned against the front desk looking like he had nothing on his mind but time.

“Hey there, Dani. What brings you by? Lowell was already here confiscating your syrup for testing.” I hadn’t even considered that could happen. He hadn’t mentioned it to me. But maybe I wasn’t his first priority while handling a murder investigation. I wasn’t so overwhelmed with a sense of my own importance that I couldn’t see that without being told. Still, it was a bit of a blow to realize my syrup was being treated like a public health hazard.

“Actually, I’m here for the pickles. Only three days ’til Thanksgiving.” I reached into my tote bag and dug out two jars of Grandma’s famous maple syrup bread-and-butter pickles. “But I wish I were here delivering syrup. I don’t know when I’ll be back in business.”

“I’m so sorry. I know what it means to have a business you’ve worked so hard to establish turn to a pile of horse dung right in front of your eyes.”

“That view of the storage facility is pretty bad.” Even in the daylight it was easy to see Alanza’s custom-ordered, very pricey, neon sign, flashing on and off with enough wattage to kill bugs from a distance. It looked like Santa had put his head together with a Las Vegas casino owner to design the thing. When she had first turned it on, panicked calls had come into the police station from all over the area saying Sugar Grove was being visited by alien crafts.