Murder in the Boonies: A Sleuth Sisters Mystery (The Sleuth Sisters Book 3) (8 page)

“Right. She still makes lovely things, but they sell them from home or at craft shows.” Ellie grimaced. “They eliminated the evil middle-man: me.”

“Did you talk to her after she moved out?”

“Once. We met on the street, and Rose seemed really glad to see me. She said things were fine. Ben was fine. The girls were fine. Her work was fine.” With a gesture, Ellie swept away all that fineness. “I think she was miserable, but she didn’t know how to change things.”

“Too bad,” I murmured.

“It’s hard to know who to blame,” Ellie said. “A man like Ben is domineering, but maybe he gives a woman like Rose the structure she lacks. I worry about those poor girls, though. Just because their mother needs someone to tell her what to do every second doesn’t mean they need it too.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Barb

As Faye cooked dinner for the girls, she dealt with no less than three hot flashes. Sweater on, sweater off, back door open, back door closed, and so on until the meal was ready. Despite frequent wardrobe changes, she created a delicious meal of home-made chicken tenders, fries, and corn.

The Isleys dug in eagerly, not the least bit shy about filling their plates. My sister has a way of making people feel at home. There’s no magic phrase, gesture, or action, but there’s never a stranger in Faye’s kitchen.

There was hardly room at Faye’s refinished oak table for six of us, but we managed. Iris, the perfect lady, sat demurely next to me and made polite conversation. Seated between Iris and Dale, Pansy ate like someone who’s been living in the woods should, and Faye made sure she had enough of everything. Daisy sat between Dale and Faye, and Buddy plopped himself next to her chair. From time to time I heard sounds that indicated he was eating, and Daisy’s delight with what she thought was a secret was all too obvious. Iris tried to signal her to behave herself, but Daisy was having too much fun to notice. Catching Iris’ eye I winked, and she relaxed a little.

Once we finished the meal, the girls began what seemed to be a familiar routine for them, clearing the table and stacking the dishes in the sink. Iris ran hot water in the sink and began washing. Pansy rinsed the dishes and set them on a clean towel. Little Daisy put the ketchup, ranch dressing, and barbecue sauce into the refrigerator and gathered up the placemats, shaking the crumbs into the garbage.

“We have a dishwasher,” I protested.

Pansy glanced at the appliance as if it were an alien likely to zap her with a death ray. “Faster this way.” I guessed she hadn’t used one before.

“I often do dishes that way myself,” Faye said. “It’s restful, having your hands in warm water, and quiet, too, because everybody leaves you alone for ten minutes.”

While the girls worked, Faye brought out the bag she’d packed for a night at the farm. Daisy seemed nervous about her departure, but Faye told her, “I have to leave Buddy here. Can you watch him for me?”

Daisy happily agreed, and Faye showed her where his food and treats are stored, cautioning that he didn’t need as many as he thought he did. “We don’t want him to get fat,” she said, and I rolled my eyes just a little. Faye spoils the dog, and Dale tries to curry his favor by sneaking him treats. Buddy wouldn’t get any fatter under the care of a six-year-old than he does with his mom and dad.

Faye signaled me after she said goodbye to the girls, and I followed her onto the back porch. “Don’t worry,” she told me, though it was obviously she who was worried. “Rory’s bringing the sheriff over in the morning.”

I smiled at the idea that Rory and the sheriff were my relief squad. “We’ll be fine. Take the time you need with your horses.”

“Cramer is bringing his stuff out tomorrow after work, so we plan to spend the day clearing the bunkhouse out for him.” She frowned. “We might not get back until late. I don’t know about supper—”

“Faye, that’s what Pizza Hut is for. One phone call and they bring supper right to your door.”

She didn’t argue, but I guessed she thought I didn’t fully understand the nutritional needs of growing children. Dale was already in the car, so she gave me a quick hug and hurried around to the driver’s seat. As she got in, he handed her a pair of sunglasses, which she put on. It was after six, and they were heading east. I didn’t think she needed them, but apparently Dale did.

Back inside, the girls had cleaned the kitchen and swept the floor. Despite my assurances to Faye, I had a moment of doubt. What time should they go to bed? Was I supposed to suggest activities? Board games? Reading? I had no idea what today’s kids do with their evenings.

Pansy solved my problem. “Do you have cable?”

“Um, Faye does. I don’t watch much TV.”

“We’re not allowed to, either.” Daisy spoke as if some adult had forbidden television to me. “But when we get to, we like Nickelodeon.”

“Well, you’re welcome to see if you can find it.”

Minutes later, I stood in the doorway to the guest room while Pansy scrolled through the TV offerings with an ease everyone under thirty seems to possess. She found the station, which was playing a show I was vaguely familiar with,
SpongeBob Squarepants
. I stood for a few minutes watching them settle on the bed together. Pansy controlled the remote, Iris took Daisy under her arm, and Buddy jumped up beside her and settled in with a sigh.

“We’re good,” Pansy assured me. “Do whatever you usually do at night.”

Telling myself that kids who’d spent the last three days on their own probably didn’t need my direct supervision for an evening of television, I said goodnight and went upstairs.

It was a pleasant evening, and the upper story had heated during the day, so I opened the window in my bedroom to let in cooler air. I was as surprised to see the cat as she was to see me, and we both froze for a second. By the time I realized she was there, she was gone.

Maybe it was having a houseful of abandoned kids, but I felt sorry for the animal. Going to my refrigerator, I found some leftover Tandoori chicken and shredded it into a plastic bowl. In a second bowl I poured water, having read somewhere that adult cats don’t need milk. It took some doing to get the screen out of the window, but I figured it out and set the bowls on a spot where the porch roof met the house wall. Pulling the curtain aside I anchored it with a book, turned off the lamp, and waited.

It took a while, but the cat came hesitantly along the roof, sniffing at the wind. When she found the food, she fell on it with a fury, growling to herself as she tore at the meat. The beast was starving.

I had a moment of disgust for neighbors who had let such a pretty little thing go hungry, but the cat probably hadn’t approached anyone. Well-camouflaged in shades of brown, black, and gold, she could easily melt into the background simply by lying still.

Once the meat was gone, the cat lapped up the water. I watched, fascinated by the efficient, reverse cupping action of her tongue. We’d had cats as kids, almost a necessity in a house with an abundance of places where mice could get in. Usually there’d been one or two inside cats and many more in the barn to keep the rodent population down. The barn cats were feral, hard to catch and viciously defensive, and I recalled many scratches on my arms from catching them. Remembering how soft their fur felt, I moved my hand toward the stray, hoping to pet her.

The cat was gone in a heartbeat. Leaning on the sill I looked outside, but there was no sign of her. Feeling disgruntled that my attempt to be kind was rejected, I wrestled the screen back into place and retreated to my desk to do some night work.

My current project involved quotation marks, and I reread the letter I’d written.

To the management of Marty’s Market:

In recent trips to your store, I have noticed signs that say such things as “FRESH” PINEAPPLES and
“REAL”
WHIPPED CREAM.

Apparently the idea is to emphasize the words real and fresh, but emphasis is more properly shown with italics, bold print, or underlining.

Quotation marks surround words that are not the authors’ own. In addition to their obvious use around formal quotations like “War is hell,” they can be used to show a writer’s disagreement with what is said. For example,
I don’t agree with what the “experts”
say about cholesterol. Putting the word experts inside quotes indicates disagreement with calling them that. The marks also let readers know when a writer is being sarcastic or humorous:
His “remedy” for a cold was a pint of whiskey.

In either case, the quotation marks mean the writer doesn’t want the reader to accept at face value the word or words inside them. Therefore, when you put
fresh
and
real
in quotes, you’re telling shoppers either you don’t
believe
or don’t
mean
your pineapples are fresh and your whipped cream is real.

Since this is not the message you intend, I suggest you follow the rules of punctuation.

A Frequent but Disappointed Shopper

At about ten-thirty, I crept downstairs to look in on the girls. Daisy was asleep with one arm over Buddy’s back, her cheeks rosy against her pale skin. Iris, too, had drifted off, her head tilted toward Daisy. Pansy looked up as I stopped in the doorway. Pillows propped behind her head, she was watching CSI, an old one with Grissom leading the team. From her expression I knew her parents wouldn’t approve her viewing choice.

“I used to like that one,” I told her softly. “It’s gross sometimes, though.”

“I’ll watch something else,” she said, but I noticed she didn’t change the channel. “Is being a detective in real life like it is on TV?”

“Not exactly. It’s a lot more paperwork and a lot less gunplay.”

She chewed at her lip. “Did you ever catch a murderer?”

“Yes.” I heard the pride in my voice. “Twice now we’ve helped put killers in prison.”

“Oh. Well, goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Pansy.” Did I imagine it, or had I seen fear in her eyes when I spoke of catching killers?

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Faye

It felt good to wake up in my childhood home. Dale and I slept in what had been my parents’ room, and I recalled waking up there as a kid when I was sick. Mom had kept an old cot in the closet, and if she was worried about one of us, we’d be tucked into one corner of their room. Beside the bed would be a TV table with medicine to suit whatever the ailment was, cough syrup, perhaps, or aspirin tablets cut in two. I felt safe in that room, as if the last forty years hadn’t happened. Dale hadn’t been permanently disabled, Cramer hadn’t married an awful woman, and Bill hadn’t failed at business so many times he might never recover. Until I opened my eyes I was six again, like sweet little Daisy. Mom and Dad were spooned nearby, ready to protect me from all the ills of the world.

Of course that wasn’t true. I rose, shivering in the chilly May morning. Dale slept on peacefully, and I closed the door so as not to disturb him as I went about my chores.

Fighting the feeling I was snooping, I searched Rose Isley’s cupboards and found coffee, sugar, and an ancient, drip-type pot in four parts. There was a teakettle on the stove, so I heated water in it as I spooned coffee into the strainer section of the pot. Setting it into the carafe, I put the water tank on top, filled it when the teakettle steamed, added the lid, and waited. Soon the drip, drip, drip that gives such pots their name sounded, and the aroma of coffee filled the kitchen.

I took the first cup for myself, stirred in sugar, and with the mug in one hand, slipped on the canvas shoes I’d left near the door. I was eager to get out and see my horses, reassuring them and satisfying myself they were acclimating to their new quarters.

Closing the door quietly, I headed toward the barn, sipping at my brew and taking in the glories of a May morning. Though it was cool, I could tell already the day would warm. The leaves had really popped over the last few days, and soon the woods would be opaque, hiding the activities of hundreds of deer and small animals.

Air smells new in the spring, like life starting up again. I have to admit, though, that the closer I got to the barnyard, the nastier the smell got. I wondered how often the animal pens required cleaning. It would be constant work to keep them in good shape.

The horses greeted me with soft sounds of welcome. Anni-Frid came to the gate, nodding as if to say, “Good morning.” Agnetha was a bit less trusting, but when I leaned on the gate and spoke to her she came over, obviously wondering if I’d brought a treat. I had an apple for each of them, and I set one on my palm, holding it out to her. She took it, munching daintily. I gave Anni-Frid hers, and she did the same. I haven’t met that many horses, but I’ve never met one that doesn’t like apples.

When I turned to leave the barn, a man stood silhouetted in the doorway. We both started in surprise, but I recovered quicker than he did, perhaps because I had the moral high ground.

“Who are you?”

He hesitated, and I thought he was deciding how to answer. “Sorry if I scared you,” he said smoothly. “I guess you’re the new tenant?”

“I’m not a tenant; I’m one of the owners. And you are?”

He stepped inside, and I got a better look at him. “I’m Colt Farrell, a friend of Ben McAdams.” I recalled Barb telling me about his visit to the office. “You alone out here, ma’am?”

“My husband’s in the house,” I said. “He’ll be right out.” I was remembering a recent situation when a man had trapped me in a barn, intending to kill me.

Farrell didn’t seem to have any such thing in mind. “I loaned Ben my chainsaw last month. I didn’t think anyone would mind if I took it back.”

It seemed logical enough, but something in his manner struck me wrong. Unaware if Dale was even awake much less up, I chose to be non-threatening. “I didn’t see a chainsaw here. Maybe it’s in the tool shed.”

“I’ll look there.” He turned to go then turned back. “You can come with me if you like, to see I don’t take anything else.”

“That’s not necessary,” I said tactfully, “but I’ll help you look.”

We went through every building, the back porch, and even the root cellar, but we found no chainsaw. Farrell seemed disappointed. “I hope he didn’t take it with him. That wouldn’t be right.”