Sleuthing at Sweet Springs (The Sleuth Sisters Mysteries Book 4) (6 page)

With the resources we’d developed for our agency on the internet, it wasn’t difficult to find an email address for the former Mrs. Richard Chou. Narrowing the search by middle name, age, and an arrest as a juvenile for Minor in Possession (Yes, the internet does haunt your past), I found the Candice Chou we wanted and got an email address. Hoping it was current, I composed a carefully worded message and created a heading I hoped wouldn’t come across as spam.

“Can’t very well write,
Your signature needed,
in the subject line,” I told Barb when she returned from her visit to the real estate office.

She chuckled as she hung her coat in the closet under the stairs and closed the door with the thump it took to make it stay that way. “You mean you don’t want to sound like the wife of a prominent-but-deceased African banker willing to share millions of dollars with just the right person?”

“Not if I can help it.” I sent the email. “Should I keep looking until I find a physical address for her?”

Barb shook her head. “Let’s give her a day or two to respond. I don’t want to pry into the woman’s privacy unless we have to.”

“You don’t trust Mr. Chou?”

She shrugged. “I don’t
mis
trust him, but if Mrs. Chou went to the trouble of hiding her whereabouts from a man she used to be married to, her wishes should be accommodated if possible.”

Barb told me about her visit to the real estate office. As she talked I could tell she was half-convinced Gail Sherman, though not a warm person, had done her best for her delusional aunt.

“I asked a friend at the courthouse to see if Gail has filed papers declaring Clara incompetent,” I said, hoping to delay a decision I dreaded. “She agreed to look into it but said she’s swamped right now. We might not hear from her until Monday.”

“Okay.” Stowing her purse in the bottom drawer of her desk, Barb sat down in her chair with a sigh. “We’ll make a decision about whether to take the case then. Naturally, we won’t charge Mrs. Knight if we decide not to continue.”

That meant I had the weekend to find something to keep Barb’s interest, some hint Clara didn’t deserve to be locked up.

Having done what I could for our current clients, I moved on to my plan to help Clara get some of her chores done. With no need for both of us to stay in the office all day, I told Barb I wanted to take my husband and dog for a ride. Already deep in research on guardianship and conservator duties in Michigan, she wished us well.

Dale was out in the little shop he’d created from Barb’s too-small-for-a-modern-car garage. Like my sisters and me, he grew up in the country, where neighbors help neighbors as a matter of course. It isn’t considered saintly or selfless. It’s simply what people do. When we were kids, if a farmer’s baler broke down, another farmer loaned him his. When a timberman got hurt on the job, people brought food, collected money for medical bills, and took on his chores until he was able to do them again. With that kind of background, Dale would be my willing helper.

Since the accident my husband had limits, but like any proud person, he didn’t like acknowledging them. Stacking Clara’s wood was something he could do, so I figured my mission to help Clara would help him too.

As I explained my proposal, Dale replaced the pull-cord on someone’s snow-blower. “I don’t know if Clara can ever go back home,” I finished, “but if she can, it’ll be hard for her to catch up on the chores before winter hits. I thought we’d do what we can.”

Dale set his wrench in the toolbox with a metallic clunk. “We’ll need work gloves, and I’ll check the weather in case we get rain.”

I often chuckled at Dale’s obsession with weather forecasts. I’d told him a hundred times that rain wasn’t necessarily a reason to hide in the house, but he insisted on knowing if there was the slightest chance we’d get wet on an outing.

Following him into the house, I put on a light flannel, grabbed my car keys, and called, “Want to ride in the car, Buddy?”

A thump indicated my beloved mongrel had jumped down from our bed. Rapid clicks sounded as his nails hit the wood floor of the hallway, and before I could locate my purse, he was waiting by the door. What dog doesn’t know the words
ride
and
car
and respond enthusiastically?

Though he would always be a one-person dog, Buddy and Dale had warmed to each other somewhat over time. Dale had stopped calling him the Hound from Hell, and Buddy had given up trying to keep Dale out of our bedroom. He still didn’t like it when he was banished from the front seat, but today he took it with good grace, only growling once at the seating arrangement. As we left the city limits, Bud checked the view from the right, left, and back windows. When he finished he did it all again, making sure he covered all the bases he was allowed.

October’s bright-blue weather was exhibited in all its glory. I believe Michigan Octobers are a gift God gives us to compensate for Novembers, which tend to be gray with gray accents. Hunters love the eleventh month, but for me, October weather all the way through to April would be fine.

Since the air had warmed from crispy to pleasant, I rolled down the back window of my Escape for the last mile as a treat for Bud. Experts say it’s bad for dogs to stick their heads out a car window, so I didn’t do it all the time. Buddy loved it, though, so I gave him a little “air time” when the weather co-operated. It wasn’t like the wind would damage my hairdo.

We arrived at Clara’s shortly after one. I let Buddy out to investigate the smells of the autumn countryside, and he circled the property, sniffing out critters that had been there before him. Dale and I explored the property, gauging what needed to be done. The woodpile was larger than I remembered, but Dale went right to work, lifting several chunks onto his arm. “Good, seasoned stuff,” he said as he hefted it. “At least the wood guy didn’t cheat the old lady.” Taking another piece he urged, “Check on the chickens. You can help with this afterward.”

Buddy followed me to the chicken pen. The rooster eyed me belligerently, but he hadn’t been aggressive last time, so I figured he was simply playing his role. Though the water fount was still half full, the birds had eaten all the food I left and were scratching at the hard-packed ground for bugs. The dog growled when he saw them, and the chickens muttered among themselves, their heads bobb
ing
in alarm. I spoke firmly to Buddy, who trotted off to the lakeshore, where some Canada geese were gathered. He worked out his aggression by chasing them off, and the clamor they created seemed to please him.

When I opened the gate of the pen with a bucket of feed in one hand, the birds rushed at me, pushing each other out of the way as if they hadn’t eaten in weeks. Though they weren’t as starved as they appeared to be, the empty trough told the story. No one had fed them since I’d been there two days earlier. Not only had Gail Sherman lied to Retta about having done as her aunt asked, Retta’s visit to the realty hadn’t resulted in action on Gail’s part to remedy the situation.

Dale paused his work on the woodpile to call, “How are things in Chicken World?”

“Better now that they’re fed.” Closing the gate I joined him, glancing around as I went. “This place is as neat as a pin.”

“I noticed,” Dale agreed. “I needed a hatchet to lop off some twigs.” He gestured at the nearest shed. “The tools are outlined on a pegboard so they go right back where they came from.”

“Clara claimed she does everything herself.”

Dale frowned. “You’d think if her mind was going we’d see signs of neglect.”

“I know.” We looked the place over again, searching for signs the owner was failing mentally or physically. Finding none, I became even more determined to argue for taking Clara’s case. Barb was looking at things from her usual, logical point of view, but she hadn’t met Clara. I hoped Retta would take my side.

As Dale went back to work on the woodpile, I remembered the heat lamps Clara mentioned. “Should we put heat in the coop so the chickens don’t get their combs frostbitten at night?”

Pausing the rhythmic clink of setting wood into place, Dale considered. “We’ve got no way to turn it on and off, and we wouldn’t want to start a fire.” He glanced at the bright sky. “I think they’ll be okay without it for a while longer. The coop looks tight, and they can huddle together.”

Since Dale’s the weather expert in the family, I nodded. “Okay. I probably should collect the eggs, though. Looks like no one’s done that in a while.” Hunting up a basket, I began opening the little trapdoors at the sides of the chicken coop. By feeling around I located one egg, then another, and so on. In the week Clara had been gone, the chickens had been busy, laying large, light brown eggs. The hens didn’t seem to mind me taking them but kept up their soft cooing sounds as I filled the first basket. I had to dig up a second one to hold them all, and I proudly showed Dale my treasure trove.

“What are you going to do with them?” he asked, bending to pick up more wood. He’d made quite a dent in the pile, and I set the eggs aside and started doing my part.

“I doubt the nursing home can accept undocumented eggs.”

“There’s likely to be a rule against it.” Dale’s tone said what he thought of rules prohibiting people from eating food fresh from the farm.

“I guess we could give them to the niece,” I said, raising my voice to be heard over the clunk of wood hitting wood.

He snorted in response. “If she wanted them, she should have come out and helped herself. Looks like she couldn’t care less if those birds die of starvation.”

I tried to tell myself that Niece Gail might not be as tuned in to the needs of chickens as I was. Still, Clara would have made clear what needed to be done. Did her failure to follow through make Gail guilty of plotting against her aunt, or was she simply a flawed human being who didn’t recognize the needs of other species?

I couldn’t answer that question, but I did make a decision about the eggs. I’d split them with my sisters and count them toward payment of Clara’s bill with the Smart Detectives.

On Friday evenings, Rory and I often went for dinner to a little place out of town. Though many of Allport’s citizens were aware their chief of police dated a local private detective, it was easier if we left the city limits for our dates. That way no one came to our table to complain about the city commissioners’ latest non-decision on the new parking ramp. If he was really fed up, Rory would turn off his cell phone for an hour, trusting that nothing earth-shattering would happen before we finished our meal.

When I spoke of Rory to others, I never knew what to call him. My boyfriend—? lover—? soulmate—? Whatever he was, he looked good when I picked him up at his place. Rory’s American Indian blood showed in his shiny-black hair and dark eyes. His Irish mother’s genes had contributed an impish smile and a tendency for his hair to curl if he let it grow beyond a half inch long. Climbing into my car, he leaned over to kiss me lightly on the cheek. I caught the scent of Irish Spring as I accepted the greeting before pulling away from the curb.

I knew people—my sisters included—talked about us, wondering when we’d “set a date” or move in together. The truth was that neither Rory not I wanted to give up the independent lives we’d carved out for ourselves. There were no marriage plans. There’d be no common household. We understood each other even if no one else did. Still, it was nice to have someone to spend an evening with, someone who cherished the time we spent together. Maybe that was the correct word: Rory was my Someone.

“Any more snitch reports this week?” I asked, picking up on conversations we’d had over the last month. Mayor Dan Rygwelski had received several emails about Rory, and Janet, the city’s secretary, had received several calls about the chief, none of them flattering.

“Yesterday, in fact. Lady Tattletale called to report I took an hour and forty minutes to eat my lunch.”

“She’s timing your lunches now?”

He huffed in disgust. “Apparently she didn’t notice I was taking notes like a college freshman. It was a working lunch with the chief from Clare, discussing how to deal with Halloween pranksters.”

“You’re plotting against Trick-or-Treaters?”

Rory tapped the dashboard absently. “The City Fathers expect us to prevent the more harmful mayhem that comes with America’s current favorite holiday. Chief Jackson and I were comparing methods, so the long lunch was justified.”

“Rory, you don’t take advantage of your position in any way.”

He shifted position on the bench seat. “Someone thinks I do.”

“You have no idea who’s filing these complaints?”

“None, except it’s a woman.” I slowed to make the turn into the restaurant as he went on. “Dan just laughs about it. Janet is disgusted because she’s been told she can’t argue with the caller. So far, it’s a joke to them.”

I didn’t find it funny. “But you work so hard. To not be able to confront your accuser is the worst kind of injustice.” Pulling into a parking space and shifting into park, I turned toward him. “Can you trace the calls or track down the source of the emails?”

He shrugged. “The woman knows technology. It would take more resources than we’ve got in a small city police force.”

“Why don’t you bring in the state police?”

He spread his hands. “For some loon who makes up stories? It would be embarrassing, not to mention overkill.”

“Maybe Lars would look into it.” When Lars Johannsen, an FBI agent from New Mexico, helped with a recent case, he and Rory had become friends. Lars and Retta had become…close friends.

“I’d feel silly asking.” Rory looked out the window at the darkening woods opposite the lights of the inn. “We’ll just hope she gets tired of picking on me and moves on to someone else.”

The restaurant was dimly lit and smelled of prime rib. Sounds of clinking silverware were softened by the violins and cellos of classical music. Once we were seated, I ordered from the light menu, as usual, and Rory had the beef with mashed potatoes and gravy. He’d have dessert too, probably tiramisu, while I sipped at a second cup of tea. Such is the metabolism of the over-fifty woman.

As we ate, I described our visit to Sweet Springs and Faye’s fondness for Clara Knight. Rory’s interest was piqued. “I haven’t been out there,” he said, “but the fire marshal mentioned it this week.”

“The fire marshal?”

“I sat next to him at a county-wide meeting, and he mentioned he’s investigating a fire out there. These people had just built a big new house on the lake, and then it burned down. He felt bad about it because the fire was suspicious, which means the owners probably won’t collect a cent.”

I recalled the property we’d stopped at across the springs from the Knight place. “Insurance won’t pay if it’s ruled the fire was set?”

“There’s an arson clause in their policy—pretty common, I guess.” Rory tasted the coleslaw he’d been given and took a second, larger bite. “Ray says the couple had sunk a lot of money into the place.”

“So it wouldn’t make sense for them to burn it down.”

He took a roll from the fragrant basket the waitress had left at the center of the table. I considered having one but decided against it. “If they’re telling the truth, nobody benefits from the crime. So Ray’s asking himself why someone would torch a newly-built home out in the boondocks.”

“A pyromaniac? Teenagers looking for a thrill? Someone who was angry at the owners?”

Rory nodded. “He passed all those theories on to the state police.”

Our main dishes arrived and the conversation went on to other things, but the arson on Sweet Springs stuck in my mind. An old lady claimed she’d been forced into a nursing home. A family had lost a structure to a suspicious fire. An old man had fallen to his death. One lake and three property owners in trouble. A series of odd, unfortunate events.

Around midnight, I let myself into the house, using the front door to avoid disturbing Faye and Dale, who occupy the back two-thirds of the ground floor. Slipping off my shoes, I climbed the stairs to my comfortable apartment.

When I entered my bedroom, frenzied scratching sounded at the window screen. Dropping my shoes into a corner, I hurried to the window and slid it open. The cat—
my
cat, I’d begun thinking of her—waited outside, her green eyes wide with anger. Accustomed in the last few months to being fed around eight, she was letting me know that four hours late wasn’t acceptable.

“Not to worry,” I told her softly. “I know you prefer fresh food, so I brought you some of my dinner.”

Sliding the screen aside, I set a piece of chicken on the window sill. The cat lunged for it, her head shaking as she tore off bits and swallowed them. I reached out to scratch her ears, which didn’t slow her enjoyment of the meal one bit. Her fur was matted and snarled, but experience had taught me that attempts to detangle it weren’t welcome. She wouldn’t come inside, and she tolerated only one or two strokes before growling to signal it was enough. No sloppy sentimentality for this feline. Our deal was food in exchange for the honor of a nightly visit.

I’d come to anticipate those visits as if they were gifts.

As girls on the farm, we’d had lots of pets: cats, dogs, cows, pigs, even geese. When I left Michigan to practice law on the West Coast, there had never seemed to be a right time to get a pet. Apartments didn’t allow them, and my days were packed with busy-ness. Animals aren’t meant to be left alone in an apartment all day long. I convinced myself I wasn’t a pet person.

But this cat had arrived in a new chapter of my life. Settled into my Victorian home on a side street in Allport, I was less hurried these days. When we met, the cat had been hungry, wild, and afraid of everything. Over time I’d provided food and, gradually, affection. Beginning with encouraging sounds, I’d moved to light touches on her head as she ate. We’d come to the point where she sometimes allowed me to stroke all the way down her back, with a little squeeze along her spine that made her twitch with pleasure—at least until she remembered how tough she was. She’d come to trust me a little, and I enjoyed the feeling.

“Sorry I was so late, Brat,” I told her softly. I needed to choose a better name for her, but so far nothing better had come to mind. She was a brat, and I liked her that way.

“I owe you a kitty treat, since you had to wait for your supper.”

To remind me who was in control, the cat left while I went to get the bag.