Sleuthing at Sweet Springs (The Sleuth Sisters Mysteries Book 4) (15 page)

***

Rick was waiting when I got to the Southside Club. He rose to take my coat, telling me I looked beautiful and audibly sniffing my perfume as he leaned over to push in my chair. I ordered a glass of wine, while he asked for a refill on his gin and tonic. I also ordered deep-fried mushrooms to serve as my supper. Someone nearby had some, and the nutty, oily smell reminded me I was hungry.

“Did all go well at your business meeting?” Rick asked.

“I think so.” I knew better than to tell who I’d met with, so I left it at that.

“Is your detective agency pretty active?”

I shrugged. “We stay busy.”

“Lots of little old ladies who’ve lost their cats?”

Uncomfortable, I lowered my eyes to the tabletop. “We’ve solved a couple of murders, found a person who was missing for years, stopped drug dealers from killing an innocent man, and prevented a terrorist attack on Mackinac Island.”

“Really.” Now his tone irritated me. “The police didn’t have anything to do with it?”

“I didn’t say that. We work with the police, and I think they respect our skills as much as we respect theirs.”

“That’s cool.” Rick had picked up on something in my tone, and he switched topics. “What do people do around here in the wintertime, when all the tourists go home?”

“I like to snowmobile,” I replied.

He made a mock shiver. “Don’t you get cold?”

“Not if you dress for it, and it’s really beautiful out in the woods.” An image of Lars piloting my spare sled came to mind. Despite the fact that he’d lived in a warm climate most of his life, he’d taken to snow and riding the trails like he was born to it. When we weren’t being shot at, Lars and I had a great time on the trails together.

The ice in Rick’s drink clinked as he took a sip. “I’ll have to come back in January and let you introduce me to the sport.”

“I’d be glad to,” I responded, “but what if your house sells? You won’t have a place to stay.”

“Maybe I’ll have a friend I can bunk with by then.” The message was clear, and I lowered my eyes demurely. This thing—if it was going to become a thing—would proceed on my timetable, not Rick’s.

Once again aware that a shift was required, he asked, “So what’s with your sister and the local cop?”

“Rory? They’re enough alike that they make a good pair.”

“Meaning he’s not very warm and fuzzy either?”

He had Barbara Ann pegged. “That about sums it up.”

“I suppose they trade information on crimes and stuff.”

“When it’s appropriate.” I had to giggle. “Barbara Ann never does anything that isn’t appropriate.”

That was when the fight broke out. I didn’t see it coming, but we learned later what led up to it. Colin Belknap is a regular at the Southside. He usually doesn’t bother anyone, just drinks himself into a stupor every night. Since he lost his driver’s license and his wife long ago, he stumbles the few blocks back to his home several nights a week after midnight, no threat to anyone but himself. Clem Hiller, also a big drinker, sat next to Colin at the bar that night. Clem’s name is actually Ronald, but he resembles a character created by Red Skelton decades ago, Clem Kadiddlehopper, so hardly anyone calls him Ron.

The argument had to do with stock car racing and a new rule put into place to protect drivers. Their disagreement led to a shove and then to punches. A well-placed blow from Colin sent Clem stumbling backward, where he smacked into our table, skidded across it like he was on an ice rink, and landed with a grunt of surprise on the floor on the other side. In passing, his steel-toed boot caught Rick on the chin, splitting it open like a squeezed grape.

“Oh, my god!” Rick shouted as blood dripped onto the table. “Oh, my god!”

The barmaid bellowed like an angry elk at the two brawlers, and the fight, such as it was, was over. Picking himself up from the floor, Clem leaned toward Rick, peering through the haze in his head. “That looks bad, man. You better put pressure on it.”

Colin came over and stood beside Clem. “Here, buddy.” He offered a dingy handkerchief, but I had already grabbed some napkins from the bar.

“Are you all right, Rick?”

“No, I’m not all right. I’m bleeding.” His tone was nasty, but I knew he wasn’t mad at me. Nobody expects to be sweet-talking one minute and dripping hemoglobin the next.

Needless to say, our romantic evening was over. After accompanying Rick to the ER and waiting while he got three stitches, I drove him home. The officers who responded to the bartender’s call had recognized me, and they couldn’t have been nicer. After they put Colin in the cruiser and sent Clem home with a sober friend, they offered to drop Rick’s car off at his house. When we got there the keys were in the mailbox, as promised.

I saw Rick inside and created an ice pack out of a zipper bag and some freezer-burnt green beans I found in the fridge. Once that was done, I left him sprawled on his couch. He hardly noticed when I closed the door. All the romance had gone out of him, and Rick was just a guy with a big old boo-boo.

I drove back toward town, but the to-do at the bar, the police siren, and the whole emergency room experience had left my ears ringing and my eyes seeing spots. I doubted I’d be able to get to sleep when I got home, so I drove around for a while to relax a littel. Passing the development where the Landons lived, I turned in on a whim. Night made everything look different, and it was fun to speculate on why the lights were on in one house but not in another.

The sidewalks were empty, which made sense on a cool night in a place like Huron Delight. People had already walked their dogs, put out the trash, and done the yard work. The hours after ten were for being inside, watching TV or surfing the net.

I didn’t intentionally turned down the Landons’ street—or maybe I did and didn’t recognize my own curiosity. I slowed when I came to their house, noting a single light in an upstairs room, a flickering blue that was probably a TV.

As I passed, I noticed there was someone out, a young man with what appeared to be a scraggly beard. It was hard to tell, because his face was buried in the deep hood of his jacket. His outfit was pretty much black with black, jeans, jacket, shoes, the works. He was walking in a hurried, hunched manner, and when he saw me he stopped. After a second he dug in his pockets and came up with cigarettes and a lighter. I’d come almost to a stop, but I realized I couldn’t just sit there staring. As I passed, he turned away, apparently to block the wind as he lit his cigarette. I got the impression of youth, some homeowner’s teenaged son, perhaps, who’d sneaked out at night to smoke. I went around the block and came back to try to get a better look, but he was gone.

When I first retired to Allport, my walks had been solitary and always early in the day. Though I still liked a brisk walk in the cool (sometimes cold) of morning, Rory and I had begun meeting after his shift ended on Wednesdays and Fridays at a small park just north of town, where we walked the lakeshore together. We’d fallen into a pattern of pushing it on the way out to get our metabolism up then taking it easy on the way back so we could talk. Afterward we sometimes spent the evening together; other times we returned to our separate homes.

I told Rory Faye’s theory about the events on Sweet Springs. “It’s troubling,” I told him as we traced the water’s edge, “I hate to upset the Marsh family, but if there’s a possibility that old man didn’t die by accident, I want to know about it.”

One of the most lovable things about Rory was that he trusted my judgment, possibly because of my years of experience as an assistant District Attorney. If I said something needed looking into, he took it seriously. “I’ll ask Doc Cortman about it,” he offered.

“Thank you.”

He put an arm around my shoulders. “Anything for a friend.”

***

The next day Rory called to report his findings. “The medical examiner can only say for sure that Mr. Marsh died from the fall.”

I sighed. “I was afraid of that.”

“However,” Rory sounded pleased with himself, “the sheriff’s men found evidence that someone was at Marsh’s place that morning, after the rain but before your arrival.”

“Evidence?”

“There was a muddy footprint on the bottom step of the front porch. According to your statements, none of you went to the door, and the print is smaller than Marsh’s.”

“That means someone might have been with him—”

“
Might
is the operative term. Someone might also have come to the door, knocked, and when there was no answer, left.”

“Marsh could already have been dead at that point.”

“What you’ve told me suggests another possibility.” I heard Rory’s chair squeak as he went on. “Someone could have knocked and gotten the old man to go outside with him.”

“Telling Marsh there’s something he should see on the lake.”

“Maybe. When they get to the back of the house, he pushes Marsh down the steps. Once he makes sure Marsh is dead, he erases his footprints, at least most of them, and leaves.”

Realizing we had nothing to prove any of that, we sat silent for a few seconds. “Pure speculation,” I finally said.

“And the M.E. ruled the death was accidental.”

“An elderly man, slippery steps. Simple answer.”

“Unless you look at what’s happening on the other properties on Sweet Springs.” I heard Rory sigh. “Should I talk to the sheriff, or will you?”

“He’ll listen to you sooner than he will to me.” When he made a sound of objection, I said, “It’s a fact of life, Rory. You’re a fellow cop and you’re male. Right now it only matters that he pays attention to what we have to say.”

Diane and Jolie were waiting in the driveway when I arrived Thursday morning. The day was overcast but not cold, and Diane looked darling in black leggings, a long, burgundy tunic-type sweater, and a matching hat and scarf in pink. Most of the time I don’t mind being petite, but when I see a woman with legs that long, I get a little envious. Tunics make me look like one of the seven dwarves.

I got out of the car and made doggie introductions. Styx was a perfect gentleman. He sniffed, of course—dogs do that—but otherwise he was as sweet as he could be. Jolie responded well, making little hound-sounds of joy and excitement.

I showed our new friends several spots that had walking paths, explaining the advantages of each. “This one’s usually deserted in the daytime,” I said at the county park, and at the sports pavilion, “This one’s plowed all winter, at least by noon.”

The last place I took them was the trail along the river. “There are three loops,” I told Diane. “The first one follows the bank for a while then turns into a stand of pine trees so big you’ll feel like you’re lost in a forest. The two longer ones cross a bridge to a small island. One circles the edge and returns; the other crosses to the opposite side then follows the bank to the bridge where we turned off the highway. Those trails take a while, at least two hours for one and closer to three for the other.”

We took the short trail. Enough leaves had fallen that our passage was noisy with the swish-swish of our feet pushing through. The dogs found plenty of interest in the squirrels that scooted along the path or scampered up nearby trees. We kept them on their leashes, since it was new territory for Jolie. Styx understood, though he shot me a mournful look when a squirrel darted across his path and he couldn’t chase after it.

Diane and I chatted amiably about Allport, finding decent stores (We agreed there wasn’t much worthwhile shopping), locating a decent dentist (I recommended mine), and getting a Michigan driver’s license. She wasn’t very political; in fact, she had no idea who most of the candidates were. Her biggest interest seemed to be celebrities—who was having whose baby. Now I keep up, so that was okay with me, but I couldn’t help but think what Barbara would say about the lack of depth exhibited by the wife of a man as brilliant and educated as Landon.

Diane did have some interesting things to say about Stanley Wozniak. As we talked about their decision to relocate Diane said, “Mr. Wozniak was determined to get Enright up here. It would have been hard to turn down his very generous offer.”

“Stanley has to pay well, because he’s a little hard to work for,” I said. “It’s good that your husband has an even temperament and doesn’t mind working a lot of hours.”

“That part’s a pain,” she agreed, “but we like it here so far.” Digging in her jacket pocket, Diane took out a pack of cigarettes. “I apologize, but I’ve been wanting a smoke all day. En thinks I quit, and his nose is every bit as good as Jolie’s when it comes to smoke in the house, so I have to sneak in my ciggies.” She gave me an impish grin. “I can count on you not to tell, right?”

“Sure.” She lit up, sucked in smoke, and smiled faintly at the rush it provided. It reminded me of when Faye was a smoker and how I used to worry about her health. I decided Enright must really care about Diane, because nagging our loved ones into quitting that nasty habit is the best thing we can do for them.

“Tell me how you and Enright met. He seems too shy to have ever asked a woman out on a date.”

“Oh, he knows what he wants when it matters,” Diane said cryptically. Gesturing around us she went on, “Imagine a place the exact opposite of this—a factory with gray walls stuffed with noisy conveyer belts that shake the whole place. I spent eight hours a day checking seals on bottles that passed by.” She made a disdainful click with her tongue. “Not rocket science, trust me.”

“But Cinderella dreamed of going to the ball.”

She chuckled. “I sure did. I’d look up to the admin section and think, ‘What have those people got that I haven’t got?’”

“And the answer was—?”

Her voice was light. “Brains. Education. Class.”

Truth shone through her light tone, and I felt sorry for her. “I think you’re very classy.”

Tossing the cigarette butt to the ground, she crushed it with her toe. “You didn’t see me back then. I was hopeless!”

Though Enright had brains and education, he couldn’t be considered classy. Still, I imagined him visiting the factory floor, seeing the lovely Diane, and being smitten. Had she settled for brains, education, and no class because she wanted so badly to have the life she’d always dreamed about?

Since she didn’t pick up the butt, I stooped to retrieve it, wrapping it in a tissue and stuffing it into my pocket for disposal later. “Enright must have seen something in you.”

Diane wasn’t one to kid herself. “What does a man see in a woman?” She glanced at me sideways. “I know people make nasty comments about trophy wives and gold-diggers, but if our marriage works for us, what business is it of theirs?”

Jolie strained at the leash, pulling Diane ahead a step. So the lovely worker bee had set her cap for the shy but well-paid engineer, just like in a romance novel. How had it worked out for them? Diane might be a little bored in this new location with her husband gone so much, but she didn’t seem unhappy. She had a lovely home and beautiful clothes. Having seen how Enright brought take-out food so she didn’t have to cook, I guessed he was putty in his attractive wife’s hands. The marriage might not be based on mutual passion or traditional love, but Diane was correct: a match is a match if it works for those involved.

Diane’s phone sang a few bars of Kanye West, and she answered. “Hey, babe. How are things?”

Listening for a few seconds, she said, “That’s all right.” She rolled her eyes at me. “Just bring home something great for dinner. You know I’m not about to cook.”

She put the phone in her pocket. “Working late again. What a surprise.” She sounded resigned but not angry.

We walked on for a while. “I assume when you and Enright married, your career in water bottling came to an end.”

Diane shivered delicately. “En didn’t want me to ever go back to that place.” She curled her lips under her teeth for a moment before adding, “He didn’t even want me to hang around with the girls I used to work with. He said women with nose rings and tats are poor examples of the feminine ideal.”

I tried to imagine Don telling me who I could hang around with. “If they were your friends, why did he care?”

“En said I should make new ones.” She must have seen disapproval on my face, because she added, “That was another reason it was better we moved away and got a fresh start.”

“From what he said last night, I gather your husband doesn’t approve of the bottled water industry.”

She shook her head. “He says it’s ridiculous.”

“So he’s happier working at WOZ.”

“Happy?” She gave me a wry look. “Does En look like a guy who understands happiness? He’s all about science.”

Unsure if that was a criticism or simply a statement of fact, I said, “I guess that’s good, because the EPA and the state of Michigan are interested in how WOZ treats the lakeshore.”

“It sounds to me like he’s doing different work with the same result.” With a jerk on the leash, she pulled Jolie away from a discarded hot dog bun. “I think it’s all as dull as science.”