Sleuthing at Sweet Springs (The Sleuth Sisters Mysteries Book 4) (18 page)

Since Lars’ arrival was a surprise for Retta, and since Retta has radar that picks up almost everything that goes on in Allport, we’d decided Lars would stay at Rory’s cabin Friday night. From what Rory told me, it sounded like they’d planned Lars’ one-night stay like ten-year-olds in a backyard tent. In order to get the place ready, Rory and I drove out on Friday afternoon with enough supplies to get the Donner party out of trouble.

The roads became smaller and narrower as we headed for Rory’s little piece of heaven, but at least we didn’t have to travel by snowmobile, as we had the first time I visited. The drive was pleasant, evoking the sense we’d left the world behind. Modern structures gradually disappeared, and we saw only a few hunting camps, most of them deserted. The trees were bright with color, and because the road wasn’t plowed in winter, they grew closer to the road, creating the illusion of traveling through a worm-hole to another dimension. I turned my cell phone off, since there was no reliable signal anyway. Rory and I were truly by ourselves.

Those who know me well might have been surprised to learn I spent time in a primitive cabin where meals were made over an open fire and an outhouse took the place of a real bathroom. It sometimes surprised me too, but I’d come to enjoy the quiet, the complete darkness at night, and the visits from deer, raccoons and other animals that regarded us gravely when we turned a light on them and then went back to what they were doing. At night the coyotes howled, far away and mournful, and I learned to sleep through the sound as I had learned to sleep through sirens in my years in the city.

The cabin sat along a river, below the road as it passed along a ridge. There was no place for a driveway, so we parked in the trees and made our way down a steep incline to reach the front door. We each took a load of groceries, but Rory said he’d fetch the rest after he got a fire going. My job would be to organize what we’d brought.

Entering brought the scent of wood smoke to my nose, and beyond that, dust. The structure was one room, no more than thirty by thirty, but it was tightly-built and had everything Rory wanted in a getaway. A fieldstone fireplace took up the center of one wall, and a wood box beside it held the makings of a fire.

Rory planned to cook what he called “linner,” a meal halfway between lunch and dinner, for the two of us. “Once the fire takes hold,” he said as he wadded paper for tinder, “we’ll go for a walk while the place warms up. By the time we get back the heat will be just right for cooking pork steaks.”

On the wall opposite the fireplace was a pump, which Rory had put into working order. Clean, in fact, very good water was available with a little effort on the handle. In the back corner was a bed with an iron frame and a comfortable mattress. It had replaced a fold-down wooden bunk on the other end of the comfort scale.

The center of the room held a small dining table with four chairs, an addition I was particularly proud of. Driving past the Salvation Army Red Store one day last summer, I’d seen it sitting outside and stopped. It was the right size, the chairs matched—though their seats were tattered—and the price wasn’t bad. I’d bought the set, asked Faye to recover the seats, and presented it to Rory as a birthday gift.

The rest of the cabin’s wall space was taken up with shelving, mostly cupboards. I sometimes chuckled at the things Rory had hauled out to the cabin “in case,” things like extra socks and empty plastic bowls. If I hadn’t known better, I might have imagined we were hundreds of miles from civilization.

The cabin’s interior was colder than the air outside, which had dropped into the twenties, so the fire would be welcome. Rory set the crumpled newspaper in place and stacked kindling atop it, thin, dry wood that would burn easily. Using a grill lighter, he set the pile on fire. When the kindling started to crackle and turn black, he put two small logs on top. Soon the pungent odor of fresh smoke overlaid the stale smell of older fires.

Watching him work pleased me, bringing back memories of my father lighting our old wood-burning stove to provide extra warmth on the coldest nights of winter.

As the fire strengthened, Rory went to the truck for the rest of his purchases and I turned to stowing the supplies. Aside from the things kept in coolers outside the cabin, food items were stored in a metal cabinet with a strong latch, to keep out the critters. Rory was careful to see that no food was left out, no crumbs scattered around. “One or two little guests will get in no matter what we do,” he acknowledged, “but if they find something to eat, they invite all their friends and family to join them.”

In late spring, Rory and I had installed a new window to replace the one broken in a struggle with men who’d meant to kill us. Rory and Lars had done more work recently, so I was treated to a tour of the renovations. New to me was a quaint apparatus in the corner next to the fireplace, framed with two by fours. On an overhead shelf sat a large, collapsible plastic bag with a hose and shower head attached. Rory explained we could heat water, transfer it to the bag, and enjoy warm showers. Peering through a plastic curtain hung across the space, I saw a drain in the floor.

“Primitive, but it works.”

“Well done, Ranger Neuencamp. I can’t wait to try it.”

“Lars helped with the base, which weighs a ton. And he rigged the curtain for privacy.”

Once we’d stored the provisions, we went for a walk along the river, which wasn’t much of a river at this point. Still, the stream made a happy little sound as it hurried along its way. On the shady side, ice had begun to build at the turns, so thin it was merely a glaze hanging above the water.

We let the quiet settle on our heads like a comforting blanket. Rory claimed his blood pressure dropped twenty points each time he came here, and I believed him.

There was no path along the stream, and after a half mile or so, the way got difficult. We had to step over twisted branches and skirt swampy spots, and our hiking boots made sucking sounds as the half-frozen, half viscous muck worked to pull them off our feet. Finally, thick undergrowth forced us to turn around and head back the way we’d come. “It’s time to make linner anyway,” Rory said. “We’ve got just enough time to dine before we have to get back to town and meet Lars at the airport.”

As Rory prepared our meal in a skillet over the fire, we turned to talk of the day’s events. Gail Sherman’s autopsy wasn’t complete, but preliminary reports indicated her head wound contained wood splinters. “The doc says she might have hit the one of the pilings on Clara’s dock.”

“Which means—?”

He shrugged. “Maybe she was in a hurry and caught the heel of her shoe, which was too high for walking around on a dock safely. She fell, striking her head as she stumbled into the water.”

“And if she didn’t stumble?”

He knew where I was going. “Then someone pushed her.”

“Is it similar to what happened to Caleb Marsh?”

He nodded. “Both deaths are conceivably accidents, but my guess is they’re a little too convenient for you.”

“Don’t you agree?”

“I do. It’s just that it’s going to be hard to prove.” He turned the meat with a fork the length of a yardstick. “If Marsh was murdered, Gail is your number one suspect.”

“She wanted his property. She went right to the heirs and offered to buy it.”

Using his shirt-tail as a pot-holder, Rory removed the skillet from the fire. “Well, she’s dead now. If Marsh was pushed, Gail probably did the pushing.”

“I don’t know about that.” I readied the plates, one in each hand, and Rory speared the meat onto them then took up a can of beans he’d set at the side of the fire to warm. He poured a serving onto each plate, and we retreated to the table to eat our meal. “I met Gail Sherman, and while I would never say who could or could not be a murderer, I doubt she cold-bloodedly pushed an old man she’d known all her life to his death. She struck me as the kind of person who might advocate bombing unknown people in a foreign country with some vague idea that they’re her enemies. That doesn’t mean she could look someone in the eye and murder him.”

“Just about anyone can kill in a fit of anger,” Rory argued. “If the old guy refused her offer once too often, or if he ordered her off his land, she might have lost it.”

“True. But the fact that Gail is now dead, also pushed, indicates there’s another person involved, someone who stayed out of the spotlight while Gail did her part.”

“Buying the properties.”

“Right.”

“But she hadn’t finished.”

“No.” I took a drink of the icy water Rory had provided from the hand pump. “What if Gail didn’t know there’d be murder and arson involved? What if she thought they were going to quietly buy up the land over the next year or two by negotiating with Marsh and the Warners?”

“You think she was greedy but not necessarily homicidal.”

“Right. I can see her justifying what she did to Clara, telling herself it was necessary.” Taking a bite of perfectly done meat, I chewed before going on. “Gail might have believed the fire was an accident, but when the old man died so conveniently, she’d have to have been suspicious. She calls her partner and says, ‘We need to talk.’ He arranges to meet her at Clara’s house and kills her when she refuses to be part of the scheme anymore.”

Rory sighed. “You make a good case, but again, the only provable case is against Gail, who’s dead.”

“Once we find out who the partner is, we can set about proving it.”

We’d finished our meal, and I cleaned up while Rory banked the fire. Since he hadn’t volunteered the information, I brought up the anonymous calls and emails. A shadow crossed his eyes, and I saw that what had been a joke was now something else. “She’s accused me of sexual harassment.”

I was so shocked I couldn’t respond for a moment. I knew “she” was two people, but I wasn’t ready to let Rory know I’d taken up his cause. Old-fashioned in some ways, I was afraid he wouldn’t approve of his girlfriend defending him, and he’d certainly object to Cramer’s method of learning Gager’s identity.

“No one who knows you will take that allegation seriously.”

He sighed. “But they still have to investigate it.”

“Tell me what was said.”

“The complaint is that I man-handled a couple of women we had in the lockup—” He paused before finishing, “—in a sexually inappropriate way.”

“Do these women support the claim?”

“Not so far, but what if one or the other realizes the crime she’s charged with could be dismissed if I did something wrong?”

“But it isn’t true.”

He grimaced. “You know I take a shift sometimes. We’re always short-handed, and it does any boss good to do once in a while what his staff does every day.”

I nodded. “It’s easy to forget what it’s like in the trenches, no matter what the organization.”

“Well, I arrested a woman who keyed her boyfriend’s car, and according to our caller, I groped her in the process. The other woman was in lockup when I got to work. The state police got an email claiming I offered to drop the charges in return for sexual favors.” His eyes had turned even darker.

I wanted to put my arm around him, touch the rough fabric of his shirt, and tell him things would work out, but I sensed it wasn’t the right time. I let him finish in his own way. “Of course they sent a detective to interview the women. He kept it general, asking if anything unusual had happened during their recent encounter with the Allport police.” Rory’s tone was matter-of-fact, but I could see it was killing him to say it aloud. “One woman said no right away, but the other one, the car-keyer, played it a little, trying to find out what the detective was talking about.”

“Smart enough to see an advantage in spinning a story.”

“She stopped short of making specific charges, and she blew a .13, so her word is suspect.” He stared into the fire. “But I was the arresting officer, so she knew who they were looking at.”

I was so upset by the situation that I hardly noticed Rory’s misuse of
who
for
whom
.

When we’d finished eating, we swept the cobwebs out of the cabin’s corners, which always made me sneeze. Dust never gets completely removed from cabins; it only rises briefly during cleaning then falls back into place.

That done, we drove back into town to meet Lars. Allport’s version of an air-travel hub didn’t require an early arrival or fighting our way through a crowd. There was only one gate and seldom more than half a dozen people waiting for an arriving flight. The same person took tickets, checked passengers at boarding, and answered the phone. One became quite well acquainted with her over the course of a single trip.

We watched the little plane land and saw four people exit before it turned around and taxied away, headed for its next drop-off point. Lars entered the terminal with a carry-on slung over his shoulder. Beside him walked an elderly woman who was telling him something that required wide gestures. He smiled politely, waited until she’d finished her story, and touched her arm in farewell. She stood smiling after him as he approached us, clearly impressed with the nice “young man.”

Lars did look good. Though I knew he was fifty, he might have passed for forty. Between his Scandinavian heritage and the fitness required by his profession, he made female hearts flutter, Retta’s included. She just forgot sometimes how much she liked Lars. The woman had a short attention span.