Deadly Row to Hoe (5 page)

Eight

I called Barr while
Meghan went into her office to go through her files hoping to recognize a name that would go with the picture. He didn’t answer—probably in the middle of interviewing that potential detective—so I left the information about the ornithology connection on his voicemail. “Sorry, no name yet, though. I’m still planning to go out to the farm and talk to the members. Call me when you get a chance.”

Frustrated, I cleaned up the kitchen and did the breakfast dishes. How could I find out who the bird lady was? Search online for “Washington State ornithologist”? Well, it couldn’t hurt.

“Hey, Sophie Mae! How’s it going?”

I turned to find Cyan Waters standing in the doorway at the top of the stairs that led down to the basement. Several months previously I’d given her a key to the back door, which greatly simplified the way we coordinated our schedules. She wore blue shorts and a T-shirt that said Smile—It’s Free. Kalie hovered on the step behind her.

“Hey, yourself. Is it eight already?” I shot a glance at the clock. Sure enough, straight up eight.

“Yep. Whatcha got for us today?”

“Lip balms and foot scrub. Hi, Kalie.”

The thin, quiet brunette behind Cyan sketched a shy wave. “Hi.”

“How many?” Cyan asked, bouncing on the balls of her feet.

“Half a gross of lemon lip balms and half a gross of cinnamon. Sixty jars of peppermint foot scrub. And do me a favor? Put the
pickup
sign out front so UPS Joe knows to stop. I put all the outgoing boxes by the back door. Oh, and here’s his usual bribe.” I dropped three oatmeal cookies in a bag and held it out to her. UPS Joe liked sweet treats, and I liked not having to haul boxes out to the front of the house.

“Okey dokey.” She grabbed the bag with a grin and turned to go back downstairs. Kalie had already disappeared from view.

“I’ll be down in a sec to get you started.”

She turned back. “That’s okay. I mean, unless you’ve got something else you’re working on, we can take care of the lip balms and scrub. No problem.”

I hesitated, doing battle with my inner control freak. She didn’t really need supervision for everyday production. Heck, once she’d run Winding Road for a whole week by herself.

“Thanks, Cyan. And I love your hair. When did you do that?”

She grinned. “Yesterday. Thanks!”

“That was the color of my wedding gown, you know.”

“No kidding? Cool!” And with a toss of her aubergine locks she clattered down the stairs.

She was my right-hand woman when it came to Winding Road.
Efficient, effective, and a hard worker, she could do pretty much everything except the books. And did. She’d even suggested I hire
Kalie, who, though she was timid, worked hard and did a good job.

I finished mopping up after the pancakes I’d missed out on and went upstairs to take a shower.

_____

“Any luck?” I asked my housemate.

My online search had netted me a big fat nothing. The Washington State Ornithological Society had photos but no member list. None of the birders looked like our dead woman. There was no guarantee she would have joined the society anyway, but at least it was an avenue Barr or Sergeant Zahn could follow up if I didn’t have any luck determining the identity of the compost, er, bird lady.

Meghan looked up from where she hunched over her desk. “I skimmed my files from four and five years ago, hoping the name alone would spark a memory, but it didn’t.”

“Do you think Erin could be wrong?”

She shrugged. “I’d wonder if I didn’t remember the woman at all. But that kid has practically got a photographic memory, and I do recall that face. Sort of. Now I’m going through each file one by one to see if I can remember any particular physical complaints.”

“That’s good,” I said. “But let’s put that on hold. I have another idea.”

She sat back and waited.

“I want to show everyone two photos.”

She raised her eyebrows in question.

“You said the bird lady looked a lot different four-five years ago, right?”

“Uh, huh.”

“And you haven’t run into her since then.”

She grimaced.

“Alive, I mean.”

“No. Not to the best of my knowledge.”

“So maybe she lived in the area, left, and then came back. Maybe Jake or Bette knew her then, too. Maybe even Ruth. However, like you, they didn’t recognize her because she looks different. What we need is another photo that shows what she looked like then.”

She nodded. “Okay. But where do you propose getting the new photo?”

“From Bette Anders.” Our friend Bette, the potter, made a decent living with her clay artistry, having built a good name and loyal clientele. “She was at the farm when you found the body, and Barr showed her the autopsy photo last night. So we wouldn’t inadvertently compromise the investigation if we asked for her help,” I said.

Meghan had changed into a coral-toned calico dress that set off her eyes, and now she leaned back in her chair and smoothed the skirt. “I still don’t get it.”

“You know those clay masks she sculpts? She told me she uses facial manipulation software to work out ideas, since the masks are based on photos of real people. See, I want to scan this picture—” I waved the one in my hand. “—so we have a digital copy. Then take it to Bette and have her use her whippy software to change the face to reflect the way your bird lady looked four years ago.”

She looked skeptical. “That sounds like a lot of trouble.”

“Meghan, I really, really want to find out who she was. I’m willing to try anything.”

Her head tipped to one side. “All right. Go for it. I don’t have a client for a few hours, so I’ll continue to plod through these.” She waved at the stack of folders on one side of her desk. “That way we’ll be coming at the problem from two fronts.”

For someone who was dead set against my getting involved, my housemate was pretty willing to get involved her own self. Interesting.

“I like your thinking except for one problem,” I said.

“What?”

“I don’t know what she used to look like. You do. You have to come with me to give Bette some direction.”

“Hmm.” The idea didn’t please her, but then she seemed to make a decision. “Well, I don’t even know what I’m looking for here. Nothing seems to be jogging my memory.” She closed the file that was open on her desk. “When do you want to go?”

“She’s an early riser. I bet she’s hard at work now. I’ll give her a call.”

“Are you sure you should interrupt her?”

“I wouldn’t bother her if it weren’t for a good cause,” I said. “And I saw her face at the farm yesterday. She was horrified. I bet she’ll be happy to help.”

At least I hoped so.

_____

The phone rang five times before Bette picked up. I apologized for calling so early.

“No problem,” she said. “You know me. I’ve been up for hours.”

“Well, I’m about to interrupt your morning even more, if you’ll
let me.”

“Egg delivery?” Bette was one of Erin’s regular customers.

“No. I mean, sure, I can bring over a dozen if you want them, but I’m in need of a favor. You know that software you told me about a while back? Where you can manipulate facial features?”

“… yeah.”

“I was hoping you might perform some of your magic on a photo for me.”

“Um, sure. When were you thinking—”

“How about right now? Meghan and I can be there in five minutes.”

“Uh, okay …”

“Great! See you in a few.”

She was saying goodbye as I hung up. Dang it, Kelly was right. This investigating stuff was kind of exciting. I didn’t dare hope this little scheme would work though.

Oh, poo, I thought as I went downstairs. I did too hope it would work. After quickly checking in on the girls—who had already finished pouring the lemon lip balms and had moved on to melting beeswax for the cinnamon ones—I scanned the picture into the computer in my workroom. Then I copied it to a flash drive, shut off the monitor, and went back up to the kitchen.

“Meghan!” I slipped the drive into my pocket. “Are you ready?”

_____

Bette lived alone in the middle of the next block on our street. Well, alone except for Alexander, her German shepherd. He sat on the front porch, regal and still as a stone as we entered through the gate and closed it behind us. It wasn’t until we reached the bottom step that his jaws stretched in a wide yawn, ending in a toothy grin. Rising, his brushy tail swept back and forth a few times before he trotted down to greet Brodie. Old friends, they nosed each other. Then Alexander ducked down on his forepaws, his behind in the air, an invitation to play. Brodie let out a yip and ran at him, ready to give it a go despite his creaky old joints.

Moments later Bette appeared on the other side of the screen door, wiping her hands on a rag. “Hey, you two. Come on in.”

We left Brodie in the fenced yard with Alexander. Inside, I held out the dozen eggs I’d remembered to grab from the fridge at the last minute. She took them with a smile. “Thanks! Let me get my wallet.” Her deep voice resonated in the tiny entryway.

I waved her offer of money away. “Consider it a favor for a favor. I’ll settle up with Erin.”

“Hard to argue with that.”

We followed her down the short hallway to what in most homes would have been the living room. Bette wasn’t most people, though, and had transformed the big square space into a studio. She’d expanded the windows in the two exterior walls to let in as much natural light as possible. Another wall was floor to ceiling shelves crowded with masks and pots and free-form sculptures in various stages of creation. Four tables in the main room each held a different project, an electric potter’s wheel sat in one corner, and large, plastic-wrapped blocks of clay and buckets of the slimy mixture of clay and water called slip marched down another wall.

The space around the windows was covered with finished masks
. Most were caricatures, some funny and some edging on harsh. A few were quite realistic, though, almost looking like they’d respond if you spoke to them. The place vibrated with her talent and creativity.

The doorway to the kitchen had been enlarged so the two rooms flowed into each other, and I could see the kitchen table piled with bottles and jars, along with sponges and brushes for applying paints and glazes. Bette had installed an industrial sink at one end, opposite the regular sink she presumably used for such mundane tasks as washing vegetables and dishes.

Despite the brightly lit rooms, every time I entered Bette’s house I had the impression I’d somehow gone underground. It smelled like I imagined the center of the earth would, like clay and dirt with a metallic undertone of the minerals in so many of the glazes she used. This morning the aromas of toast and coffee also rode the air, fitting oddly into the rest of the atmosphere. A basket of multi-colored tomatoes from the last CSA share hunkered near the stove.

In the several years I’d known her—ever since moving in with Meghan and Erin—I’d never seen Bette wear any makeup or any clothing that wasn’t smudged with a bit of clay spatter. Most of the time “smudge” didn’t even begin to cover it. Today she wore faded denim jeans cinched at the waist with an oversized leather belt and a yellow tank top, all liberally smeared with white clay and splotches of something darker.

The chaos she managed to live with would have driven me crazy, but it seemed to fuel her creativity, so who was I to care? We weren’t best friends, but she was nice as could be and made a mean batch of bread-and-butter pickles to boot. Over the years we’d socialized on a semi-regular basis, but since we’d both joined the CSA I saw her more often. We’d had several conversations about the best way to grow various flowers and vegetables. Her backyard dahlia garden alone could have supplied enough blooms for two florists.

“Now, what’s this about a picture?” she asked, leading us into the kitchen and opening the refrigerator. She put the eggs on the top shelf and turned back to us.

A whippy Mac laptop connected to a 21-inch monitor sat on an old trestle table in the corner. I liked the juxtaposition of the ultra-modern technology perched on a piece of furniture that looked to be over a hundred years old. I took out the flash drive and gave it to her. She sat down in a battered ladder-back chair and plugged it in.

“I should warn you,” I said. “You’ve seen this picture before.”

She looked the question at me. I could see a whisper of understanding enter her eyes before I answered.

“Yep. It’s the woman Barr showed you last night. From the farm.”

Nine

Bette frowned and looked
at Meghan, who lifted her palms to the ceiling. “We’re trying to find out who she is. I think I’ve met her, but she looked different then. Sophie Mae thinks if we make the photo look more like what I remember, someone else may be able to tell us her name.”

“Oh.” The one word held a surprising amount of resistance. “I don’t know if I like the idea of getting mixed up with that.”

Meghan and I exchanged glances. So much for being happy to help. But in the back of my mind I’d known this reaction was possible. It was why I hadn’t told Bette the whole story on the phone. Not everyone was gung ho about crime solving. I dragged another chair over. Straddling it backwards, I settled my jean-clad behind on the seat and leaned forward until she looked me in the eye.

Trying to channel Brodie’s best begging look, the one he used almost exclusively for bacon, I said, “Please? Barr probably has access to the same kind of software at the state crime lab. But that would take a lot more time—and time is of the essence in a murder investigation.” At least that’s what they said on TV.

Her expression didn’t alter a whit.

“See, the police department is kind of short handed right now, so we’re trying to help out.”

Nothing.

“Bette, we’re already right here,” Meghan prompted. “Can’t you at least try?”

Our friend looked up at her and licked her lips. Then she let out a whoosh of air. “Yeah, I guess.”

So much for my Brodie look. “Thank you,” I said.

Bette hunched over the laptop, manipulating the touchpad. The screen sprang to life, and she clicked on an icon on the desktop. A face filled the screen, apparently the last file she had been working on. It was the photo of a young man. She had adjusted the planes of his face, exaggerating some elements and downplaying others to create a face that was his and not his at the same time. No wonder her masks were so popular.

In fact, Barr’s birthday was coming up in another month or so. I’d been wracking my brain trying to find the perfect gift, and here the idea was being handed to me on a plate. Nice.

A few moments later she had loaded my scanned photo, and the bird lady’s face replaced the young man’s.

“God,” Bette whispered. She cleared her throat, looking a little green. “What do you want to change?”

Meghan dragged another chair over to sit on Bette’s other side. She looked a little green around the gills, too. “Can you add a little weight to her face?”

She pointed the cursor, clicked and dragged.

“I was thinking more along her jaw line,” my housemate said. “The bone structure should stay the same.”

More clicking and dragging.

Beside me, Meghan shook her head. “No, that’s not quite right either.”

“Well, I’m doing the best I can,” Bette said. “I’m used to making people look less real, not more.”

“I know, and we appreciate you doing this.” I looked at Meghan.

“I’m sorry, Bette,” she said. “I don’t even have a clear idea of what I want to change.”

“Didn’t you say the hair was longer?” I asked.

Meghan nodded. “Can we add about four inches, and maybe some curl? And make it a few shades lighter?”

Bette did as she was asked. Back and forth they went, my patient housemate providing suggestions while Bette tried to follow them. Finally, Meghan stood up with a relieved expression. “I think that’s as close as we can get.”

The bird lady did look significantly different. “Is there any way you could make her look a little … more lively?” I’d almost said, “Less dead?”

Bette made a sound of distaste.

“You mean like a smile or something?” Meghan asked me, her own lip curling in disgust.

“Uh, no,” I said with a pointed look. “That would be creepy. But could you brighten the color? That blue tinge makes her look like … well, like a vampire.”

Bette moused over some controls, clicking away, and a lighter, yellow tone replaced the blue wash. It didn’t really look better, but at least the woman didn’t appear as if she was about to turn into a bat.

“That’s great.” I stood and moved around to face Bette. “Barr said he showed you the first picture last night. How about this one? Does she look familiar now?”

She looked up at me, then back at her screen. Her lips thinned into a horizontal line. “No.”

My shoulders slumped. “Oh, well. Maybe it’ll jostle someone else’s memory. I’m going to take both versions out to the Turners’ and ask around during the vegetable distribution this afternoon. Can you save a copy to my flash drive?”

She peered at the screen again, drinking in the image.

“Bette?” I prompted.

“Sure.” She saved the picture, closed the program, and stood. Handing me the drive, she said, “Well, good luck. I guess I’ll see you out at the farm later.” She seemed more relaxed now that she wasn’t staring at the picture of a murder victim. I couldn’t really blame her.

Bette had never struck me as the hugging type, so I held out my hand and we shook. “Thanks again. I know it was a pain, but maybe something will pan out. I know Barr will be grateful for your help, too.”

She nodded. “I hope you find out what happened to her.”

“Me, too.” I walked through to the living room/studio. Behind me, Meghan walked up to Bette and gave her a big squeeze, which our much taller friend returned with enthusiasm. Huh. So much for my read on her. Of course, Meghan had that effect on people.

Outside, Alexander and Brodie had collapsed panting onto the grass, their faces turned up to the sun. When we came out to the porch both got up, and our corgi grinned and waddled over to Meghan. She bent down and smoothed the fur between his ears while I ruffled the thick, dark fluff around the German shepherd’s neck. On the public sidewalk out front, we latched the gate and waved goodbye to Bette standing in the doorway before setting off briskly for home.

“Is it always so hard to get people to help when you do your little investigations?” Meghan asked.

Ignoring her reference to my
little
investigations, I said, “Not always, but sometimes. A lot of people would rather stick their heads in the sand than get involved.”

She was silent for several steps. “Like me, you mean.”

“Nah. I didn’t mean you in particular. But I bet you understand why some folks are resistant. They’d rather live their safe little lives and not think about the fact that bad stuff does happen, and often right next door. Or even closer.”

Her chin dipped in thought. “Yeah. I get it. Now I’m starting to see why you tend to jump in with both feet.”

I began to protest, but she held up her hand. “You do it because
it matters. Because someone has to, especially since so many other people don’t. I bet that’s how Barr feels about his job, too.”

I stopped in front of our house, breathing in the scent of the tea rose that twined up one corner of the porch support. “I hadn’t really tried to pick it apart like that, but yeah—you’re right.” I turned and met her gaze. “It matters.”

_____

The front door was unlocked.

“Erin? You home?” Meghan called, propping it open all the way to let the warming breeze inside.

No answer. We looked at each other.

“I thought you locked up when we left,” I said.

“I did.”

Music started up in Erin’s room then. Meghan rolled her eyes and headed down the hallway. I headed toward the kitchen and the stairs to the basement. I wanted to see how the girls were getting on with Winding Road business and print out copies of the bird lady’s picture.

“Erin?” I heard Meghan say, and paused. “Can I come in?”

Poking my head around the corner, I saw my friend standing in front of Erin’s closed door. Hmm. Two days in a row. That couldn’t be good.

I didn’t hear the response, but Meghan said, “Well, I’m coming in anyway.” She twisted the knob, then stood in the open doorway, her mouth agape. “
What
do you think you’re doing?”

Uh, oh. I padded down the hallway to join them.

Erin sat on the bed, feet dangling above the floor, glaring at her mother. At least I thought she was glaring—it was kind of hard to tell with the peacock blues and greens around her eyes. Also, she was blinking a million miles a minute, and tears streamed from her reddened right eye. The telltale smear of black underneath betrayed her attempts to apply mascara.

“Ow,” I said. “Stuck yourself in the eye with the applicator, huh.”

Beside me Meghan was quiet. Really quiet. Scary quiet.

Erin said, “Can you show me how to do it right?”

I glanced at her mother. “Um. Maybe later, okay? Right now we should wash out your eye.”

She waved her hand at me. “Oh, it’s all right. I cried the goo right out. It doesn’t even hurt now.”

Meghan opened her mouth. Closed it again without saying anything. That meant she didn’t trust herself to speak.

I took a step forward. “I don’t really think green is your best color, Erin. Or blue.”

She bristled.

“See, you want eye shadow to show off your eyes, not dominate
them. A nice, soft mushroomy color, maybe with a little smudge of pink, would emphasize the pretty gray in yours.”

Erin knew her mother was on the edge of blowing, and she dealt with it by carefully ignoring her. Now she slid off the bed and went to her desk, where she’d propped a mirror against her computer. She gazed into it, turning this way and that.

“Huh. I guess I see what you mean.” She faced us. “Seems like a lot of trouble, though. I don’t know how anyone can get that gunk to stay on their eyelashes anyway.”

“Go wash your face,” Meghan said.

Erin scooted past her and went down the hallway.

I laughed. “Do you think it’s because she loves Halloween so much?”

Meghan gave me a look that would have withered every single plant in the Turners’ greenhouse.

I grinned back at her. “Let’s make lunch. I’m starving.”

In the kitchen we stuffed soft goat cheese, slow-roasted tomatoes, and fresh lettuce into chewy pita shells. Then we drizzled homemade yogurt mixed with grated cucumber and ground cumin over the top to create a kind of vegetarian gyro. Meghan went to get Erin out of the bathroom, and I went down to see if Cyan and Kalie were interested in joining us.

They were, so I sent them upstairs and ducked into the storeroom. Plugging the flash drive into the computer, I set a half-dozen copies printing before returning to the kitchen.

Erin had managed to remove the first layer of colors, but there were still hints of blue and green, and her right eye was still pretty pink. But she tucked into her pita sandwich with enthusiasm. Gradually her mother’s ire lifted.

Good thing, because I was getting tired of playing referee.