Bait & Switch (Mayfield Cozy Mystery Book 1) (6 page)

“He’s younger than the other boys. And not studying this morning.”

Walt turned at this, amusement in his eyes. “He found you in the woods, didn’t he?”

I nodded.

“I figure when he’s finished learning all there is to know out there, he’ll come in, sit down, and devour everything there is to learn in here.” He chuckled softly, his lips not parting. “Could take a couple decades for that to happen, though.”

Walt seemed ageless. He spoke with the wisdom of a patient man who’d experienced acres of sorrow, but he didn’t look old. My age even — maybe. “Is he yours?”

“Eli? Blood relation? No.” Walt’s gaze shifted back to the window. “But he reminds me of me.”

“You’re alone here.”

He waited so long to answer I wasn’t sure he’d heard me. He shoved his stool back and stood, gesturing to my mug. “Refill?” When I nodded, he said, “Suits me.”

His back was straight and cold as he stretched out a long arm to pour more coffee. I’d gotten too personal, too fast. I wondered how long it had been since he’d had more than a cursory conversation with a woman.

I tried a different tack. “Are hunters allowed on the property?”

Walt’s flash frown surprised me, as well as the intensity of his glare. “You’ve seen one?” If I hadn’t already witnessed his placidity, his tone would have scared me.

I shook my head. “No. Heard one, maybe — I’m not sure. Could’ve been a gunshot. It frightened both Eli and me.”

Walt’s jaw worked in a slight, tense chewing motion, reminding me of Terminator the goat as he settled back on his stool. “I’ll increase my patrols.” He studied me for a moment. “But there is something you should know. We have a hermit. He’s practically a phantom, invisible. But every once in a while he makes an appearance. Name’s Dwayne, and if you call him by his name, he’ll answer. Just so you know.”

I was beginning to wonder what made the window so attractive that Walt couldn’t keep his eyes from drifting over to it — or through it. Then he murmured, “I think Eli’s found him, where he lives. And I think he’s been apprenticing under Dwayne. That boy disappears like vapor. I’m lucky he still shows up for meals.”

I took a deep breath, held it, then plunged in. “I have something you need to know too — why I’m here.” I gave him the big picture, the big unknowns. I tried to leave my personal speculation out of the account, just stick to facts. From the intensity of Walt’s frown, I figured he could hypothesize as well as I could.

“You’re expecting them to contact you, here?” he asked.

“I hope so. It would mean he’s still alive.”

“How long are you going to wait?”

“As long as it takes.”

Walt did the jaw clenching thing again. “Are you going to find out why? Skip doesn’t deserve this.” He exhaled long and hard, took his mug to the sink and rinsed it out. “Only met him twice. But given his history, his rough childhood, he really understood what the boys need. Mostly time and space.” Walt leaned against the sink and crossed his arms. “I’m having trouble putting the two together. The good and the alleged bad. You too, I expect.” He stared.

The beam of his full attention was disconcerting. I preferred his fascination with the window.

“You need anything, you’ll tell me?” he asked.

I half shrugged.

“Yes. You must. The boys will help too. They don’t know their benefactor, but they’re good workers. I’ll send over a crew this afternoon to set up living quarters for you. Won’t be fancy, but it’ll do.”

I left the bunkhouse with instructions to follow the muddy rutted track that started behind Walt’s parked pickup. I was to follow the right-hand path at the first fork and the left-hand path at the second. He assured me the track would eventually pass by the main house.

I also came away with a fierce determination to make sure Walt and the boys didn’t suffer from Skip’s absence. I needed to find out how they were being funded and ensure the support continued. Maybe in that process, I’d find clues about my other problems.

Follow the money. I didn’t even need to write that age-old principle in my notebook. Clarice would be proud of me. If it worked.

CHAPTER 8

It took me close to an hour to find the main house. I thought I followed Walt’s directions, but navigation has never been my strong suit. But the time wasn’t wasted.

Blue gaps started appearing between the clouds, and slanting rays winked amid thick trunks in moist, sparkly shafts. The tree branches still dripped a soft patter, almost like a polite golf applause for the spectacular display the forest was putting on. Green — I’d never seen so many different shades of green, from the brilliant chartreuse of lichen clinging to craggy bark to the black-tinged emerald moss mounded over fallen logs and stumps.

The trees came in all shapes and sizes and colors, from smoothly conical and teal-tipped to scraggly with droopy branches. It was a wild, time-worn forest and strictly volunteer, not a crop mass planted in tidy rows by a lumber company.

Between the exercise and the scenery, my mind settled on the reality of my new situation, and my to-do list grew. Once I identified action steps, I started feeling better, more purposeful and less lost.

I did a quick check for sneaky farm animals in the vicinity before pulling open the kitchen door.

Clarice was bent over the sink, scrubbing, her elbows pink from the exertion. A giant handkerchief scarf printed with neon lemons and limes bound her bouffant, and she had a ruffled red apron tied around her middle. The floor shone with wet patches, and I froze, my foot dangling a few inches above a cream-colored tile.

“Don’t bring those muddy boots in here,” Clarice growled without turning around.

“Yep,” I replied, hopping to keep my balance. I leaned on the doorframe to untie my laces.

“You need to get rid of that rental. Racking up unnecessary expenses. We’ll have to implement austerity measures.”

“Yes,” I said slowly. I’d already come to the same conclusion. But when Clarice barks orders in that tone, something’s irritating her.

“That urchin came back.”

“Eli?”

My comment prompted one arched brow over her shoulder and a grunt. “Has a name, does he? Squirt about scared me to death. Brought that.” Clarice jerked her head, hair and scarf toward the table.

I tiptoed into the room in my socks and picked up the small carved wood object, no bigger than a golf ball. It was a bright-eyed, perky little brown bird — maybe a sparrow? — with a round hole in its open beak and a slotted hole in the tail. A whistle. Just the type of treasure a boy would carry around, but the delicate carving had to be beyond Eli’s skill set.

“He didn’t say a word,” Clarice huffed. “But it was clearly not meant as a present for me. Those blue eyes don’t miss a thing. He was looking for you.”

I slipped the whistle’s leather thong lanyard around my neck and gave a test puff on the bird’s tail. It warbled — sweet and high and delightful. 

Clarice wiped her hands on the apron and came over for a closer inspection. I held the bird out to her, and she stroked it with a tentative finger. “Beautiful,” she murmured. “Who’d have thought? I wonder where he got it?”

I’d already ruled out Walt because he was direct and unpretentious and would have given me the whistle himself if he’d wanted to. The only other person on the premises who might be capable of such craftsmanship would be the hermit. Clarice already had enough worries. I didn’t want to bother her with the tale of a reclusive man she would most likely never meet. I shrugged and let the whistle drop against my chest. I’d wear it until I could thank Eli properly.

oOo

A stairstepped group of shy, lanky boys in desperate need of haircuts and toting an assortment of brooms, mops and buckets showed up just as Clarice and I were wrapping up a feast of tuna salad on saltines complimented by V-8 juice. Next time we went shopping, I was going to handle the menu planning. I honestly don’t know how Clarice keeps her barrel-shaped figure on such meager fare.

The tallest boy, maybe fourteen or fifteen, took charge, announcing they had come to clean in a voice that cracked. He coughed into his fist and merged back into the group, blushing.

“Right ho.” Clarice zipped my paper plate away just as I lifted my last cracker. “Follow me.”

She marched through the far doorway and up a half-flight of stairs, the boys straggling after her. I took up the rear.

When we’d clustered at the end of a long, chilly room, barely lit by sunlight peeking through cracks in what appeared to be floor to ceiling drapes along one wall, Clarice leaned in like a quarterback in a huddle.

“We’ll only clean what we need,” she said. “Two bedrooms and a bathroom, plus the kitchen which I’ve nearly finished.” She turned. “You and you—” she pointed at the two biggest boys, “come with me. The rest of you start near the fireplace and work this direction.”

The young boys scrambled off as if they knew exactly what she was talking about. I followed Clarice and the taller boys up another flight of stairs. We turned a few corners and went down a short hall.

“These’ll do,” Clarice announced, pointing at two open doors opposite each other in the hall. “Pick.”

Her intent look my direction meant she was talking to me. I gestured to the right.

“Good. Let’s get these cleaned up. We can sleep on real beds tonight.”

The room was hardly bigger than my dorm room in college. It was crowded with two single beds, a nightstand with a lamp between them, a four-drawer dresser and a single ladder back chair.

“We could move out one of the beds,” ventured the tallest boy.

His eyes, with lashes as long as a girl’s, were level with mine, and I suddenly felt old — old enough to be his mother. “Good idea. What’s your name?”

“Dill.”

“Like pickles?” I asked.

“Like Bob Dylan. Everyone shortens it.”

I laughed. “You don’t mind?” I also breathed a slight sigh of relief. Dill’s parents had to be a little older than I am if they were impressed enough with the aging rocker to name their son after him.

Dill shrugged and grinned. He proved to be a boy of few words which suited me fine.

We worked in tandem, lifting the bed and crab-walking with it down the hall to a larger room that was already stacked with miscellaneous furniture.

I lost count of how many buckets of dirty water we emptied and refilled with short-lived clean water. I scooted the chair around the periphery of the room, wiping down the walls and sending clouds of dust billowing. Dill polished the window until it became translucent, then he propped it open to let in the sweet, damp air.

I sniffed appreciatively. Is it possible for the absence of scent to be a scent of its own? It had been so long since I’d been in a place where car exhaust, city sewers and masses of people hadn’t influenced the air I was breathing.

Dill noticed. “It’s from the storm last night. Brought out the sap.”

“Sap?”

“From the trees. That piney, sweet smell. Sawdust smells like that too, when they chop the trees up. Ever been stuck behind a sawdust hauler on the road?”

I shook my head.

Dill shrugged — one shoulder this time. Clearly, I had missed out on something amazing.

Clarice popped her head through the doorway. “Good. I’ll bring clean sheets in a jiffy.”

“Sheets?” I was starting to sound like a parrot.

“Found a linen closet and the biggest laundry room I’ve ever seen. Those washers were built to last.” Clarice’s lips pursed into a tight, lipsticked frown. “Kept myself occupied while you were out rambling this morning.”

I held up my right hand as though I was swearing to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth. “As instructed, remember? But no more shirking, I promise.”

Clarice grunted and disappeared.

“She always like that?” Dill asked.

“Yep. But you always know where you stand with her.” I grinned at him. “A trait I particularly appreciate.”

He snorted softly. “You wanna see something?”

“You bet.” I’ve learned to pay attention to these kinds of requests from children. I generally turn down the offer if it comes from an adult male. But with kids it’s always a surprise and a peek into their internal workings, what they think is important. I’ve been shown a pet tarantula, a pet gecko, a pet stick, numerous collections of shells, pebbles, gum wrappers, dried corn kernels, etc. and the one that just about broke my heart — a drawing of an orphan’s hoped-for family outside a grass hut. She gave me a complete narrative about their heights, ages, daily chores, and the clothes they’d wear. They were holding hands, enormous toothy smiles on their faces. The little girl had AIDS. She never got her family.

Dill retraced our steps down the hall and turned left into a darker hallway that was three times wider — a main artery in the building — to another staircase. We climbed two more stories in the gloom, a dingy window at each landing letting in enough light for me to see a thin trail of footsteps in the dust. Dill had apparently been this way before, more than once. What boy wouldn’t want to explore an eerie, old, abandoned mansion?

The staircase was grand in the truest sense, like the set of Tara for
Gone with the Wind
, with a massive, polished wood balustrade. Built long before contractors cut corners with new-fangled, cheaper materials. She showed her age, but her bones were good. Put in a few ornate chandeliers and clean her up, and she’d be ready for a ball.

Dill turned down an identical large hallway — they were stacked on top of each other, one on each floor — then pushed open a creaking door into a low room with an angled ceiling. He went straight to the three peaked dormer windows at the far end and rubbed a clean spot in the central window with his sleeve. “Painted shut.” He stepped back.

I pressed my nose against the glass and forgot how to breathe.

The sun had broken through, highlighting miles and miles of forested hills. They stretched to the horizon in diminishing shades of blue-green. To the left, a flat-topped, snow-clad mountain rose out of the rolling evergreen breakers like a tabletop plateau. Straight ahead, another snowy peak. They were so brilliant they shimmered close, like a mirage. I wanted to stretch out and touch them, let their crystal ice drops dribble through my fingers. I shivered involuntarily, as though blasted with the glacier cold they implied.

“Like it?” Dill asked, his voice anxious.

“Wow,” I breathed. “What are their names?”

“St. Helens is the short one — you know, the one that blew up. The other’s Adams. You can see them from other places on the farm, but this is the best.”

I turned to him. “Where were you born, Dill?”

He shrugged, eyes downcast, lashes dark against his cheeks. “Don’t know.”

“What do you remember?”

“My mom and I always stayed with other people, in apartments or motels or sometimes in bus stations and homeless camps if she couldn’t find anyone to take us in.”

“So this?” I tipped my head toward the window.

“Freedom,” he whispered.

I squeezed his shoulder. “Yes it is, Dill. For me too.” I blinked back tears. “Thank you.”

Dill shoved his hands in his pockets and kicked the heel of one boot with the toes of the other.

“It’s all right,” I said. “I’m not always this sappy. Do you know how to make hospital corners?”