Eine Kleine Murder (14 page)

Bursting through the greenery, I set off down the track. The flowers made a nice distraction. Tiny purple blossoms peeped through the shadows beneath the shielding foliage. More of the yellow and white daisy-like blooms smiled in the sunny spots. Small, shy, green plants hid under the cover of the larger growth. Damp spots made me detour onto the high edge of the path in places.

My mood was lifting. What a beautiful spot.

But, as I progressed deeper into the woods, I started noticing the mosquitoes, hovering over the small puddles in the path left from the recent rain, darting out of the growth to buzz beside my head. Small black gnats joined the attack. I pulled the bottle of bug repellent out of my pocket and patted a few more drops into my hair, which the dive-bombing gnats were using for target practice. The sharp menthol smell made my head ache anew.

The path veered near the water in several spots. I came to a place that was clear of large growth down to the water's edge and I could see the lake clearly at that point. I instantly regretted not having my camera with me, but it was back in Chicago. The lagoon was perfectly framed by large trees on either side of the clear space and edged by high-growing sunflowers that nodded happily at the sparkling, rippling waters.

I was cheered again and my head began to throb less intensely. I was short of breath from the exertion of puddle jumping and slogging through mud, so I sat on a stump and watched the lake for a minute or two. I was beginning to be afraid of what I might find, my resolve weakening. Water striders, their legs thin as spider web filaments, did their mysterious stroll over the tops of the ripples. For once, the tranquility was not shattered by loud children, shouting property managers, or noisy machinery.

All I could hear were the gentle lapping of the water on the mud shore, the breath of the wind through the towering trees, and the lazy humming of insects, with an occasional harsh buzz from a mosquito. If I listened intently, I could hear the distant drone of the tractor, sounding far, far away. The forest behind me exuded the odor of damp, verdant growth.

There was a purpose for this walk, I reminded myself. With a sigh I got up and started on, but my eye was caught by something small and bright blue sticking out of the dirt beside the path. I knelt down and dug it out. A Barbie shoe. It had probably come off Rachel's doll. What a marvelous place these woods would be for kids to play. If only murdered women's glasses weren't also buried here.

The path was rather overgrown in places, I thought, but far from impassable. It would be easy to fall into the water if you slipped at one of the sloping places where the path bordered the lake.
I'd better be careful.

Someone had used the path recently. I could see footprints here and there where the ground was still soft. Two peculiar furrows ran along the middle of the trail, parallel to each other. I left a few of my own prints, too, my shoes repeatedly sinking into the mud.

I walked on past the shy forest flowers that hid deep in the lush foliage. I spotted a few pale pink petals and bright yellows, even colorful orange and red mushrooms.

A few feet off the path, was a large yellow…
something
. It was too large for a flower. I stepped off the path, into the weeds. Waded toward it. But I was halted abruptly by vicious thorn bushes, and had to turn back to the trail.

A peculiar odor drifted by. I wondered if there was an outhouse nearby. The odor intensified as I went on, as did the insects. A couple of large hawks, or maybe vultures, traced graceful arcs above the trees. Clawing at the scratches on my legs and arms, I continued my trek, determined to get to my goal. Annoyed at my clumsiness with the thorns, I batted at the angry insects hovering around my face. The ache in the back of my head was returning with twice its original vigor. “The Song of the Volga Boatmen,” the version I had played in grade school, the one we always sang “Yo Ho Heave Ho” to, thrummed with the waves of pain in my head.

“I can't believe there are this many bugs in the world.” I realized I had said it out loud. There were dozens of mosquitoes, gnats, and—what was this?—a huge swarm of flies swirling around my feet. The flies were much louder than the other insects. They whined, louder now, around something buried in the brush by the side of the path. The furrows I had noticed earlier led into a large shrub that crowded the path.

Being careful not to prick myself this time, I stooped and peered under the branches of another thorn bush. I didn't need any more scratches. I pulled up the tip of a leaf and bent further to see into the bush better. One furrow led to a shoe. A very muddy shoe. Another shoe was close beside it, and both of them contained feet.

“My god!” I whimpered to myself and the flies. “It's… It's… I've found another dead body!”

Chapter 24

Netto: In a neat, clear, distinct style (Ital.)

The body was crumpled so that the face wasn't visible to me. The clothes were so muddy, and the light so dim, I couldn't tell who it was, but it looked like a medium-sized man. The shoes were men's loafers, not the kind to wear hiking this trail. Part of me wanted to push into the brambles and see who it was, but most of me was repulsed by the fetid, unhuman, fly-covered thing, and I wanted to stay far away from it. I knew I shouldn't move it this time, like I had Gram and Grace.

No more bodies. Please.

Then my repulsion was overtaken by fear. My skin prickled at the thought that this body had obviously been well hidden, the way it was shoved up under that thorn bush. A hidden body meant someone had hidden it. And that meant someone didn't want it to be found.

Another murder!

I sat back on my heels and took a deep, cleansing breath. That was a mistake. The air wasn't too good right there. I managed to get a few feet down the trail before I vomited. Feeling slightly better, I sagged against a tree, turning away from the vile puddle I had created.

Who is it? Who put him there? Who should I tell about this? For that matter, who can I trust in this place? And how could I have stumbled upon three bodies in five days?

The flies whined on, the sun struck the tree trunk I leaned on, and my mind quit working. My whole body numbed. I didn't know if I could move, but I very much wanted to run away and scream. Instead, I knew I had to think. To think
clearly
. I opened my cell phone. No signal.

It would be best to go directly to the police in Alpha and bypass telling anyone here at the lake, or using anyone's phone to call nine-one-one. I would have to tell the Alpha police where the body was, so I counted my steps back to the clearing where I'd picked up the path.

I tried to walk normally, but my limbs felt stiff on my way back out of the woods, across the dam, and up to my cabin to get my car keys. My legs wouldn't move naturally. I had to concentrate on every step, so I kept counting them. I became paranoid and felt like crowds of people were watching me.

Inside my cabin, my hands still shook as I picked up my purse and dug out my keys. Once again, I stopped and took two deep breaths. It didn't help. I had to run to the bathroom and throw up again.

After I rinsed out my mouth, I got into my car and started for the police station, glad I had located it on my last trip into town.

A fleeting thought registered, that my headache was gone, and my stomach felt better. Small consolation.

I drove straight to the pre-fab metal building with a sign that said Police Department and asked for Chief Bailey.

He came out of the back and stood over me where I sat on a hard plastic chair. Kyle Bailey was so tall, he diminished me. I hadn't noticed before how thin he was. Today, his dark look was stern, piercing.

My voice shook as I managed to tell him I had found another body at the lake. He was silent for a moment, then gave a soft whistle. His look didn't turn any more sympathetic, though.

“You've found three… three bodies at Crescent Lake?”

Did he think I killed them all?

I didn't trust myself to speak and dipped my head to avoid his gaze. Never having had dealings with the police before this lake trip, I was intimidated by all the lore I'd always heard, in addition to the fact that they had the power to arrest me.

He asked me exactly where the body was. I was glad I could tell him how many steps into the woods I'd gone. If he asked me what I was doing there, I wasn't sure what I'd say, but he didn't.

“We ought to be able to find it,” he said. “Dobson will want to take your report. I'll take you over to Henry County to his office.”

After he dispatched an officer to secure the site, we drove, in the official Alpha police car, to the county sheriff's office in Cambridge. Several times he asked me whose body it was and how it got there. I told him, every time, that I had been out for a stroll around the lake (almost true, if you omit the fact that I wanted to examine further the place the women were found), that I had no idea who it was, but that I was pretty sure it was a male from the clothing. I asked him what had become of the note he took from my cabin. He grunted, then said there weren't any useable prints on it. I wondered if he thought I'd written the note myself.

The sheriff's office was in the Henry County building, a fabulous structure, part new and part old. The inside of the old section was lined with green marble, the doorways framed in lovely, thick old woodwork that soared high enough to admit giants. Since we needed to go to the new wing, Bailey led me out of the old section into the modern, which had a more airy feeling, but retained a grace of its own.

We clattered up the staircase, Chief Bailey taking them two at a time. My shorter stride meant I had to run up the steps. After he'd asked at the window for Sheriff Dobson, a large, thick-boned man with an impressive thatch of shocking, white-blond hair came out and invited me back to his office. Chief Bailey said he had business in another department and, after he had a few quiet words with the sheriff, descended the stairs from the waiting area.

Sheriff Dobson's office was a pleasant, cluttered place, where I imagined quite a few unpleasant things happened.

He started up a tape recorder and told me to begin, so I plunged in and explained again that I had found the body of someone on the far side of the lake. He was also suspicious, asking me why I was over there, and acting incredulous when I said I didn't know who it was.

He bounced his pencil on his desk in an irregular rhythm as we talked. My head throbbed with each bounce, resounding inside my tortured skull like a roomful of snare drums played by beginner band students. It was all I could do to keep from clutching my temples.

“Al Harmon told me the ruling came back and my grandmother was murdered,” I said. “And his wife, too. This is the third body.”

“Yes.” He didn't congratulate me on being able to count, but he looked like he wanted to. His stern eyebrows were as blond as his hair. And as bushy.

“Does anyone have any idea at all what's happening?”
Why is he sitting here in his office? Shouldn't he be out investigating? Tracking down leads? Something?
“Are there any suspects?”

“I'm not at liberty to say, Miss Carraway. As soon as there's any progress we'll let you and Mr. Harmon know.”

This was pretty exasperating. He acted like it was business as usual to have dead people all over. I wanted to scream, or shake him, or both.

At last he dismissed me and I rode back to the Alpha police station with the chief. When I reached my car I got a call from Neek. She hurriedly told me she wouldn't be able to make it to Alpha for Gram's funeral. She had thrown her back out falling off her Pilates ball.

“I'm a terrible friend,” she wailed. “I had my outfit all picked out and everything.” She groaned in pain. “I really can't even sit up.”

“Neek, it's okay. Go see a doctor. I'll pretend you're beside me. Look I gotta go. I don't want to be late. The funeral is in less than an hour. Call me later. I'm …” Were these words really about to come out of my mouth? “I think I'm a suspect in multiple murders.”

Chapter 25

Freddo: Cold, indifferent (Ital.)

Gram's church funeral service went by in a blur, but the burial at the Alpha Cemetery was more vivid. Her casket, the one Al and Grace had helped me choose, was lowered into the dark earth while the same sudden, sharp wind that whipped the green canvas of the tent standing over the grave dried my tears as fast as they fell. Her name and birth date had been cut into the headstone when Gramps was buried. It occurred to me I would have to see someone about getting the final date added. My California cousins, Gram's only other grandchildren, hadn't made it, even though I had let them know the arrangements. I couldn't remember if they'd been at Gramps's service or not. I disliked them intensely, but I still resented them for not being there. It only added to my foul mood.

Daryl wasn't at the cemetery, but, as far as I could tell, the rest of Alpha was. I found myself waiting for him, looking for him in the face of each new arrival. It took me by surprise, but I was downright disappointed he didn't show up. He was different than the guys I dated before, and I had to admit, I was eager to see him again.

I hadn't arranged for a reception after the funeral. I didn't know where or how to do it. Frankly, I knew I wouldn't be up to it. What I most wanted after Gram's poor body was gone from me forever, was to crawl away and seclude myself.

As soon as I had heard all the condolences, I returned to the cabin. My blue sundress and sandals, the most staid clothes I had with me, remained on the floor where I let them slip off. Even though it made the porch stuffy, I closed the louvers and drew the shades so I could crawl into the daybed on the porch almost naked.

My solitary pity party was disrupted by a knock on my door. I pulled on a robe and opened the door to Martha Toombs's worried expression.

“Here you are, dear,” she said, thrusting a casserole dish into my hands. “I'm so sorry I had to miss the funeral. I would've come if I could have.” Maybe she hadn't been able to get the rollers out of her hair.

I stared at her offering.
Omigod, I'm the recipient of a funeral casserole
. It didn't feel right. I didn't ask her in and she didn't seem to expect it. I thanked her, stuck it in the fridge, and went back to bed.

I cried until vignettes of Gram skittered through my dreams: Gram teaching me piano, teaching me swimming, teaching me to crochet. I awoke up with my stomach lurching, my headache returning like an enthusiastically played tam-tam.

Was this my grief, I wondered, or could it be something else? Something I'd eaten? What on earth had Eve put into those cookies?

After kneeling in the bathroom for a half-hour or so, I knew I had to get something to settle my stomach, no matter what was causing it. So I put on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt to drive into town.

I eyed Eve's cookies and decided to pitch the rest of them first. They were about the only thing I'd eaten lately, besides Grace's brownies, which were all gone. I stuffed the cookies into a plastic trash bag, along with the rest of the contents of my wastebasket—mostly musical staff paper with bad, half-baked themes and melodies—trekked down the hill again to the dumpster where Toombs had told me to take my garbage, and threw it in.

I clanged the lid shut and made my way up the hill, meeting Eve halfway, on her way to the trash bin.

“Hello, dearie,” she called. “Trash day tomorrow, you know.” She clutched a small bag and darted down the hill to pitch it into the bin.

I was relieved I made it to the drugstore without throwing up again.

Mr. Anders apologized for not attending Gram's funeral. His bald head was, for some reason, a comforting sight.

“Couldn't get anyone to fill in. It's not easy nowadays to find good management help, you know.” He surveyed his drugstore from his perch behind the counter.

I couldn't put my heart into small talk when my stomach was threatening to rebel. I nodded. I was doing a lot of that lately. I was waiting for signs that he'd heard about my discovery that morning.

“What do they say about your grandmother's death?”

“Um, that she drowned.” No announcement had been made about it being murder.

He snorted. “That place has gone to ruin with those stupid Toombses in charge. I wouldn't give you five cents for the old man.”

Maybe I could stand a little gossip. “What about Mo?”

“His son? He's not as bad as his father, from what I can see. I only kept him working here two weeks before I fired him, though. The best worker I ever had was the gal that got burned up at the lake. And I have never thought young Daryl had anything to do with it. Don't pay attention to people who say he did.”

He saw my puzzled expression and continued on about Daryl. “He's a good lad, the high school art teacher, you know. And a good artist, from what I hear. He's had some showings already.”

I would have asked more about Daryl, but I was desperate to get medicine into my tummy. It was closing time after he rung up my sale and he locked the door as we left.

By the time I returned, I was so woozy it was difficult to walk from my car to the cabin. Al Harmon hailed me before I reached the door, however. I gave him a weak wave and said I'd be right over. I couldn't refuse him if he wanted company, as kind and caring as he'd been to me.

It only took a second to swallow a couple of my new anti-nausea tablets. I knew it would be a few minutes before they worked, but I did want to go talk to Al. A can of pop helped almost more than the pills, or maybe it was the combination. At any rate, I was soon human enough to make my way over to where Al sat in the gathering dusk, near the stump where I'd talked with him last night while he cleaned his fish. He'd been to Gram's funeral, but not the graveside.

He waved his long arm for me to follow him and we went around to the patio, to the fire pit, and talked a bit about Grace. He said he was going to pick out her coffin the next day. When I reminded him of my offer to accompany him, he accepted.

“It's the least I can do.” I remained dry-eyed, but I noticed a tremolo in my voice. “I thought of you and Grace when I saw Gram lying in hers today.”

Al gave me a long look. “Are you all right?”

“What do you mean?”
Is he referring to my nausea or losing Gram?

“I heard the news on TV. They say you found another dead body here this morning.”

“It's on the news? Yes. Yes, I found him on the other side of the lake.”
Can I talk about this now?

“And the Alpha police car was leaving right when I got back from the funeral,” he said. “Chief Bailey said they'd be back tomorrow. The news report didn't say who it was you found and Bailey didn't either. He didn't even say why he was here, but he told me to stay around tomorrow. Who was it?”

“I don't know. I couldn't tell.” My voice quavered and my chin quivered. I was afraid I would burst into tears again. Or throw up.
I thought those tablets had started working at least.

Al sensed my distress and changed the subject. “I'm almost thinking of building a fire,” he said. “It's late, though. I think my wood is too damp, and I can't find my knife to cut the twine on a new dry batch. What a bum deal getting old is. I can't remember where I put anything. Even in this tiny place. What will I do if I move from here?” He chafed his hands together, the sound rough in the darkness.

“You're thinking of moving?” I remembered he mentioned it that first night, but Grace had changed the subject.

“Grace and I talked about it. About doing a lot of travel, too. It was never the right moment, we never got around to it. And now she's gone.”

“But Al, don't make any drastic changes right away. You need to let things settle a bit first.”

“I know—that's the prudent course. I might have to leave, though.”

“I thought you liked it here.” I remembered the two of them chatting happily, telling me of the hobbies they'd taken up since retiring. My stomach was calming. That was a good thing, because Al felt like talking.

“I was born and raised here,” he said. “I know this town and its people like the back of my hand. I know them, all right, just don't like all of them. Don't know if I'll go or stay. Or get driven out.

“Grace and I used to think this place was paradise on earth,” he continued as we watched fireflies, flitting above the grass, while we sat in the lawn chairs next to the cold fire pit. “We couldn't wait to retire back here. I spent all my summers at this lake club when I was a kid. Our mothers always told us we couldn't swim before the Fourth of July, even in the years it was sweltering hot in June. We had to wait an hour after eating, too, before we could go into the water.” He gave a slight smile. “We were disobedient enough to know nothing bad happened when we went swimming on a full stomach, though. No dreaded cramps, no doubling over and drowning, as threatened.”

It was almost too dark to see each other's faces and Al's slow, disembodied voice floated to me. A cricket near Grace's herb garden started
teek-teek-teeking
, steady as a metronome.

“On the Fourth,” said Al, “the first swimming day of the year, heaven really came to earth. All my relatives would come to the lake and my aunts each brought something delicious to eat: sweet potatoes with marshmallows on top, fruit with something pink mixed in, homemade bread.” His description almost made me hungry, even with the way my stomach was. “Our huge potluck started at noon and, after we finished eating that meal, the grownups nibbled and snacked the rest of the day. An hour after we ate, the kids hit the water. We would sneak food the rest of the day, going in and out of the lake.” He chuckled at this memory. “Then, when it got to be dusk, we spread blankets on the hillside by the playground and the men started fiddling around with rockets, bombs, pinwheels, and flares. When darkness fell, they shot them off over the water while everyone
oohed
and
aahed
.”

His dark form rose, stirred the dead ashes in the grate with a stick. Those ashes were probably from the night I had dinner with them. He would never again sit here building a fire while Grace did her knitting. Maybe he was thinking the same thing.

“When the mosquitoes started bothering the grownups, they'd pile into the cabins. The men would start card games on folding tables and the women would clean up and chat. We children, though, would run wild through the night, catching lightning bugs, and playing tag and hide-and-go-seek.”

He quit playing with the ashes and threw the stick down, then sat, and went on. “We'd run and scream and no one would yell at us for making too much noise or for being up too late, because it was a holiday.”

We both, for a moment, pictured the glorious Fourth of Al's childhood.

“Let me walk you back,” he said after a moment of silence. As I left, we walked past Grace's herb garden. Al paused there.

“I wasn't really interested in plants until Grace started studying them. I couldn't help but catch her enthusiasm,” he said, smiling to himself.

He bent down to point out thyme, oregano, and parsley in the bed beside the back door. Light spilled out onto the garden, but I couldn't see the individual plants well.

“Did Grace raise any rhubarb?” I asked, admiring the neat clumps of green.

“No, we don't like it. Sour old stuff.”

“Do you know anything about it? Like, are the leaves used for anything?” The vision of the rhubarb leaves on Eve's cutting board was clear. The leaves had looked as if they were being cut up for a purpose. She had said she was getting rid of them, or something like that.

“They'd better not be,” he said. “At least not to eat. They're poison. Grace taught me that. There're so many things in a regular garden that are poison, you'd be amazed. A daffodil bulb will kill you if you eat it.”

Almost the exact phrase Grace had used. I pictured her bending over this herb bed, lecturing Al on plants.

“Yes, Grace told me that,” I said.

Al squatted and pointed to the edge of the bed.

“Did she tell you about these mushrooms?” He pointed to the ones Grace had shown me. The clump was disturbed, as if someone had started digging them up.

“She said those are called Death Angel,” I said. He seemed pleased I remembered that, and insisted on walking me part way back to my cabin to make sure I made it back safely. Before we parted, I looked around in the inky stillness. The scene was prosaic, innocent. A light shone from one of the little front windows in my cabin. Eve's place looked dark, but every window in Hayley's cottage was lit. I pictured the empty site I knew was just down the hill from Hayley's place.

“Do you know anything about the empty place down there?” I pointed past Hayley's.

“You mean where the cabin burned?” asked Al.

“It does look like that.”

“It was terrible,” said Al. “Norah Grey died in that fire.”

“That sounds horrible.”
Another death here?
I swatted at the three mosquitoes that had attacked my arm. “Who was Norah Grey?”

“A woman who lived here. It was a long time ago. You'd better go in, Cressa. Me, too. It's been a long day. Thanks for coming over and keeping an old man company.”

“Give a holler any time, Al. And take care.”

I returned to my cabin at last, mulling over everything, my mind spinning slowly.

This fire Al mentioned. Was it the same one Mr. Anders talked about? Who was Norah Grey and how did her cabin burn?

I wondered if Al would be okay. At least there had been no flashes of that alarming anger tonight.

My phone trilled and I grabbed it, surprised it was working.

Neek said, “Cressa, how did it go?”

“I got through the funeral. But so much has happened here today, Neek. Oops, just a minute.” I put the phone down and rushed into the bathroom, but it was a false alarm. When I picked the phone back up she asked what on earth I was doing.