Fly by Night (A Gracie Andersen Mystery Book 3) (3 page)

“You head right back here if there’s any more trouble, okay?” His voice had a no-nonsense tone. She nodded.

She rewound her hair, which had completely tumbled out of the hair clip, and fastened it more securely. Brushing the dirt off her blue shirt and frowning at the grass stains on her jeans, she trotted after Jim.

The crowd had thinned to a handful by the time they got back to the field. Toby was talking to one of the deputies, waving his hands toward the sky. D. B. had a trickle of blood running down his face from a gash over his right eye. A protester must have found his or her target. Stragglers were standing by their vehicles along the road.

Gracie saw Dan Evans, the owner of the local hardware, talking to Ed Findley, a dairy farmer who lived just down the road from the kennel. Dan was Deer Creek’s fire chief, so he had to know something. Jim went to check out the scene around the platform. Gracie walked across the road to Dan’s blue Ford pickup.

“Hey, Gracie. Quite the commotion tonight,” Dan said grimly.

“No kidding. Who started it?” She watched Jim who was talking to Toby and one of the state troopers.

“Not sure. Probably those tree huggers, but I thought they were supposed to be non-violent types.”

Ed chimed in, “Toby might have thrown that rock at D. B. He was spoiling for a fight with him tonight.”

“Did you see him?”

“No. There must have been a bunch of people who came with gravel in their pockets and started pitching it everywhere. It was hard to see what was really going on. People were all over the place.”

“A rock almost hit us. It wasn’t any gravel,” Gracie replied, swatting at a mosquito that had settled on her arm for a snack.

“There were a few rocks. It was lucky nobody got seriously hurt,” Dan grumbled. “I’m not so sure Toby threw the rock. A lot of stuff happened fast.”

“So, D. B. is okay?”

“He’s says he’s fine,” Dan answered. “His head is as hard as rock anyway. I tried to check him out, but you know D. B. He doesn’t need anybody’s help.”

“Well, at least it’s not serious.”

Gracie saw Jim slap Tobias on the back and begin walking toward them. The state trooper handed Tobias a paper, which he stuffed in his pants pocket.

“Geez Louise, I didn’t think those Renew Earth people would go postal on us. They sure didn’t win any popularity contests tonight.” Ed stuck a thumb in his jeans belt loop and put a foot up on the bumper of his truck. “Guess I’d better get home. It’ll be breakfast time again before you know it.”

Dan grunted in agreement. He seemed unimpressed with the whole affair.

“You’re right, Ed. Looks like the excitement is over for now. I’ve got an early morning myself.” Dan turned and reached for door handle of his truck.

“See ya, Dan … Ed,” Gracie called.

She joined Jim. They walked slowly back up the rutted dirt road to the truck.

“So, did Toby hit D. B. with a rock?” She could hardly wait for Jim to answer.

“He says he didn’t, but he got a ticket for disorderly conduct. From what he says, D. B. threatened to call the loan he has on the Meadow today if he doesn’t sign the paperwork to sell. It’s not going to be pretty. Both of them are plenty mad.”

“A loan? Tobias borrowed money from D. B.?”

“I guess. Wasn’t very smart. Greerson’s Meadow could be a thing of the past if D.B
does
call it.”

Jim started up the truck and pulled back onto the road. There were a few vehicles left at the Meadow, including D. B.’s big pickup, which sat near the platform.

The sound guy was hauling his battered equipment to a gray van parked on the shoulder. Gracie smiled feebly at the harried man as they drove past. She was sure the conversation around Midge’s counter tomorrow morning over coffee and sweet rolls would be steaming hot. Too bad she wouldn’t be able to join the restaurant gang for breakfast.

The gobble of turkeys broke through the songs of the robins and warblers that threaded the woods. There were three hens and one hefty tom moving up the ravine from the creek. The tom kept a lookout, while his harem continued pecking through the layers of wet leaves. Sunlight filtered through the trees, but the morning air was still chilly. A light breeze escorted some rainclouds from the west. The shotgun blast ruffled the watchful tom’s tail feathers and sent the big birds scattering in different directions as they attempted to lift off. Their heavy bodies strained to make it through the trees. Another blast brought the rotund tom somersaulting to the ground below.

*****

Gracie rolled over, groaning and slapping at the clock to stifle the annoying alarm.

Haley stood over her face, panting. The long pink tongue hit her cheek. The dog’s tags jingled cheerfully. Too cheerfully and too early.

“All right. I’m up. I’m up,” Gracie growled as she crawled out of bed. Her mouth felt like cotton.

She tugged at her hair with a large round brush. As usual, the curls went everywhere and her attempts at straightening them were futile. She pulled the hair back into a tight ponytail.

The kennel was open just mornings on Saturdays, but customers would show up by 7:30. She’d have to hurry; it was almost seven. Foundation was a lost cause. It was a freckles thing. She brushed on some eye shadow and mascara to look presentable.

She’d always hated her hair and the freckles that went with it. She was thinking of chopping her hair short, but Michael had loved her long auburn hair. She couldn’t quite bring herself to do the deed. Not yet. Her eyes were her best feature, large and brown flecked with green. Looking in the mirror one more time, Gracie determined that she was as good as she was getting today.

Haley began barking as Gracie pulled a tank top over her head and jammed into a pair of jeans. Someone was pounding on the kitchen door. Haley was now alternating between barking and whining.

“Coming. I’m coming!”

Gracie tripped on a braided rug coming into the kitchen and caught herself on the granite-topped island. Haley was jumping at the door. Jim’s worried face gazed at them through the café curtains.

“What’s going on? Is something wrong in the kennel?” she asked as she let him in.

Maybe it was a sick dog or worse.

“Listen,” Jim began urgently, closing the door behind him. “I have to go see Toby. Something bad has happened up there.”

She knew by his guarded eyes that he didn’t want to tell her exactly what the bad thing was.

“Is Toby okay? Tell me,” she demanded.

“He’s all right, but D. B. isn’t. He’s dead. Toby found him up in Greerson’s Meadow this morning.”

The road was lined with law enforcement vehicles. Red lights flashed from the tops of the SUVs. Deputies were cordoning off the field, pounding in stakes and winding yellow crime scene tape around them. The Deer Creek ambulance squad stood down below, watching the county coroner’s ancient black station wagon pull up. Ralph Remington, the coroner, dragged his aging body out of the driver’s seat.

The doctor was ready to retire. His wife, however, had decided he should keep working just to stay out of her hair. The short-and-wide white-haired man wore khaki Bermuda shorts, a Madras plaid short-sleeved shirt, white socks, and black golf shoes. He’d gotten the call just as he was teeing off at Silver Lake Country Club. His first game of the year, and it was over before he’d even had a chance to hook a ball into the water.

He walked over to the ambulance crew.

“Don’t go anywhere, boys. I’ll need some help getting the body in my van. I’m in no shape to be hauling anything around, except myself. And that’s questionable some days.”

“Sure thing, Doc,” Dan Evans answered. “We’ll get the gurney out of your car, if you want.”

“Have at it, but don’t come up there until I say so. You don’t want to muck up the crime scene.”

A deputy lifted the tape as the coroner bent to duck under it. The ground squished underfoot, and the alfalfa was still heavy with dew. By the looks of the sky, it was going to rain before too long. They’d better get the show on the road. Two state troopers and a group of sheriff’s department personnel stood around the sprawled body of D. B. Jackson. A dark bloodstain soaked the front of his blue shirt. His sightless eyes stared at the cloudy sky. A Jackson Farms black, club-cab pickup sat next to the cluster of people.

“Good morning, Dr. Remington.”

The voice was cool and very formal. It belonged to a slender woman with fine features, dark brown hair highlighted with strands of gray, and piercing brown eyes. Her right hand rested lightly on the grip of the Glock on her hip.

“Morning, Investigator Hotchkiss. Give me some room here, people!” The old man glared at two deputies who stood in front of the body.

“He’s all yours,” the investigator said.

The group shuffled back to let the doctor through. The old man knelt down in the grass. His knees were killing him, and he’d probably get blood on his white socks. No doubt he’d hear about that later.

“He’s dead all right. Looks like a shotgun to me. Of course, you’ve probably figured that out already. Help me up.” The coroner sat back on his haunches with effort and groaned. A deputy grabbed his arm and pulled him up. “Let me know when you’re done, and I can get him outta here. Don’t take all day either. It’s gonna rain.”

He half-limped back to wait with the ambulance crew while the investigator directed her people to process the scene.

*****

Jim squeezed his pickup between a trooper’s car and an unmarked police vehicle. He could see Toby standing by a patrol car on the opposite side of the road, smoking. He nervously flicked ashes from the end of the unfiltered cigarette. He took another drag.

Toby was medium height and rangy. It was hard to pin an age on him, but Jim’s best guess was somewhere in his 50s or early 60s. His receding hairline extended his forehead and ended in a fringe of stringy gray hair that fell to his shoulders. He was some cousin or other on his mother’s side of the family, who’d always been the butt of everyone’s jokes. Toby was an easy target. His favorite topics were UFOs, Nostradamus, and a lot of other sci-fi stuff.

Jim felt a couple of drops of rain and looked up. The wind had picked up; trees were swaying in the stiffened breeze. The sky was overcast. Tobias furtively crossed the road to meet him, taking another deep drag on the cigarette.

“Somebody blew his chest wide open. They’re gonna blame me. I just know it.” Toby’s voice trembled. He threw the cigarette on the dirt road and ground it out. He tapped on a pack he took from his shirt pocket, pulled out another, and lit it.

Jim clapped him on the back. “You don’t know that. How’d you find him?”

“I was huntin’ turkey this mornin’, pretty early. Shot a nice fat gobbler and he kinda tumbled into the field.” He paused and smiled. “It was a perfect shot. Anyway, I went out there to find him and saw D. B.’s truck up there.” He jabbed his thumb toward the black truck. “I went over to tell him he was trespassin’. But, when I got to the truck, he was just laying there with a god-awful hole in his chest.”

Tobias shuddered and sucked down another lungful of nicotine.

“Did you hear anybody shooting while you were hunting?”

Tobias flicked ash from the end of the cigarette between his fingers.

“No. Nothin.”

Jim watched the group of gray uniforms break up and head down toward the road. The ambulance crew and crusty Doc Remington walked toward them. Tobias ground out his cigarette. He recognized Investigator Hotchkiss right away. Thanks to Gracie, their encounters were getting to be a regular occurrence, which wasn’t a good thing. She motioned for Toby. For a second, Jim thought the man might bolt.

“Hang on, buddy,” he said grabbing the man’s arm. “I’ll stick around if they want to ask any more questions.”

Toby nodded and exhaled slowly. His eyes narrowed, looking back up toward the black pickup. Jim could just see the top of a dark tarp flanked by Dan Evans and one of the Harwood brothers in the waving ocean of green.

“I guess he finally got what he deserved,” Toby muttered under his breath.

Gracie set out a couple of plates, since Jim decided to stay and eat. He’d shown up to help finish the kennel work around noon and then had gone to the Wyoming County Sheriff’s Department to lend some moral support to Toby. She knew from experience that Investigator Hotchkiss was a tough cookie, and from all appearances, the policewoman had an excellent reason to hold the odd man.

Gracie had spent the day balancing kennel work with monitoring the fence installation and her mother. The rain had moved out before noon, so work on the flowerbeds and enclosing the backyard had progressed quite nicely. She loved the look of the new English-garden style fence, which was stained a rich walnut color. It made everything look finished in the rear of the house. Zack, the fence guy, promised to be back on Wednesday to install the gates to complete the project. The weeds were gone, and the outline of a real flower garden was emerging under her mother’s hard work.

Jim’s truck pulled into the driveway just as Gracie slid the chicken-and-rice casserole from the oven. Haley barked energetically, pressing her face against the screen door. Jim had a familiar foam container in his hands as he bounded up the steps and opened the door.

“Hey, Chief. Brought some lemon meringue pie for dessert.”

“Good. No time for baking today. It was wild here.”

“And other places, too.” He grimaced. “The police are questioning Dean, D. B.’s farm manager, about the murder. I talked to him in the county parking lot. Nobody’s exempt from the investigation.”

“I guess they’re covering all the bases. Did he say how Kim is doing?”

Kim was D. B.’s widow. Gracie knew the crushing shock of being told your husband was dead. She couldn’t imagine finding out he’d been murdered. Her stomach felt queasy. She forced herself to focus on putting the rest of the meal on the table.

“Not so good. Reverend Minders was over there with his wife helping her with the calls. Sara’s a real mess and not much help. Duane’s just a kid, but he’s going to school in Alfred, so he’s not far. I think Amanda lives down in Philly now.”

“She’ll need help making those calls. It’s not easy.”

Jim looked at her a little anxiously, but she put on her brave smile. He dug into the hot casserole, while Gracie piled salad on her plate. She handed Jim the basket of rolls and shoved the butter dish toward him. Jim grabbed two rolls.

“Toby was right,” he said, buttering the first one. “He doesn’t have much of an alibi, and a lot of people have seen the spats he’d been having with D. B. over the Meadow.”

“They’re sure it’s not an accident? Maybe D. B. was hunting up there and fell. It could’ve gone off, don’t you think?” She drizzled ranch dressing over her salad.

“Toby didn’t see a gun on the ground when he found him. After talking with my parents today, he’s probably going to need an attorney. He hasn’t been arrested.” He paused, looking up from his plate. “Yet.”

“Doesn’t he have a couple of brothers?” She pulled a roll apart to butter it.

“My mom is trying to track them down. They don’t live around here anymore. One is up in Rochester, and I’m not sure where the other one is. Their parents are gone. Toby hasn’t had much to do with his family for a long time. I don’t think they want anything to do with him either. One brother’s a high school teacher. That’s the one in Rochester.” He drank some water from the tumbler in front of him. “Mom knows where all these people are. I don’t keep track of that stuff.” He went back to shoveling food down like he was starving.

Gracie stopped eating and watched Jim wipe the plate clean with his roll and then stuff it into his mouth.

“Haven’t you eaten today?”

“Actually, no.” He was already spooning more chicken and rice on his plate.

The house phone rang, and she pushed back her chair to check the caller ID. It was her mother.

Theresa was calling on official business for the Fellowship Committee at church. They needed casseroles and salads to take up to the Jackson family. There would be a lot of family coming in over the next few days. Gracie agreed to make a three-bean salad and deliver it on Sunday. She wasn’t looking forward to the delivery, but maybe she could help Kim Jackson in this small way.

*****

The Jackson farm overlooked the Genesee River Valley and had beautiful views toward Letchworth State Park, which straddled the banks of the Genesee. Holsteins were grazing in the pastures on both sides of the road when Gracie pulled into the long paved circular driveway that led to the big Victorian house with intricate gingerbread dripping from every inch. Painted in blue, mauve, gray, and cream, its three stories loomed above a grove of blue spruces that provided privacy from the road. The huge front porch (more a veranda than a porch really) had been host to many dairy meetings and cookouts. The house had always intimidated Gracie. The setting was intensely formal, and the barns were more than a polite distance from it. A perfectly trimmed hedgerow edged the driveway to the house. The driveways to the barns led past the house and down a small hill. Only the pervasive bovine fragrance gave the farm away. Gracie smiled to herself. No matter how good you look, cows keep it all real.

Half a dozen cars were parked in the driveway. Conspicuously missing was D. B.’s big black truck. She recognized the white Buick as belonging to Reverend Minders. A trickle of sweat ran down her back, and she felt like running. A lot of memories were wrapped up in the delivery of covered dishes and the awful hushed atmosphere of the bereaved. She was the recipient not so long ago. A fleeting temptation to just knock and leave the salad on the doorstep passed.

A woman with short gray hair answered the door. She smiled and asked Gracie to step into the foyer. Hardwood floors gleamed. Tasteful landscape oils in heavy gilt frames lined the short hallway. A vase of fresh burgundy and white irises filled a crystal vase topping an antique oval accent table. She could hear low conversations in the living room off to the right.

“Hi. I’m Gracie Andersen. I’m just dropping off a salad for Kim and the family.”

“Thank you so much. I’m Judy, Kim’s sister. Let me take that to the kitchen for you.”

“It’s pretty heavy,” Gracie warned her. “I know my way to the kitchen. It’s no trouble.”

“Just follow me then. We’ve got a kitchen crew helping us put together Sunday dinner. The church here is just like family.” Judy’s voice trembled a bit. “My husband and I live in Virginia, so we don’t get together with Kim and … uh … the rest of the family often. I just can’t believe this has happened. Who would want to kill D. B.? Kim is just devastated.” Her eyes filled with tears that threatened to brim over.

Gracie set the dish next to a tossed salad and a dish of baked beans. Three church ladies were busy peeling potatoes, organizing casserole dishes, and seasoning a sirloin tip roast that was ready for the oven. The kitchen was warm with the smells of good home cooking.

“Why, hello, Gracie,” Marilyn Warner said, peering over her reading glasses. She’d been reading cooking instructions for one of the dishes.

“Hi, everyone,” Gracie said, greeting the holy trinity of church suppers—Marilyn, Margaret, and Suzie. They’d been in charge of funeral dinners and church potluck suppers for years.

“Looks like you’ve got everything under control here,” she added lightly.

Turning back toward the doorway, she made a beeline for the front door.

“Gracie, please don’t rush off,” Judy pleaded, hurrying after her. “I’m sure Kim would want to see you.”

Gracie’s heart sank. Her hand was on the doorknob to leave and with good reason. Comforting someone else who’d just lost her husband so violently was out of her league. Even though the pain of losing Michael and their unborn son was dissipating, she wasn’t really up for this task. She swallowed hard and nodded. She’d have to face the music.

“I don’t want to bother her,” she croaked. She felt the heat of her face flushing with embarrassment.

“Just go on in. I told her you were here.”

The plump woman smiled and bustled back to the kitchen. Gracie straightened her back and forced herself to walk through the archway to where Kim was talking with Reverend Minders. Dean, the farm manager, and his wife, Carla, stood at the sunny front windows, talking quietly. The Jackson children—Amanda, Sara, and Duane, all adults—had their backs to the doorway, but Kim immediately stood to greet Gracie. Kim was short and plump like her sister. Her hair was a honey brown with carefully placed highlights. She wore black slacks with a lilac short-sleeved blouse that effectively hid her thickening waist. Her face was almost transparently pale, her eyes red and swollen. A tissue was gripped tightly in her hand.

“Gracie, I … I …,” she stumbled over her words.

Before she knew it, Gracie had wrapped her arms around Kim Jackson, and they both cried together.

An hour later, Gracie finally excused herself from the Jackson living room. She felt mentally and emotionally drained when she slid behind the wheel of her SUV. She and Kim had been casual friends for years, but never close. Their similar situations had created an instant bond today.

Kim wasn’t involved with farm business like Gracie had been. Kim focused on her family, bridge club, and charity work. Gracie, on the other hand, had handled most of the business end of the farm. Michael and Jim had been happiest dealing with cows, crops, and tractors, not the checkbook. Their small boutique dairy herd hadn’t been nearly as large an operation as Jackson Farms though. It gave her a headache to think about all that was required to keep it running smoothly. Obviously D. B.’s right hand man, Dean Jenkins, was perfectly capable of helping Kim sort things out. He’d been managing the Deer Creek farm for years. She wasn’t sure who the managers were for the other two Jackson farms. She didn’t envy Kim. The woman had a lot on her plate.

Leaning back against the headrest, Gracie rubbed her forehead and sighed. D. B. had been a pushy son of a gun, but why anyone would blow him away was unfathomable. However, as she’d learned the hard way in the last two years, people weren’t always who they seemed.