From Newsprint to Footprints: A River's Edge Cozy Mystery (River's Edge Cozy Mysteries Book 1) (2 page)

The amused look again. "If someone had asked me if there was still a stone mason profession, I might have said no."

I shrugged. "His name's Stooper. He mostly makes markers for the cemeteries."

Stooper is in his mid-thirties. He inherited the business from his father, who died of cirrhosis of the liver in his early fifties. At the rate Stooper is going, he may get to the pearly gates about that age, too.

This brought a full stare. "What did you say you did before now, Ms. Perkins?"

"It's Melanie. I, uh, worked at the paper."

His expression didn't change. "Now I know why you appeared today."

"Your ad will still run," I said, quickly. "If you don't like what I do, you could hire someone else." I straightened my shoulders. "You'll like my work."

We continued toward the barn. "That's a pretty quick grapevine. Why don't you work there now?"

"I got fired. I did a lot of the photography, and Hal Morris thought I wasted time by taking extra photos."

"Usually newspapers like options."

"True. But mine were usually nature shots, flowers. Hal only runs those when there's a garden show or something."

The front barn door was ajar, so Syl slid it a couple more feet on its track and walked in.

Lighting was dim because the back door was shut, but I could make out a couple shrouded pieces of equipment. Closest was in the shape of a small tractor or huge riding mower, and it looked as if there was a bin on wheels behind it. Other than a couple of decaying bales of hay and an old broom, nothing else was on the hard dirt floor.

"Do those work?" I asked, nodding toward the two shrouds.

Syl pulled the piece of rotting canvas from the closest one. "I had a mechanic check out the tractor last week. I don't know what all he did with it, but he drove it around the barn when he was done. I thought it might be good for hauling out all the overgrowth."

I walked to the tractor and placed a hand on the housing. "Did you know this is an old John Deere L? These were made, oh, maybe around World War II. Somebody did a nice paint job."

"Guess I don't know much about tractors."

"Must have been kept indoors all the time." I stooped to look at the wheels. "Kind of old, but as long as I don't run over a sharp rock or piece of metal, these tires'll get you through this year."

He nodded. "Probably not expensive."

"Probably not, but Jody at the farm implement place might have to special order. These haven't been sold for a while." I looked at him directly. "If you can afford it, you might ask him to order one for you now, so it's in stock. You'd probably have to pay him when it comes in."

He jerked his head toward the house. "I can afford it. Let's take a look at the front. The bushes and weeds aren't as dense as back here."

We walked without talking and stopped near the driveway.

"If you call the farm implement store, they'll have someone drop off a big load of mulch," I suggested.

He had a sort of can't-you-handle-it look.

"I can't do it the first time. You'll have to let those guys know I can order for you and tell them how much I can put on your account, say, on a weekly basis."

He stiffened. "I don't usually let others authorize expenditures."

He really is citified
. "We're talking like one hundred dollars. Unless you want to have to call them if I find a patch of poison ivy and want to spray it."

When he looked skeptical, I added, "They've known me all my life. They'll tell you I won't cheat."

He flushed. "Sorry, I guess that's how I sounded. What's the name of the place?"

"Farm and More. And if the Welcome Wagon woman visited already, she left a magnet for your fridge with the phone number."

He had folded his arms across his chest when we were talking about the line of credit at Farm and More, and now he let his hands fall back to his sides and laughed. "I can't believe how everyone knows everything here."

I smiled. "You'll get used to it. It's kind of like a self-monitor to avoid getting drunk at the Oktoberfest tent."

After about five minutes more walking the large yard, I realized that Syl's frame of reference seemed to be an arid climate with grass that grew slowly. "You realize that if you have all of this land mowed regularly, your mowing bills will be equal to your utilities some months?"

"Seriously?"

We had stopped by my truck. "Sad to say, but yes. You might want to think about having an acre or two mowed weekly and the rest mowed monthly, or maybe twice a month if it's real rainy."

"Will do. You're hired." He nodded and tossed over his shoulder as he turned to walk toward his front porch. "Keep up the advice."

Syl Seaton wasn't a big talker, and I decided to accept his somewhat abrupt nature as direct rather than rude.

I drove my truck forward to where the driveway was wider, did a three-point turn, and steered toward the road. When I got there, I didn't go in the direction of the blacktop and town, but drove right onto gravel, headed to my late parents' property.

It was only a mile or so from Syl's, and I put my window down to sniff the air. Unless you're near fields when they put down mushroom fertilizer, the air is perfect. Soybeans were just more than a foot tall, and a field of sweet corn was about the same. I passed our old neighbor's field of feed corn, and it was already close to three feet tall.

County road 270 took me all the way to my family's mailbox. I turned off the truck and got out. The two-story, yellow frame home with its huge attic looked the same, but the barn needed paint.

I didn't want to walk onto the property. It's tied up in a lawsuit brought by Peter Frost, who owns the farm that abuts ours on the north and west. He maintained that my parents had promised to sell it to him for what anyone would know was a ridiculous price per acre.

My brother and I knew there was no such verbal contract. Not only was my father a smart farmer, he and my mother were shrewd about business matters. The case would wend through the court system, and our family lawyer had assured my brother and me that we would not be forced to sell the farm to Frost.

In the meantime, we paid to have the property around the house mowed and contracted with two other farmers to plant and harvest corn and soybeans. Our lawyer had suggested we put any profit, which was low after two dry seasons, into an escrow account.

I got back into my truck. It wasn't that I wanted the money from the farm's sale as much as I hated being swindled.

As I drove by Syl's place on the way back to town, I thought about the hourly rate we'd agreed on. I liked it. Syl had promised to call Farm and More and order the mulch to be delivered to the end of the driveway and let Jody know I could place orders on credit in the future – not bad.

No more Hal Morris and I would get to play in the dirt.

AFTER A SUPPER of cornbread and split pea soup that I'd put in the crock pot that morning, my favorite comfort meal, I called Sandi. "It's Melanie. I owe you."

"Oh, good! Everybody feels real bad about you being gone, especially Ryan. He gets sent out for most of the pictures now, and he never aims straight. Hal gives him an earful almost every day."

I grinned. "I take it he has Hal's boot prints on his posterior."

"Nah. Ryan's uncle owns the motel, remember? He buys ads before every holiday."

I had forgotten that. The ads occasionally raised eyebrows. My favorite was a Valentine's Day ad that read, Revisit your honeymoon suite. Rates by the hour.

"When I get my first paycheck, I'll take you to lunch." I had some money left in savings, but it was going fast.

Sandi said I'd do the same for her, but when I told her I'd spring for the huge Cobb salad at the diner – fresh ham and chicken and homemade cheese – she acquiesced. The conversation left me hungry, but I would soon have a paycheck that would let me get more than cornbread and beans.

I headed for the Hy-Vee store. No grocery chain would put a store in a town this size today, but the small brick store had been built more than forty years ago. It doesn't have everything the larger Hy-Vee stores carry, but at least it's a chain store with better prices than an independent grocery.

I WAS IN THE dairy aisle when Hal's voice reached me. "Melanie Perkins! You cost me a thirty-five dollar display ad!"

I whirled toward the rancor and dropped the carton of eggs in my hand. The lid opened and one rolled out, cracking when it hit the wheel on my shopping cart.
Nuts. Does he know Sandi called me?

"You couldn't of waited one more day to knock on Syl Seaton's door?" Hal walked toward me, face red and fists clenched at his sides.

Good. Syl didn't tell him I had inside information
. "Gee, Hal. If I hadn't lost my job I wouldn't have been pounding the pavement." The image of Syl's gravel driveway came to mind, and I almost giggled.

He exploded. "I shoulda fired you two years ago. Always correcting grammar in my editorials. Taking twice as long as anybody else to finish a story."

It didn't seem like the time for a lesson in verb tense or to remind him that, because I took more time, he rarely had to edit my stories. "Gee, Hal, chill out."

He stopped only three feet away from me, which is pretty close when someone is spewing spittle.

"Do you have any idea how hard it is to get people to buy an ad? I bought that guy coffee. I…"

"Mr. Morris!" The store manager had approached from behind me.

I turned to look at Calvin Jenkins. Usually he has a smile. Not now.

"You can be heard across the store. I have to ask you to tone it down."

Hal sputtered. His face reddening even more, as he turned to walk away. Then he spun back and threw the orange he had been holding. I almost caught it, and Calvin managed to duck.

I WAS ABLE TO talk Calvin out of calling the sheriff. I was surprised he wanted to. Hal has thrown much bigger things at people at the paper, but Calvin probably didn't know that.

I fumed as I drove. My apartment is on the north side of town on a block that once held beautiful Victorian homes. The remaining ones are past their glory days, and nearly all have been subdivided into apartments. I'm fortunate to live in one of the smaller houses, a Sears bungalow that's been converted to only two units. It feels more like a private residence than an apartment.

When I got home I wandered into my garden and inspected the nearly depleted strawberries and lettuce that was almost ready to be picked. Instead of the calm I usually felt in my garden, anger began to bubble.

Who does he think he is? I was the best reporter he had
. After Fred left. By the time I'd walked the length of four forty-foot rows, I was boiling mad.

I told myself I couldn't do anything about Hal's temper, and I should be glad I found work. Maybe someday I would have a whole landscaping business. The side of my brain that has less impulse control reminded me that Hal was probably badmouthing me all over town and I'd feel better if I threw an orange at him.

I saw Mrs. Keyser looking out her kitchen window and waved, before walking toward the exterior steps leading to my apartment. I could go in the front door, but I wasn't in the mood to talk to my landlord. My stomach was tight, and the wine I'd had with the cornbread didn't taste too good as bile.

After I got into the apartment and had a minute to control my breathing, I dug the phone from my purse. Syl Seaton might not have told Hal someone had directed me to his house, but Hal could figure it out. I had to warn Sandi, so she could practice denying that she'd called me.

The call went to voice mail and Sandi's cheerful voice annoyed me, so my tone was terse. "Hey, Sandi. I ran into Hal at Hy-Vee tonight. Syl canceled the ad. I don’t think Hal knows I heard about the job from any of you guys. I kind of made it sound as if I was out knocking on doors."

I paused for a second. "Hal threw an orange at me, and Calvin Jenkins told him to pipe down. Getting fired was the best thing that could have happened to me. I'm tired of putting up with that…douche bonnet." I'd planned to call Hal a lot worse, but you never know who's listening on the line these days.

I DIDN'T KNOW if Syl slept late, so I didn't want to show up Tuesday at the proverbial crack of dawn. Anything after six seems late to me. I went by Farm and More at seven-fifteen and learned that they'd delivered the mulch at six the night before. Probably trying to impress a new customer.

I got to Syl's place at eight o'clock. His fancy truck wasn't in the driveway. I could've started earlier.

My plan was to clear the area on each side of the front steps, to put down mulch, and maybe transplant some day lilies that were in a huge patch by the barn. Their root system is fierce. It's rare even weeds crowd them out. I'd save the ivy for tomorrow.

It felt good to yank at the thick vegetation and then dig out some of the roots with the thin, steel weeder. After about fifteen minutes, I was reminded that I should be squatting rather than bending.

I stood to arch my back, and turned slowly to take in all the area in front of the house. We'd had a moist spring, so everything was green, especially the weeds along the white board fence by the street.