Murder in the Boonies: A Sleuth Sisters Mystery (The Sleuth Sisters Book 3) (24 page)

“They’re very excited,” Retta had said during her third call to finalize our (her) plans. “Iris is dignified about it, not out of control like Pansy, who keeps jumping around the kitchen singing some song about being crazy over horses. Daisy doesn’t really know what Mackinac Island is, but Pansy’s got her acting silly too.”

In my head, I defended the girl’s actions as perfectly normal for a nine-year-old. Iris was a more sedate child, to be sure. It would be nice if Retta favored sedate dogs as well as sedate children.

Faye left long before we did. Cramer would do the driving required to get the horse to its new home. Faye had quipped, “I’m the horse whisperer; Cramer’s the horse chauffeur.”

They planned to meet the retired vet in Mackinaw City and buy him breakfast in gratitude for his help. Retta, the girls, and I would meet them at the boat dock at nine, and we’d ride over together. While Faye and the men arranged for the horse’s transport, Retta and I would show the girls the Island. By late afternoon we’d be back in Mackinaw City with the newest member of Faye’s family.

The day was warm and sunny. When Retta picked me up in her Acadia, she and the girls had hats, and I realized I should have brought one too. Pansy had a Detroit Tigers ball cap that had probably once belonged to Retta’s son Tony tucked into her jeans pocket. Iris and Daisy wore straw hats about as practical for the Island as diamond tiaras. “It’ll be windy on the boat,” I warned. “Caps would stay on better.”

“These match their outfits,” Retta said as if that settled the question completely.

Retta’s phone interrupted my thoughts. She reached for it, but I beat her to it. “You’re driving.”

“It might be important.”

I read the screen. “Tiffany is calling. How important can it be?”

“I should talk to her.” Her hand flailed at me, but I pulled the phone out of her reach. “At least see what she wants.”

I hit the icon. “Retta Stilson’s phone.”

“Um…Is Retta there?”

“She’s driving.”

A long pause told me the caller didn’t see why that was a problem. “I’d like to talk to her.”

“We’ll be stopping soon,” I said. “She’ll call you then.”

When I hung up Retta said, “I can talk on the phone while I’m driving, Barbara. I do it all the time.”

“Why don’t you use that hands-free thing?”

“It doesn’t sound right, and everyone in the car would hear.”

“Better than everyone dying because you’re distracted.”

She made a sound that indicated I was being silly. “I’ll give Tif a call before we get on the boat. Look, girls! There’s the bridge!”

Mackinac Island is a little jewel set in the waters of Lake Huron on the eastern side of the Mackinac Bridge. With no cars or motorized vehicles, the place feels like a step back in time. Most visitors reach the island by ferries that run frequently during the tourist season from either Mackinaw City, at the tip of the Lower Peninsula, or St. Ignace, at the northern end of the bridge.

Retta chose the transport line with the rooster-tail ferries, thinking the girls would get a charge out of it, which they did. As we surged through the choppy water she acted as tour guide, pointing toward St. Ignace. “That’s the Upper Peninsula,” she told them. “People up there are called Yoopers, and it got added to the dictionary as an official word this year.” With a glance at me she added, “Spelled Y-O-O-P-E-R.”

We’d had the discussion before, but Retta never drops anything. My preferred spelling is Y-U-P-P-E-R, which better suggests
upper
, but that isn’t what the dictionary writers chose. Retta thinks it’s funny that my spelling is wrong according to Merriam-Webster.

Shooting her a look, I said, “Let’s go below before the wind blows someone overboard.”

In the cabin was a large banner welcoming WALL to Mackinac Island. The letters stood for something I’d heard of but couldn’t bring to mind at the moment. There’s always some sort of convention on the island between May and October, and the weather was certainly cooperating for this one. Aside from some wind, which is normal for the straits, the day was perfect.

We docked less than an hour after we boarded, following herds of chattering people, most of them women, onto the road that rings the island. The Straits of Mackinac has a long history of commerce in furs, fish, and forestry products. Today’s trade is focused on tourism, so fudge and souvenir shops abound.

There the streets were full, but we wormed our way along, giving the girls a chance to spend the mad money Retta provided. As we trailed behind them, uninterested in plastic replicas of the Mackinac Bridge and T-shirts with clever sayings, Retta observed, “The people seem better dressed than usual today. See those women in heels and skirts? And those ladies over there don’t look like tourists. No tank tops or cargo shorts.”

I muttered something neutral, uninterested in whether visitors to the island were fashion conscious or fashion clueless.

Within a half hour or so, each girl had chosen her souvenir. Daisy bought a fairy-thing with no apparent purpose, Iris (after much deliberation) got a book about Indian legends, and Pansy chose a sweatshirt that said Michigan: 100% pure. Relieved to be done with tchotchkes, I said, “Let’s show these girls some history.”

We started with Fort Mackinac, a relic of the days when Michigan was controlled by first the French and later the English. Daisy clung to Retta’s hand when they fired off the cannon, but she loved the costumed re-enactors who demonstrated various tasks and crafts of by-gone days. Pansy asked a hundred questions about voyageurs and Potawatomis and pemmican. Iris read every word of every sign. Though her diligent study slowed us down a little, I considered it well worth the time.

At noon we sat down on the hillside leading up to the fort, where the harbor lay before us like a picture postcard. From a tote bag she’d brought along Retta served up a meal fit for several queens: chicken salad and peanut butter sandwiches, zipper bags filled with vegetables cut in clever shapes, cheese in dice-sized blocks, and a half-dozen collapsible bottles filled with either lemonade or raspberry-flavored water. I wondered what it had cost her to schlepp that much weight around all morning, but she didn’t seem to mind when the girls oohed and aahed at their choices.

Faye joined us late, but one look at her face told us things had gone well. “She’s ours!” She was panting a little as she dropped down on the grass. “Doc Hopkins thinks she’ll be okay. Her lungs are weak, so she can’t pull anymore, but he says that doesn’t mean she’s going to curl up and die anytime soon.”

“That’s good.” Retta handed Faye a sandwich, which she held in one hand, too excited to take a bite until she told it all. “Cramer and Dolly got to be friends right away. Since there’s hardly room on Doc’s boat for the horse and the two of them, Doc suggested we meet them in Mackinaw City around three o’clock.”

Retta frowned. “That’s only two hours from now. We’ll have to hurry if we’re going to walk up and see the Grand Hotel.” Originally, Retta had had hopes of tea on the porch of the Grand, but that happens late in the afternoon, and Faye didn’t want to hold Doc Hopkins up. The compromise was to let the girls see the longest porch in the world up close before we left for home.

Faye looked toward the harbor. “There! They’re heading for the boat now.”

“Can we go down there?” Pansy asked. “I want to see her.”

Retta sighed at the delay but said, “You girls go along. Barb and I will clean up our picnic and meet you outside the Pink Pony.”

Much as I don’t like Retta assuming I’ll do as she says, I didn’t have a problem with waiting a day or two to be introduced to the horse. Faye and the girls headed down to the harbor, ducking through the crowds of pedestrians, carriages, and bicycle riders to get across and reach the spot where Cramer and a wiry older man led a gray horse between them. The horse looked exhausted. Its head hung low and its steps were tentative. I had a moment of pity for the poor thing: old, sick, and being led out of its comfort zone. Still, it would soon be in a place it could only have dreamed of, if horses have dreams: no work, good food, and affection.

Doc Hopkins’ boat was pulled directly onto the shore. It looked like a miniature version of the LST’s I’ve seen in WWII movies, half raft, half boat. With deft movements the vet unhooked a chain at each side and a panel at the front dropped, forming a ramp for the beast to walk on. When he made a come-along gesture, Cramer led the horse forward. Hopkins took hold of her halter on the opposite side, and together they coaxed her onto the boat. Once she was aboard, Hopkins fastened the lead rope to the boat’s stern. From the easy way he reassured her, I guessed this wasn’t the first time Doc Hopkins had rescued an island horse.

“Looks like they’ve got things under control,” Retta said behind me. “Let’s get this cleaned up and get down there. It’s a bit of a hike to the Grand.”

Much of it uphill, if I remembered correctly. “We don’t have to go up there. They saw the hotel from the ferry.”

“You can’t come to the Island and not visit the Grand.” Her tone indicated despair at my inability to comprehend the good things in life. “These girls might get adopted by people who live in another state or who never leave home. We should show them what we can while we’ve got them.”

I didn’t like the thought of the girls moving away. I’d become accustomed to having them around, and I liked the feeling of being—not like a grandmother to them, but perhaps like an aunt.

With a sigh of acquiescence, I turned to helping Retta pack up our things. Retta does some things well, and today she’d served a simple but delicious meal with hardly any trash to dispose of and only a few items to carry home. If I were jealous of people who are clever at planning social events, I’d be jealous of Retta.

Brushing the grass from our rears, we stood side by side, looking toward the public harbor to see how the Dolly situation was progressing. I squinted, since the sun turned the water into a million tiny mirrors. Taking my sunglasses from my forehead, I put them on. It helped my vision, but I realized again that I should have brought a hat. My face was going to burn and I’d have the raccoon-eye effect for the next few days.

Digging in her purse, Retta came up with a tube of sunscreen and handed it to me. I took it, muttering thanks, and she smiled, pulling the brim of her pretty little sun-hat lower. She was feeling smart for having worn it, but for once she didn’t say so out loud.

The horse was apparently secured and ready for her trip across the straits. The vet moved to the boat’s cabin and nodded at Cramer, who loosed the moorings and hopped lightly over the panel, now upright again and presumably watertight. Dolly shifted nervously at the feeling of movement, but Cramer stepped up beside her and took her head onto his shoulder, petting her neck. Her back end shifted until she found her balance then she stared ahead stoically, obedient to the requirements of mankind.

“There,” Retta said. “What time is it?” She took out her phone to look and squealed. “I got a text from Lars! How did I miss that?” Punching a key, she began reading, her face flushed with pleasure.

On the dock, Faye and the girls stood watching as the boat turned and headed out of the harbor. Daisy waved an energetic goodbye, turning her head slightly to say something to Iris. As she did, the breeze caught her straw hat and sent it spinning away. Before them a pier jutted out into the harbor in the shape of a T, creating dozens of docking slips for small boats. The hat rolled along its wooden surface like a wheel, heading straight for open water.

Faye called out something, and I thought I heard Daisy’s cry of alarm. They froze for a second. Then Pansy sprinted onto the pier, chasing the hat. Twice it lost wind power and fell flat, but each time as Pansy approached, the wind picked it up again.

Thirty feet out, where the pier turned east and west, there was a small hut, perhaps for fish-cleaning. The hat disappeared inside it, and Pansy followed.

On the far side of the hut, two boats sat side by side. One was a fishing boat with the necessary tackle visible on hooks along its sides. The other was much smaller, with an outboard motor and no visible equipment. I couldn’t see the front of either boat because of the hut. As I waited for Pansy to emerge with the hat, I heard an engine start. One of the boats backed away, turning as it went. I saw the pilot, a man larger than most who seemed likely to swamp the thing. His hulking shape was familiar, and my heart lurched in my chest.

“Barbara Ann, that’s your phone.” Retta’s thumbs sped across her keyboard, answering Lars’ text. I didn’t move, staring at the spot where Pansy had disappeared, hoping desperately to see her emerge from the hut. “Barbara,” she repeated. “Your phone!”

As I took out my phone, I tapped Retta’s shoulder to focus her attention on what was going on below us before I answered, “Barbara Evans.”

“I’ve got the girl,” a voice said. “Let’s you and me make a deal.”

“What?” My mind raced, trying to absorb what was happening.

“If you stay where you are and keep quiet, we’ll let her go in Mackinaw City. Any sign of trouble, we throw her into the straits and you can fish her out.”

As I tried to put together what I was hearing and what I was seeing, the call ended. The smaller boat was almost out of the harbor, and the larger boat was now backing away from the pier. Leaning out the cabin window was a man with dark, curly hair. He waved as if in friendly farewell, but in his hand was the Tigers baseball cap Pansy had been wearing.

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

Faye

Barb and Retta hurried down the hill toward us. I was shaking, Daisy was sobbing, and Iris looked as if she might faint. “Farrell called,” Barb told us. “He said we have to keep quiet or he’ll throw Pansy overboard.”

Iris looked at me in horror for a second then turned to Daisy. “You have to stop crying.”

That didn’t seem possible. Daisy was sobbing, but Retta took her aside, kneeling beside her so they were on eye level and speaking earnestly to the child.

“Is everything okay?” It was a young man with a baby on his back and a pregnant wife at his side.