Whom Dog Hath Joined (9 page)

Joe stuck his head in my office, and asked, “You guys ready
for a walk around the property?”

I shelved any further thoughts of Quakers and slaves as Mark
and I followed him out to the lobby, where Joey was lounging by the front door.

“I’m Joey. You must be the decorator,” Joey said, reaching
out to shake Mark’s hand.

“Mark. But I’m not really a decorator. I just have better
taste than Steve has.”

Joey looked at him and smiled. “I can see that.”

I was about to protest when Joe said, “All right, enough
flirting, you two. We’ve got work to do.”

Flirting? A dozen thoughts rushed through my head. Joey was
gay? His father knew and was comfortable enough about it to make an offhand
comment? Or was that some kind of construction site trash-talk?

Joey opened the door and ushered us out. “Gotta listen to
the boss,” he said. We filed out and walked toward the chapel, a few hundred
feet away. The Friar Lake property also included a dormitory wing, a kitchen,
and several outbuildings. The contractor Joey worked for had nearly finished clearing
out the interiors for renovation and was ready to start on the next phase.

We walked through the old dormitory, and it was a revelation
– the walls enclosing the tiny monastic cells were gone, as was the outdated
plumbing and the exposed electrical wires. The floors had been stripped down to
the original oak, and light streamed in through the multi-paned windows.

“Now you can see how this is going to shape up,” Joe said as
we walked. “There will be a covered walkway along the inside of the courtyard,
and each one of the suites will have its own entrance.”

It was exciting to be there at the birth of something
totally new, and I was eager to make my own imprint. We continued walking
through the property. By the time we’d finished with the last outbuilding, it
was nearly two and I knew Rochester would be getting antsy back at the office.
“I’ve got to get back to work,” I said. “I’ll talk to you once you have those
numbers, all right, Mark?”

“Sure. I need to get to the store myself.”

We all shook hands, and Mark and I walked back to the
office. “He seems like a good guy,” I said, probing to see what Mark thought.
“Joey.”

“I’ve sworn off men,” Mark said. “After that disaster with
Owen.” Mark had briefly dated a guy who worked for him during the summer, a
situation that hadn’t ended well.

“Going to be tough to work with him if he’s interested and
you’re not,” I said.

“He’s only interested because he doesn’t know me.”

“Well, aren’t you cheerful?” I said as we reached the
parking lot.

“He’s probably not even gay,” Mark said. “When his dad said
we were flirting? That’s the way construction guys talk.”

Well, I’d thought that at first, too, until I saw the way
Joey looked at Mark. “Uh-huh,” I said. “You can believe that if you want. See
you later.”

I found Rochester bouncing around in my office. I took him
outside and let him loose for a run around the back side of the property, away
from all the construction work.

As he neared the edge of the woods, he startled a doe and
fawn beneath a pine. The doe was darker, body poised like a bow string; beside
her, the tan and white fawn nibbled at the grass, oblivious to danger. At some
unspoken signal, they leapt away, but Rochester didn’t follow; he’d found some
more interesting smell in front of him.

While he sniffed, I called Rick Stemper. “I had my exit
interview with Santiago Santos this morning. My parole is over.”

“Congratulations.”

“Do you still have that laptop I gave you after the
intervention?” I asked. “The one that used to belong to Caroline Kelly?”

“You mean the one with all the illegal hacking software?”

“Just possessing those tools isn’t a crime,” I said.

“Yes, I still have the laptop. I have a meeting at The
Chocolate Ear at four-thirty but I could meet you over at my house after that.”

“A meeting about the case?”

“Remember Hannah Palmer, the clerk of the Meeting? Her sister
is the unofficial historian of the property, and Hannah set up an appointment
with her for me this afternoon. Why don’t I call you when I’m finished?”

“Sounds like a plan. Any news on the bones?”

“Not yet. The county ME passed the remains on to a
specialized FBI unit. They’re going to extract DNA from the bone marrow and the
teeth, which we can use if we ever find somebody to match them to. They might
even be able to do a facial reconstruction based on the skull.”

“The FBI? Cool! I’ve seen a couple of episodes of that show
about the forensic anthropologist. They’re always figuring out who the body
belongs to and how the murder was committed.”

“And they do it all in an hour,” Rick said dryly. “Including
commercial breaks.  It takes a lot longer when you live in the real world.”

I hung up as Rochester and I circled back to the office. In
addition to helping with the interior renovation of the site, I was also
responsible for designing a schedule of programs we could run. I’d been meeting
with various faculty members on campus, reading brochures from similar
operations, and brainstorming my own ideas. That afternoon I worked on a
program about Jane Austen.

We had a great professor in the English department who
specialized in women writers, and I knew there were a ton of Janeites out
there, as fans of the novelist were called. I thought we could combine a series
of discussions about Austen’s books, led by Professor Christine Jackson, with
some fun experiences, like a costume tea party, an examination of Austen fan
fiction, and an afternoon of music from Austen’s era directed by a
musicologist, along with some demonstrations of the types of dances featured in
the novels.

I spent the afternoon working out the details for that
program. Around four, Lili called. “I really wanted to celebrate with you
tonight,” she said. “But one of my adjunct photography professors has the
stomach flu, and I have to take over her class.”

“What time will you be finished?”

“She scheduled a field trip to take photos of Leighville
after dark, so I won’t be done until late. And after herding a dozen kids all
over town I’m sure I’ll be exhausted. Would you hate me if I just went home and
went to sleep?”

“I’d never hate you,” I said. “Don’t worry, we’ll see each
other later in the week.”

“Thanks for understanding,” she said. “Love you.”

“Love you too.”

Well, that sucked, I thought, as I hung up. I had pretty
much made my decision about having her move in, and I’d thought we would talk
more about it that night. And I’d been looking forward to sharing my happiness
about the meeting with Santos with her, too.

I looked at the clock. Well, if I couldn’t hang out with
Lili, Rick was a solid second choice. I could head down to Stewart’s Crossing
and catch him as his meeting with Hannah Palmer’s sister was ending. Especially
after what Mark had told me about the Quakers helping runaway slaves, I was
curious to know more about the history of the Meeting.

And if I happened to get to the café a few minutes early and
added myself to his appointment… what was he going to do? Call me a party
crasher? He’d called me a lot worse in the past when I’d snooped in his
investigations.

10 – War Hero

My aged BMW sedan was the last relic of my life in Silicon
Valley. I could still remember the thrill of buying it right after Mary and I
moved out there from New York. It was the first car I bought new, and when I
financed it for five years I never dreamed I’d still have it for so long. It
got me and Rochester from point A to point B, and sometimes that was as far as
I wanted to go.

Rochester loved to ride in the car. He plopped his big
golden butt on the passenger seat and pressed his nose against the window.
“What’s the matter, haven’t figured out how to operate the switch yet?” I
asked. I pressed the one on my side of the car and the window slid down. He
stuck his head out, and the gold fur on the back of his neck fluttered like a
bunch of Tibetan prayer flags. I bet that if I showed him how the switch on his
side worked, he’d master it quickly.

Rochester and I pulled up in front of the café as Rick
approached on foot from the police station, a half a block away. When I opened
his door, Rochester jumped out to greet him, licking his hands as if he’d
dipped them in doggie treats. “What are you doing here?” he asked me.

“Lili has to work tonight and I thought maybe we could get a
beer together after you’re finished, celebrate my release.”

“Or you thought you could insert yourself and your dog into
my meeting.” He shook his head. “I ought to make you get right back in your car
and leave.”

“But then you’d just have to tell me what you learned,” I
said. “Better I should get it first hand, right?”

“Who says I’d have to tell you?”

“Because you’re a dedicated police officer who recognizes
the importance of using all the resources available to solve crimes and protect
the people of Stewart’s Crossing.”

He laughed. “And you’re a major bullshit artist. Fine, you
can stay.”

Rick and I staked out a round wrought-iron table on the
sidewalk. I waved at Gail’s mother Lorraine through the window, and she came
out to greet us. “We’re going to be four,” I said. “Including Rochester, that
is.”

“I always include him,” she said, scratching his head. He
opened his mouth in an exaggerated yawn, then settled to the ground.

“Café mocha for me,” I said. “One of Gail’s special biscuits
for the hound.”

Rick ordered an iced tea, and Lorraine promised to have
everything out right away.

“Do you know Hannah’s sister?” I asked Rick when she’d gone.

“Don’t think so, but you never know in StewCross. Her name’s
Tammy and she must be a few years younger than we are. Hannah says she
described me.”

“Not too accurately, I hope, or else she might not show up.”

He held up his middle three fingers and said, “Read between
the lines.”

We were both laughing when a huge SUV pulled up at the curb
in front of us, and a tall, leggy blonde in a pink and white sundress stepped
out. She was in her late thirties and almost fashion-model beautiful, with a smooth
face, demure lipstick, and a flash of white teeth. A silver heart on a matching
chain rested above the cleft of her breasts.

“Hi, Rick!” she said, waving as she closed the door.

“Crap,” Rick whispered to me, and it looked almost like he
was blushing. “I know her. That’s Tamsen Morgan. Her son plays in the Pop
Warner league I help coach.”

Rick jumped up, knocking his metal chair backwards. “Hi,
Tamsen,” he said to her. “When Hannah called you Tammy I didn’t realize that we
already knew each other.”

“Hannah’s almost the only one who calls me that anymore,”
she said. “And it’s funny, I never knew your last name – the kids all call you Coach
Rick. When my sister told me I was meeting with Detective Stemper I had no idea
it was you.” She raised her eyebrows. “Though she did say you were very
handsome. I should have guessed—there aren’t that many handsome men around
Stewart’s Crossing.”

“Excuse me?” I asked. “There are other guys present at this
table.”

Tamsen turned her smile on me. “Yes, who is this
good-looking fellow?” She stuck her palm out to Rochester, and Rick guffawed.

“That’s Rochester the crime dog,” Rick said. “And the human
attached to him is my friend Steve. You don’t mind if he joins us, do you?”

“Not at all.” Tamsen and I shook hands. Lorraine came out
with our drinks and Rochester’s biscuit, and Tamsen ordered a coffee for
herself. “God knows I need the caffeine. I have to pick up Justin in half an
hour and he’ll keep me running until bedtime.” She sighed. “Sometimes I wish he
was more like his cousin Nathaniel, who can actually sit still for more than
five minutes. But then, when Nathaniel wants something, he’s relentless. He
wants a dog right now, and he won’t let up until he gets one. Justin has a bit
of ADD – he jumps around from one thing to the next. If I ever take him to a Meeting
I have to let him run around in the back of the building.”

“Justin’s eight,” Rick said to me. “He’s very energetic.”

“He’s a holy terror,” Tamsen said. “Not exactly an exemplar
of the Quaker ideals of peace and serenity. He’s his father’s boy through and
through.”

Her words reminded me of the two children that Mary had
miscarried. We never asked their sex, because we thought at the time it would
make them less real to either of us. No such luck.

“Your husband must be glad to have a son,” I said, picking
up my coffee.

“He was so proud when Justin was born. I think he showed
baby pictures to every soldier in Iraq. And then he was killed outside Fallujah
four years ago.”

I put the coffee down without drinking. “I’m so sorry.”

“We met in college. I was a shy Quaker freshman and he was a
sharp-looking junior in ROTC. You can imagine what my parents thought of my
dating – and then marrying – a  soldier. I moved away from the Friends until
after his death, when they welcomed me back.”

Lorraine delivered Tamsen’s coffee. After a sip, she said, “Oh,
that’s good,” and sighed with pleasure. Then she looked at Rick. “Hannah said
you had some questions about the history of the Meeting?”

“Did she tell you about the body we found behind a false
wall along the north side of the building?” Rick asked.

“Yes. It really shook her up. She’s so devoted to the Quaker
ideals that she felt it as a personal violation.” She took another sip of her
coffee. “So, here’s a capsule history. The first Friends arrived in Stewart’s
Crossing in the early 1800s. At the start they met in a field down by the
river. God is everywhere, you know.”

I glanced over at Rick, who was staring at her like she was
the only woman left on earth.

“The Meeting House was built in sections, as you might have
guessed from the different materials,” Tamsen continued. “The center section
with the fireplace was first, in 1825. The north wing was built in the 1850s,
and the center section opened up to one big space, and the minister’s gallery
on the south side was enlarged, too. The kitchen didn’t come until later,
around the turn of the century.”

“Rick said he learned something about the Meeting House
being a way station on the Underground Railroad,” I said. “And then another friend
of mine suggested that the false wall might have been constructed to hide
slaves.”

“I’ve heard about false walls at other Meeting Houses. But I
didn’t realize that ours  had one until… well, you know.” Rochester nosed at
her leg, and she leaned down to pet him. “There’s something else tickling
around in the back of my mind. Let me think for a minute.”

She closed her eyes, still absently petting Rochester. I
noticed Rick had a sappy grin on his face as he stared at her. I’d have fun
teasing him about that later.

Tamsen opened her eyes again. “I know there’s something, but
I can’t seem to retrieve it.”

“You mentioned that you let Justin run around in the back of
the Meeting House,” I said. “Did you do that yourself when you were a kid?”

“Oh, sure. Hannah and I knew every corner of that building.”
Her mouth opened. “That’s what I was trying to remember.” She put her hand on
my arm. “Steve, you’re a genius.”

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Rick frowning, and I
thought,
Take that, Frank Hardy.

“What did you remember?” Rick asked.

“When Hannah and I were kids, maybe eight or ten, the lock
on the door to that storage closet was broken and we used to hide there
sometimes. One day Eben Hosford discovered us, and he had a fit. I remember he
told our parents that it wasn’t safe back there, and he volunteered to repair
the door and put on a new lock.”

“That’s the old hippie who sells soap?” I asked.

“Yes. Sometimes I find it hard to believe he’s really a
Friend. Despite the hippie exterior there’s something very angry inside him.”

“Do you think he knew about the false wall?” Rick asked.

She shrugged. “I remember how nasty he was, and how Hannah
and I were mad that we’d lost our special hiding place.”

“Do you know anyone who might have known about it?” Rick
asked.

“Maybe one of our older members.” She thought for a minute.
“Steer clear of Eben, though. He’s been very opposed to the reconstruction
project, and he’s gotten even crankier as he’s gotten older.” Her eyes lit up.
“You know who you could talk to? Edith Passis. She was very active in the Meeting
in the 1960s, before she got married. Do you know her?”

“I used to take piano lessons from her, back in the day,” I
said. Rick was looking moon-faced so I kicked him in the shin. “Rick knows her,
too. He helped her out when her identity was stolen last year.”

Tamsen looked at Rick. “Well, well. Good with kids and kind
to elderly ladies.”

“Don’t forget the handsome part,” I threw in, and Rick
glared at me.

Tamsen laughed. “I’ve got Edith’s number in my cell. Want me
to call her for you?”

Maybe it was the meeting with Santos that morning, which
reminded me of my incarceration, but for a moment I thought she meant prison
cell. But as soon I realized my error, I said, “That would be great,” before
Rick could protest. She dug a phone out of her shoulder bag and pressed a
couple of buttons.

“It’s Tamsen Morgan, Edith,” she said. “I’m here with Rick
Stemper from the police, and his friend Steve. They want to ask you a couple of
questions about the Meeting House. I’m going to put you on speaker.” She pressed
a button and laid the phone on the table.

“Hello, Edith. We don’t want to bother you,” Rick began.

“No bother at all. This is about what you found on Saturday,
isn’t it? There’s no time like the present. Can you come over here? I’m not
busy, just noodling around at the piano.”

All throughout my youth, Edith had given piano lessons to
the talented and the tone-deaf; I fell squarely into the second category,
though Edith and I had both endured about three years’ worth of lessons, only
ending when I was able to substitute Hebrew School. I knew she still gave the
occasional lesson at her home, though she had stopped teaching advanced
students at Eastern a year before.

“We’re downtown,” Rick said. “Give us about fifteen
minutes.”

Tamsen she picked up the phone and as she ended the call she
must have noticed the time. “Gosh, I’ve got to go,” she said, then drained the
last of her coffee. When she stood up, Rick and I jumped to our feet, too. Our
mothers would have been proud of our manners.

“Thank you for coming over,” Rick said. “I appreciate your
insight.”

“It was my pleasure. It’s nice to see you when you’re not
surrounded by a horde of pre-adolescent boys.” She shook hands with both of us.
“I’ll see you on Saturday?” she asked Rick.

“Sure. I’ll be there.”

I noticed Rick watch her walk back to her SUV. “Put your
tongue back in your mouth,” I said to him when she was out of hearing range.
“You’re not Rochester.”

“I wasn’t looking at her.”

“Sure you were. And she seemed to like you, too.” I raised
my voice to sound like a child’s. “She called you handsome!”

He glared at me. He pulled a couple of bills out of his wallet
and tucked them under his iced tea glass.

“So. You going to ask her out?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Her husband was a war hero. I can’t
compete with that.”

“He’s dead, Rick. And she’s still alive, and she’s
beautiful, and she’s interested in you.” I beeped my car open. “You want me to
drive us over to Edith’s?”

“Only if you drop this. She said I was handsome. Big deal.”

I batted my eyes and put a seductive curl in my voice. “See
you Saturday?”

“Jerk.” He opened the back door of the BMW and ushered
Rochester in, then sat in the front as I got in and started the car. “We’ll
have to drop your dog somewhere, though. I’m not taking him over to Edith’s.”

Rochester knew we were talking about him and he looked up.
“What, you think he’ll want to play the piano?” I asked.

“With your dog? I never know.”

11 – Making a Difference

It was closer to drop Rochester at Rick’s house, so I headed
that way. “Who was the friend you mentioned to Tamsen?” Rick asked as we drove.

“I told you, I talked to Mark Figueroa today. He’s doing
some work for me up at Friar Lake.” I repeated my conversation with him to
Rick, and he took a couple of notes.

Rick had bought the sixties ranch house where he grew up
from his parents when they retired to a trailer park in central Florida. After
he and Rascal began agility training, he set up a small course in his fenced-in
backyard for practice. We left Rochester back there with Rascal, both of them
running and chasing each other around. Then we drove the extra mile to Edith’s.

She still lived in the same house, a cheerful red Cape Cod a
few blocks from the house where I grew up, in the Lakes neighborhood south of
downtown Stewart’s Crossing. She opened her front door as I parked in front of
the house.

“Come on in. Would you like some lemonade?”