Fruit of All Evil (7 page)

“No Linda listed,” Sam said as he carefully snapped the phone shut. “I'll look up the other numbers and let you know.”

“You'll let me know?” I tried not to sound like I was thinking about Ian.

“Yeah, I'll give you a call. I'll have to have more conversations with Linda anyway. I'll let her know first.”

“Thanks, Sam.” I tried to sound sincere, but I couldn't make room in my thoughts for anything other than my curiosity as to why Madeline had called Ian. I didn't even know the two of them knew each other.

“Anything else I can do for you?” Sam asked. I caught the sarcasm this time.

“No, I'm good. Really, thanks. I'll talk to you soon.”

“Becca, are you okay?” he asked, no sarcasm.

“Oh, I'm . . . I'll be fine.” I smiled and tried to sweep away the questions in my mind. “You know that Madeline had lots of enemies, don't you?”

“I'm aware of who she was and what she did. We have many avenues to explore.”

I nodded.

“Take care, Becca,” Sam said. He nodded, looked away, and left the room. There wasn't any need for me to be there either, so I followed him down the front hall and out the door.

We'd been at Madeline's house for almost three hours, and though it was dark outside except for some yard lighting, the fresh air was delicious. I took in big pulls as I stood on the wide front porch. I didn't know where the other party guests had gone, but Ian was sitting on the open tailgate of his truck.

Officer Vivienne Norton crossed the other side of the yard. She looked at me with surprise. We'd gotten to know each other during the Simonsen murder case, and she was the burliest woman (maybe man, too) I'd ever met. I saw surprise in her eyes as she realized that I was in the middle of another horrible event. Her eyes hardened as she waved—was I the killer this time? I waved back and then stepped off the porch toward Ian.

“Some dinner,” I said.

“Yeah, that was rough. You okay? Did you give Sam—I mean Officer Brion—the phone?”

“Yes.” I hopped up on the tailgate next to him.

“Good. I bet he wasn't happy that you had it.”

“Thanks for not telling him.”

“No problem. I knew you'd confess.”

“Yeah.”

The temperature was perfect, cool and warm at the same time. The air was fresh and clean, and as I looked up at the first twinklings of stars, for probably the millionth time in my life, I was grateful I didn't live in a big city.

“Who do you suppose did that to her?” I asked.

“I have no idea.”

“Have you talked to anyone else?” I asked.

“No, everyone else left. Except for you and me, everyone was taken down to the police station.”

“Really? You saw them? Linda, too?”

“Yep. Sam talked to me out here. He told me that everyone said you and I were the last ones to arrive and we were always in view of someone. But everyone else has some explaining to do, apparently.”

“Oh, gosh. Poor Linda! I hope she's okay.”

“I hope she has a good attorney,” Ian said.

The thought that my best friend, mild-mannered, pioneer-dressing pie baker Linda McMahon, could have committed a murder dug a pit in my stomach.

“Do you think someone else at the party was the killer?”

“I don't have any idea. No one acted too strange—well, like they'd just taken someone's life, at least. They're an interesting bunch.”

“Yeah, I wish we'd had a little more time with them. Did Sam tell you anything else?” I asked.

“No.”

A sudden chill shook my limbs.

“You cold?” Ian reached for the jacket he'd removed and put in the bed of the truck.

“No, just . . .”

“I know. Too strange, huh? Come on, let's get out of here.” Ian hopped off the tailgate and reached as though he was going to help me do the same.

“Hang on, Ian . . .”

“What is it?'

I hesitated, because the fact that Madeline Forsyth had called Ian was probably none of my business.

But I couldn't help myself.

“I have a question.”

“Yes?”

“Madeline Forsyth called you today,” I said, no question to my voice, as I looked into his dark eyes. I loved those dark eyes and everything else attached to them. I had to know why the murder victim had called my boyfriend on the day she died.

Ian smiled.

“I've been caught, huh?” he said quietly.

“I don't know. Have you?”

“Yep.” Ian looked away and back at the house. His smile faded. “Come on, let's get out of here, and I'll tell you all about my affair with Madeline Forsyth.”

As Ian's truck ticked off the miles, I began to fight a good
dose of delayed-reaction willies. Mostly deep in our own thoughts, we were quiet for the trip back through town. We bypassed his apartment and my dog, and then headed out the other side of Monson, more toward my farm. I was curious about Ian and Madeline, of course, but I was fairly certain they hadn't had
that
kind of an affair.

Madeline Forsyth had been murdered, and we'd seen the body. And we just might have sat at the dinner table with the killer or killers—two potential suspects being my friend and her fiancé. Oddly, the farther we traveled from Madeline's house, the more real the murder became.

I was grateful when we hit the open fields on the other side of town and suddenly I felt like I could breathe again. I knew Ian felt the same. I heard him take a deep breath, too.

“I know,” I said. “Too much, huh?”

“Lots to process. I hope they catch whoever did it quickly.”

“Me, too.”

A moment later Ian turned onto a road I was very familiar with; I had grown up with my sister and hippie parents on this road, most commonly known as “the road right before the state highway.” When I was a kid, we had to have a box in the town post office because our address didn't seem to be easy to understand. Rural Route 6 was mostly dirt with a few big rocks thrown in here and there, meant to wreak havoc on nice vehicles and new tires. The hidden road suited my parents just fine; they loved living out in the country with as few visitors as possible. They were making up for it now as they traveled the country in an RV, experiencing as much of America as they could before they passed on to the next realm—hippie parents didn't ever die, they just packed up and hitched a ride to their next journey. I wasn't sure I believed the same things they did, but there was something comforting in their beliefs.

“Ian? Where are we going?” I asked. The turn onto the familiar path erased the image of Madeline's body from of my mind.

“You'll see.” Ian maneuvered his truck over a rough patch like he'd done it a time or two before.

When the road suddenly smoothed, I peered out the windshield and into the gloom.

“The road, it's been paved?” I said.

“From here on out for a while.”

“I haven't been down this way in a long time.”

“I know. Your family moved into town when you were fourteen, right?”

“You knew I lived out here?”

“Yeah. Allison and I discussed it. She's the one who told me about this area.”

“Why?”

“You'll see, but first we'll stop here briefly. Take a look if you'd like.”

Though I hadn't lived on Rural Route 6 for about twenty years, I had driven out this way now and then, but the last time had been over five years earlier. Ian pulled to the side of the road, and I peered at the house of my childhood. I wasn't all that sentimental, but I loved seeing that the small house had been well taken care of. I couldn't see very well because of the darkness, but the porch light was on, illuminating some big-bellied flower pots here and there on the tiny front lawn.

“My parents wanted us to grow up in the ‘wilderness,' ” I said. “They loved it out here and managed to save a bunch of money. This house, along with the land, didn't cost them much at all. When it was time for high school, we moved into town. There they became business-savvy and bought a bunch of rental properties. They never worried about money.”

“Did you miss the country?”

“I dunno, probably. Allison and I had a great time no matter where we were, but I suppose I must have missed it, because that's where I ended up again. You know, it must be an evening for memories—this is where we lived when we got the deliveries from the Loder Dairy that we were talking about at dinner. Funny how stuff like that happens, huh?”

“Synchronization,” Ian said.

There was a light on in the front window of the house, and though I didn't feel a strong connection to the building, I liked the warm feeling that emanated from the window.

“Ready?” Ian asked.

“Yes, but only if you're going to tell me about this affair with Madeline Forsyth.”

“Ah, yes, the affair.” Ian pulled the truck back onto the road. “Well, it was pretty wild, really.”

“Uh-huh.”

“We're almost there. Hang on a minute.”

A few seconds later, Ian pulled the truck to the side of the road again.

“Here we are,” he said as he put the truck into Park and got out. He reached behind the driver's seat for a flashlight and came around to open my door.

“Where are we?” I asked.

He turned and looked out at a long stretch of land that I could barely see by the milky light from the rising moon. From where we were, the land looked rough, and a small shack that sat in the middle of it looked even rougher.

“This is my affair with Madeline Forsyth.”

“Okay.” I got out of the truck, and we walked to the edge of the property.

“Supposedly this land is going into foreclosure. Allison sent me out here long before that happened, by the way. I was attempting to purchase it when the owner got the foreclosure notice from Madeline . . . well, from Central Savings and Loan. Madeline was . . . well, she was being difficult about the entire thing. The owner, Bud Morris, is an old guy who doesn't need to be dealing with any of this. He claims there's no way his land could be in foreclosure, but Madeline hadn't been returning his calls. I intervened recently, and I had left her a message. When I saw her at Bailey's this morning, I actually wondered if she was there to see me. Her path directly to Linda told me otherwise, of course. When I realized we'd be having dinner with her, I thought I might approach her then—even if it would be bad manners. Then she called this afternoon, but I was too busy to answer the phone. She left a brief ‘call me back' message, which is why you saw my number on her phone.” Ian paused. “I think it's good I came along, or Bud might have been scared out of his home.”

“Wait, what? Start over. You want to buy this property, work this land, live in that terrible shack?”

“Yep.”

“Why?” I wished for daylight. In the darkness, the soil seemed rocky and not fertile; the shack leaned enough that a good sneeze would be the end of it.

“One word: lavender.”

“Lavender?”

“Yes.”

“Ian, really, start over. Start from the beginning.”

He smiled and reached out his hand. “Come with me.”

I took his hand. “Does Bud live in that shack?”

“Yes.”

“Will he shoot at us for trespassing?”

“No. His hearing isn't all that great.”

“Lead the way.”

The land was rough and kind of rocky, but maybe not as rocky as I originally thought. I didn't want to voice my doubts, but I still couldn't understand why this was a good decision.

After we'd walked about thirty yards, we reached a small lift of land.

“There, now you can see the whole thing.” Ian swept the flashlight in a circle. “Well, sort of. Clearly, we'll have to come back when the sun's up.”

I looked around. The land and shack were positioned nicely amid rolling hills, but my impression still wasn't of fertile, healthy dirt.

“Lavender?” I said. “I don't know a thing about it. Oh, except that it's purple.” The mention of the color made me think of Madeline's decorating taste, but I put those thoughts to the back of my mind again.

Ian laughed. “Yes, you're correct. Would you like a quick lesson?”

“Yes.”

“It's one of the most useful herbs. It can be dried, it can be used in cooking—I make a mean lavender cookie—but I'm going to grow it and mostly create oils, essential oils. I'm going to tear down the shack and build a better house and a workshop for my sculptures and for a place to create the essential oils. I'll be able to do both.”