Lie of the Needle (A Deadly Notions Mystery) (19 page)

As I passed the guest room, I could hear soft sobs inside. I knocked gently. At a murmured “Come in,” I opened the door. Jasper barreled in ahead of me and leapt up onto Martha’s bed. He licked the tears from her face until she gave a watery laugh, and then settled himself against the length of her body with a grunt. Martha threw her arm around him. “Oh, Jasper is just the best therapy in the world. What’s better than hugging a fuzzy warm animal when you’re feeling low?”

I smiled and sat on the edge of the bed next to them. This had been Sarah’s old room, until I’d recently redone another one down the hall in a more elegant style for when she came to stay. This one was painted a powder blue, there was a light blue comforter on the bed dotted with white daisies, and some of Sarah’s childhood artwork was framed on the walls.

Martha sniffed. “In a way this is worse than when Teddy died. At least I knew what happened to him. The not knowing about Cyril, it’s so awful.”

I touched her cheek, feeling the trace of a tear that Jasper had missed.

“And I’d gotten used to being alone. I didn’t always like it, but I was used to it. On an even keel, as it were. Now I’m all messed up.”

The angst about keeping this secret from her ripped away at my heartstrings again. How much of the game could I give away and still protect the end zone?

“You know, Martha, I feel like Cyril is out there, alive, somewhere. I don’t know how I know. Sometimes there are feelings that you just can’t explain.” I kept rambling on, not really knowing what I was saying, but stroking her hair until I felt a sigh escape her. “Don’t lose faith, okay?”

“This is nice, Daisy,” she said in a sleepy voice. “Thank you.” Some of the tension was gone from her face. “I feel so safe here.” I hoped she would sleep. She certainly looked exhausted. I tucked the covers around her, like I’d done for Sarah when she was a child.

*   *   *

T
he next morning, when I woke up, I had to blink at the alarm clock several times. Maybe it was wrong because of the power outage. There was no way it was 10 a.m. I peered at my cell phone and gasped. I threw on my robe and hurried downstairs to find Joe and Martha in the kitchen.

“I can’t believe I slept so late,” I said as I slid an arm around Joe.

He held a finger to his lips and pointed toward the tiled floor of the pantry, where we kept a dog bed. Our ungainly puppy was curled up in it, and His Nibs was snuggled up in the curve of Jasper’s tummy.

“How the heck did he get in here?” I whispered to Joe.

Jasper looked up at the sound of my voice, but didn’t get up, merely thumped his tail gently. Usually he was raring to go for his breakfast and walk, but he must have been worn out from the excitement of the day before, plus still full of the treats from PJ. The cat slitted an eye and closed it again. Jasper probably felt like a giant electric blanket.

“I saw the little guy hanging around the yard when I let Jasper out for the last pee of the night,” Joe said with a chuckle. “It was snowing like the dickens, and he must have slipped in without me noticing.”

“Never mind,” I said. “I’m glad he’s here.”

Martha was busy flipping crepes onto a plate and sprinkling them with vanilla sugar. Sarah and Peter trailed into the kitchen a couple of minutes later, and I sipped my coffee in pleasure. Our huge sprawling house had come alive with all our guests.

After we gorged ourselves on crepes, brandied apricot jam, whipped cream, and toasted pecans, plus fresh fruit and gallons of coffee, Martha announced that she and Sarah were going Black Friday shopping at the Montgomery Mall. “Want to come, Daisy?”

I shuddered. “No, thanks.” While I could putter around a flea market for hours, shopping for clothes, especially in a huge shopping center, wasn’t really my thing.

Joe leaned back in his chair. “I’m going to put up the Christmas lights with Peter’s help.” He smiled, obviously relishing the idea of having a new son-in-law to do “guy things” with on holidays.

Every year at this time, there was a grim competition with the neighbor across the street to see who could string them up first.

“We usually hang icicle lights along the edge of the roof between the pillars and greens wrapped with light strands along the top of the fence,” Sarah said to Peter.

“And this year, for the front door, I thought I might make a wreath out of wine corks,” I said. “We have almost enough left over from last night.” Everyone laughed as I nodded toward our recycle container.

But when we went out onto the porch with the battered cardboard boxes we’d retrieved from the basement, the Victorian across from us was already lit up, with every gable, window, door, and stick of picket fence illuminated.

“I don’t believe this!” Joe exclaimed. “I thought I might beat him this time. He must have been doing it at midnight, the bastard. Come on, son, we’ve got to get to work.”

Peter grinned at me and downed the rest of his coffee. “I’ll get up on the ladder, Joe. You can hand the stuff to me.”

“Are you inferring that old people should not get up on ladders?”

Peter’s smile grew wider. “Certainly not, sir.”

I left them to their male bonding. I fed the cat a can of tuna fish, but when I opened the back door to take Jasper out for a walk, His Nibs slipped out and was gone.

Jasper and I met lots of other people out walking their dogs on this holiday morning, where the snow-covered village seemed to have its faults filled in by the smooth layer of white. Like a celebrity in the glow of a spotlight, with her lines softened and wrinkles washed away.

Eleanor’s comment about dogs living in the present echoed in my mind. You only had to watch Jasper diving in the snow, shaking it off, and doing it again to realize that, whereas my mind was already bounding ahead.

When we got home it would take forever to dry him off. I hoped I’d left a stack of old towels in the pantry near the back door and—

I stopped stock-still on the street. I wasn’t really present in this beautiful scene, right here, right now. I stared up at the sky that was so bright, it was almost painful to look at, feeling the bite in the air that said more snow was on the way. I made a snowball and threw it for Jasper, laughing as he dove after it. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of a black shadow skipping through front yards, following his own path, but never far behind us.

After I brought Jasper home, I decided to go to Cyril’s trailer and pick up food for the cat. If he was going to hang out at our place for the time being, I’d need to keep some of his kibble on hand.

I opened the door warily, but the trailer was quiet and untouched. This time, I wasn’t about to leave any stone unturned. I touched the stove, which was cold, and the plant in the corner, which felt a bit dry. I filled the kettle and poured some water into the hanging basket.

There were no new papers in the recycle bin and no food gone from the cabinets. I scooped a few meals’ worth of kibble into the plastic bag I’d brought and locked up the trailer again.

How on earth was Cyril coping in this weather without a home? It made me think again of the journey of the slaves to Pennsylvania and what they must have endured. Some without proper clothing or shoes, traveling cold and scared in their desperate bids for freedom.

Why the heck was he still hiding? If Cyril had been reading the local newspapers, Althea’s hit-and-run was front-page news. He should know it was safe to come out now.

I couldn’t stand the bitter cold for more than a few minutes, even with my gloves and boots, and I couldn’t wait to get back in the car and turn on the heat. I set the cat’s food on the passenger seat and was about to leave when it occurred to me that I hadn’t checked out the back of the salvage yard on my recent visits. I blew on my fingers, got out of the car again, and trudged around behind the trailer, where there was a veritable graveyard of old automobiles.

In the middle was a rusty Ford pickup truck that had sat there as long as I’d known Cyril. In the summer it would become almost completely overgrown with masses of purple morning glories clambering over its roof and through its windows. Now it was a white skeleton, but the classic shape was still recognizable.

I shivered and squinted at the landscape littered with truck caps, grappling hooks, and oil drums, willing my intuition to guide me to the right spot. I’d sat at Cyril’s kitchen table and stared out at this view enough times that I should be able to spot something different.

Suddenly the weather vane popped into my mind. Were its arms pointing in a different direction today? I ran back inside the trailer and stood next to it, raising my own arms in the same way, trying to imprint the angle in my mind. I hurried back outside again, and suddenly I saw it. I ran over to a towering pile of tires and sheet metal, peered through a gap, and underneath was Cyril’s truck.

Frantically, I pulled away some tires so that I could squeeze through a gap. When I yanked open the driver’s door, on the front seat was the old camera I’d given to Alex Roos.

I
picked it up with shaking fingers. I couldn’t quite tell in the dim light inside the cab, but it looked like there was a roll of film inside the camera. There was something else on the seat, too, and as I touched it, I realized it was a CD. I didn’t know if it was important, but I stuffed it in the pocket of my jacket anyway, slung the camera around my neck, and got out of the truck. I rearranged the tires as best I could around it and hoped that the next snow forecast for tonight would erase any footprints.

Once I was safely back in my car, I cranked up the heat and, with my teeth chattering, drove to Sheepville and the police station. I knew Serrano was in New York with his family for Thanksgiving, but I called his cell anyway and left a message about my discovery. I gave strict instructions to the officer on duty that there might be critical information contained on the film and to get the pictures developed as quickly and carefully as possible.

When I got back in the car, something in my pocket jabbed me in the hip as I fastened my seat belt. I pulled the CD out of my coat pocket.
Van Lear Rose
by Loretta Lynn. As far as I knew, Cyril wasn’t a fan of country music. If he listened to music at all, it was usually blues.

Why this one?

I slipped the disc into the player, and country music with garage rock overtones resonated in the car. As Loretta belted out a duet with Jack White about getting drunk on pitchers of sloe gin fizz, I sucked in a breath. Loretta Lynn.
The coal miner’s daughter.

The canary in the mine.
Was
bonny castle
also something to do with mining?

I raced back to Millbury, or rather, drove as fast as I could given the condition of the roads. The store was closed today, and after I opened the door, I locked it behind me, not turning on the lights. Before I could switch on my computer, my phone rang.

It was Serrano. “Got your message. We’re getting those photos developed as we speak.”

“Thanks, and I honestly can’t wait to see them, but you didn’t have to call me back. You’re on vacation, after all.”

He grunted. The detective was the type who couldn’t ever really relax. He was happiest when he was working. “By the way, Daisy, you can eliminate Jim McIntire from your list of suspects. We brought him in for questioning as to where he was on the night of Roos’s murder. He’s in the clear. Works a second job as a night security guard. He clocked in and out, plus there’s the camera surveillance.”

“Poor man,” I murmured, remembering Sally’s massive diamond ring. “He must be exhausted from working two jobs.”

“Yeah, sounds like his wife is an expensive proposition. Oh, and someone matching the description of Flint the finance guy got on a plane to Belize several days after the funeral. We’re trying to track him down now. Gotta go. I’ll be back in town tomorrow, and I’ll come see you then.” He was gone before I had a chance to say good-bye.

I turned on the computer and ran a search for “bonny castle.” In between the references to towns in Kentucky and Canada, I finally found a Bonny Castle Mine in Cambria County, Pennsylvania. It was shut down now, mainly due to the fact that years ago, there had been a tragic roof collapse. Eight miners were trapped inside, and two of the men died. I stared at the photos of the rescuers with grime-covered faces and resolute expressions standing outside the mine shaft.

I scoured the Web for more stories, reading one newspaper account after another. The owner was fined heavily for repeatedly ignoring safety warnings from his engineer and for pushing the men to keep drilling.

I felt the familiar zing down my spine as I unearthed the next article. “And guess who the attorney was who represented that owner, Alice?”

Alice looked at me, but didn’t try to guess.

“Frank Fowler! The plot thickens, eh?”

I kept reading. Stories from long ago about mules, women, and children pulling loads of coal out of the mines. It seemed as though people were expendable, but if a mule died, there was hell to pay. Mules were expensive.

My blood chilled as I came across a photo of a child worker, a packet of chewing tobacco in his top pocket. The pictures of men going into the dark opening of the entrance made a light prickle of sweat break across my forehead. There was no way I could do that job, not for a million dollars. Even the thought of going underground into a long black tunnel was enough to set off a panic attack.

How brave was Cyril to do that kind of work, day after day?

I looked away from the screen and wondered what he was trying to tell me. And why mention a coal miner’s daughter? Did the mine owner have a daughter? I spent the next hour searching, but came up short.

On a whim, I pulled up Nancy Fowler’s bio. It was the most generic summary of any politician I’d ever seen, and nothing in any press release said anything about her early years or where she was from.

I called PJ Avery and brought her up to speed.

“Think I’m gonna take a road trip out to Western Pennsylvania to see what I can dig up in person,” PJ said. “There’s only so much you can find out online.”

Outside the windows of Sometimes a Great Notion, large flakes of snow were swirling down. “I don’t think you should be going anywhere in this weather, young lady.”

There was a long sigh on the other end of the line. “Daisy, you worry too much.”

“Look, please be careful,” I begged. “And not just with the driving. I haven’t figured out what the heck is going on here, but whatever it is, one man is dead, another is missing, and an elderly woman is fighting for her life over at Doylestown Hospital.”

I bit my lip as I hung up, wondering if I should have kept my mouth shut. PJ was a lot like me in many ways—barreling ahead on her own agenda, throwing caution to the wind, with scant regard for her own safety.

I locked up the store and walked back to the house. Sarah and Peter were leaving in the morning, and we’d planned on one last special dinner. The snow was quickly accumulating. There was about a two-inch layer on the cars along Main Street already, and it had only been snowing for half an hour. When I got to our house, Joe had come outside to make a start on shoveling the sidewalk.

“Why don’t you wait?” I said. “We’ll only have to do it again later.”

“I know, but this way it won’t be so heavy.”

Peter came down the front path. “Here, let me do that, Joe,” he said as he took the shovel from my husband’s hands.

Joe winked at me. “There is
some
benefit to getting old, eh, Daisy?”

I laughed. “I think I’d better take Jasper out now, instead of after dinner.”

“Don’t go too far. This stuff is coming down fast.”

I hurried inside, clipped a leash on the dog, and slipped on the jacket of Stanley’s that I’d bought at the estate sale. It was much too big on me, but the way it hung down past my knees meant that I should stay pretty dry. I rolled up the sleeves a little, put on my gloves, flipped up the hood, and headed out into the storm.

The creeping greenery along the fence looked like funnel cake dusted with confectioner’s sugar. As we walked down Main Street and headed south on Grist Mill Road, I heard the far-off sound of church bells ringing “O Holy Night.”

No footsteps had marred the pristine surface of the road near Glory Farm. Mine and Jasper’s would be the first. I stood in the middle where no cars were traveling and the snow made everything still. I caught my breath at the black-and-white wonderland. From the largest bough to the thinnest twig, all had a dusting of snow, outlined in white as if by some meticulous artist.

Again, I knew what Eleanor meant. You didn’t have to be in a physical church to experience this overwhelming sense of peace and awe at the beauty of the world.

We turned around and headed for home, the snow falling harder now, and the temperature plummeting with every step. My gloves were getting wet, so I pulled them off and put my chilled hands deep in the pockets of my jacket, searching for warmth.

In the left-hand pocket, my fingers brushed against a piece of paper. Probably an old shopping list or something. When we reached Main Street, I moved into the shelter of the canopy over the bike shop and pulled it out.

As I read the amorous words on the paper, signed by someone named Anna, I realized with a sinking heart that this was an old love letter to Stanley Bornstein, written to him by someone who was obviously his long-time mistress.

I refolded the paper with fingers that were shaking, and not just from the cold. I exhaled against the ache in my chest at the realization that dear, gentle Stanley was apparently not the guy I thought he was.

The snow floated down like silver glitter in the glow of the streetlamps. The vicious little pricks stung my face, almost itchy against my skin. I wiped at them angrily and hurried the last few hundred yards to our Greek Revival, the candle lights in each window calling me home.

I went around the back of the house and came in through the kitchen door, kicking off my snow-covered boots on the tiled floor and hanging the now hateful coat on the hook next to Jasper’s leash. I slipped the paper into the pocket of my jeans and toweled the dog dry.

Sarah and Peter were at the butcher block table, and Joe was at the stove. In between his Christmas decorating, my amazing husband had found time to make one of his specialties: crab cakes with a lobster risotto and snow peas.

“How are the roads outside, Daisy?” he asked.

“It’s getting really bad, and I didn’t see a salt truck yet.”

Joe nodded. “It’s snowing quicker than they can plow. They’ll wait ’til morning to tackle this one. You young people may have to get a later start than you planned.”

Sarah took Peter’s hand, her blue eyes sparkling. “We’re in no rush.”

“Hey, where’s Martha?” I asked. “Didn’t she want to stay for dinner?”

Sarah grinned. “She’s totally exhausted. She shopped until she dropped. Her credit card was howling by the time we were done.” She showed me the clothes that Martha had insisted on buying for her. “They’re for my trousseau, whatever that is.”

I shook my head in wonder. Martha was one of the most generous people I’d ever met, and she treated Sarah like she was her own child.

“How about a toast?” Joe said, holding up a bottle of cabernet he’d retrieved from our wine cellar.

“Daddy, we’ve done so many toasts recently, I think I might have to go to rehab when I get back to New York!”

“Ah, how often is it that your only daughter gets married? And to such a great son-in-law. Your mother and I couldn’t be happier.”

Peter smiled, and I found myself in the circle of Joe’s arms, where everything was okay again. I pushed the matter of the troublesome note out of my mind for now.

A little black cat wound his way around my legs. “Hey, His Nibs is back!”

“He’s the oddest cat I ever met,” Peter said. “I’ve never seen a cat cozy up to a dog that way.”

“Ah, but who doesn’t love Jasper?” I poured some kibble into a dish and set it next to the dog bowl, and we all laughed at the contrast between the delicate crunching from the cat and Jasper’s loud and enthusiastic gobbling as he banged his metal bowl around, scarfing up his food as fast as he could go.

Over dinner, I waited for a lull in the conversation, and then I said, “Sarah and Peter, I want you two to promise me something.”

“Yes, Mom?”

“Promise you’ll always be honest with each other—” At Sarah’s impatient indrawn breath, I held up a hand. “Not only that, but always make time for each other and remember that the relationship is the most important thing in your world. Nothing else matters.”

Sarah smiled. “We’ll be fine. Don’t worry about us.”

I thought about the note again, and prayed she was right.

In our bed that night, wrapped in Joe’s arms, I thought again about how very lucky I was, but how ephemeral happiness could be.

“Whatcha thinking about, Daisy?”

I sighed and snuggled closer. “I’ve been thinking about all the broken relationships surrounding us. And now here’s our Sarah and Peter starting out fresh. What innocents they are. They have no idea of how much they’ll have to face in married life.”

“They’ll work it out for themselves, Daisy.” Joe kissed me as if to break the spiral of my dismal thoughts. “We were much younger than they are now when we got married. Peter has a good head on his shoulders. He’ll keep our daughter in line, or die trying.”

“Poor boy,” I said. “He’s got his work cut out for him.”

We chuckled, and Joe drew the sheets over our heads. I sank gratefully into his embrace, warming my skin against this body that I knew as well as my own, determined to cherish every single moment.

*   *   *

L
ate the next morning, the streets were clear enough that Peter and Sarah could leave to go back to New York. We said a tearful good-bye and reassured ourselves that Christmas was not that long to wait before we’d be together again.

As I headed down to the store, I thought about Nancy Fowler’s mysterious blank past. I remembered the last time I’d seen the Fowlers at church, and how they were driving Nancy’s Porsche in the snow rather than Frank’s practical SUV. Why? Because it had some serious front-end damage from a hit-and-run?