Maple Mayhem (A Sugar Grove Mystery) (3 page)

“Are you going to check on Mindy Collins?” I was hoping I could forget about her. Mindy Collins was quickly making herself as popular as turbulence on an airplane. Ever since Pastor Gifford had given her the job of church organist without hearing her play, she had been a burr under the community saddle. More recently she had decided to get into the sugaring business and was making a pain of herself in the process.

Her husband, Russ, was unemployed and had been for months. Mindy had decided to put her property to work for her and to make some much-needed money. Where once she had allowed anyone who wished to to tap maple trees on her property free of charge, now she intended to tap them herself. Several producers were still scrambling to find new sources for sap for the upcoming season.

The sugaring business can be quite lucrative on a good year and Mindy and her small family needed the cash flow. I didn’t blame them but then I didn’t need her trees. Fortunately my family’s farm had more than enough trees to provide us with far more sap than we knew what to do with, even if the ratio of sap to finished syrup was forty gallons to one. People wonder why pure maple syrup is pricey but when I tell them how much sap it takes to produce enough for a stack of fluffy pancakes they seem happier to pay for it.

“I don’t see how I can avoid checking on her. I feel obligated to check on everyone who agreed to support the cooperative.” My stomach was starting to knot up. Controversy is my least favorite pastime. I don’t understand reality TV shows or families that make a hobby of arguing then making up. I don’t even understand how lovers’ quarrels are supposed to spice up a relationship no matter how many times Piper tries to explain it to me as she’s digging into a quart of ice cream, the tears streaming down her face.

“Maybe you’ll get lucky and someone will have burned her sugarhouse down. It’d be hard sledding to get a pile of smoldering ashes inspected for a seal of quality by the state.” Tansey flicked her own ash onto the dirt path.

“Or maybe she’ll be scared off because of her kids.”

“Here’s hoping.” Tansey raised a weathered hand at me in a wave as I slid into the Clunker and backed down the drive.

*   *   *

Kenneth Shaw’s operation is about six miles from Tansey’s as the crow flies. The weak January sunlight filtering through the grimy windshield halfheartedly warmed the air in the car and I arrived a bit less stiff than I had at Tansey’s. Instead of chickens, the Shaws’ bulldog, Bingley, careened out to meet me at the sound of the Clunker’s muffler. His barking brought Nicole Shaw to her porch before I could open the car door.

“Morning, Dani. How about some coffee?” she asked. I nodded and gave Bingley a scratch behind his ears. I crossed to the porch and wondered how Nicole always managed to have the longest-lasting chrysanthemums of anyone around. That was the Shaw family in a nutshell. The longest-lasting, best-showing, best-producing everything of anything there was to have, do, or be. The Shaws were just that sort of people. The kids were voted most likely to succeed and prom queen or king. Kenneth and Nicole won any position they ran for in local government and they all had naturally straight teeth. Unfortunately they were also inherently likable so you couldn’t even hate them for it.

I followed Nicole into a lemon-scented kitchen and wished my boots weren’t covered in the dust from Tansey’s place. She set a French-press pot on the counter and filled a kettle with water.

“Is Kenneth around?” I asked. “I have a question for him.”

“He’s in the den pretending to work on his book, I believe. Why don’t you head back to talk with him while I finish brewing the coffee.” She flashed me one of the smiles Kenneth was known to mention as the reason he married her and waved me away to the other side of the rambling colonial. The Shaws’ house had been in the family almost as long as the Greenes’ but it had an entirely different character. I walked along the gleaming pumpkin pine floored hall accompanied by an entire line of Shaw men’s portraits glaring down at me, each more intimidating than the last. Their upper lips were so stiff you’d think Botox had been invented a few centuries before it actually was. At the end of the hall stood Kenneth’s den, or lair as he jokingly put it.

“Come on in,” Kenneth called out. I stepped in and looked around. The room always reminded me of a movie set. It looked so much like a country gentleman’s office in a period English film it didn’t seem real. Every plaid, every stripe, every wall-mounted stuffed duck oozed professional decorator. Kenneth’s plaid flannel shirt even coordinated with the wallpaper. Every time I visited I wondered if he bought an entirely new wardrobe as soon as the room had been completed. “Well, Dani, what brings you here this morning?” Kenneth flashed me the smile that helped him win over hundreds of voters through the years. He pointed at a seat in front of the desk and I took it.

“I wondered if anything unusual had been happening around your property.”

“What kind of unusual?”

“Vandalism. Odd phone calls. That sort of thing.”

“Is this about what happened to your car?” Kenneth leaned back in his chair and tented his fingers.

“You’ve heard about that already?” Someone sure had been watering the town grapevine with liquid turbo grow.

“As the chairman of the select board I hear about everything sooner or later. I was just about to call your grandfather about this and ask if he felt it was wise to continue with your plans.”

“No disrespect sir but my grandfather isn’t the one in charge of the maple cooperative. That’s why I’m here speaking to you.” On the outside I hoped I looked calm and collected, cool as a molded gelatin salad, but on the inside I was quivering like one, too. The cooperative was a way for me to make my mark in the community and, believe me, it hadn’t been easy to find some unstaked territory. Not with being the youngest in a family that helped settle the town more than two hundred years earlier. It meant more to me than I wanted to consider, especially as I sat in front of someone who could make it all fall apart.

“It doesn’t seem possible you’re old enough to drive over here on your own let alone to be running a business but time runs amok once you get past forty-five and you’d best not forget it.” I stifled my annoyance at being reminded of my inexperience and youthful appearance. Kenneth Shaw’s participation meant the most of anyone’s and if he wasn’t convinced he should remain in the cooperative, no one else would be either.

“I’ll bear that in mind.” I took a deep breath to steady myself and steered the conversation back to the point of my visit. “So, about the vandalism, have you experienced any?”

“No, not as of yet. But I am very concerned about this. The community has certain expectations of us. They look to us for an example. I am not sure participating in something that might be dangerous or expensive provides the right sort of guidance. I’ll need to consult with Nicole before agreeing to anything. We will need a couple of days to think it over.”

“I’ve already spoken to Tansey and she has agreed to continue her participation. But you go ahead and take all the time you need. The co-op will go ahead if there are enough members to drop the prices on jugs and things. If you want to support it, I’d be glad of your endorsement. If you don’t, people will likely think you are nuts but there won’t be any hard feelings on my part.” I was right about the crazy thing. No one from a dyed-in-the-wool New Hampshire family brags about how much they paid for anything. It would make people think you were touched in the head if they found out you didn’t at least wait for a sale or use a coupon. Bragging rights came in the form of telling how little you paid for something, never how much. It was tacky, uppity, and stupid to admit such a thing. If you absolutely could not get out of overpaying, you bemoaned the occasion ’til your deathbed and made a point to besmirch the merchant who dared to ask so much in the first place.

People in New Hampshire go to craft fairs not to buy things so much as to get ideas of what they could whip up more cheaply themselves to give as Christmas gifts. If he hadn’t suffered any actual damage to his property, it was going to be difficult for Kenneth to resist the bargain, no matter how much of a show he made of talking it over with his wife before giving me an answer.

“I expect you are planning on questioning Frank about this?” Kenneth dropped his hands and leaned forward,looking like a seagull eyeing a piece of fried dough someone had dropped on the beach. Frank Lemieux had been doing his darndest to make Kenneth’s public life a misery for years.

Every time Kenneth ran for an elected post, volunteered on a committee, or even attended a public function as a private citizen, Frank harangued him. It was almost as though they had a past-life rivalry because there didn’t seem to be enough time in this one for so much hostility to get stored up. Generally Kenneth seemed to rise above it and that made Frank even more antagonistic. If Frank could be found guilty of something like this, it would be a coup for Kenneth.

“I’m headed over there next.” I felt a little queasy just thinking about it but if I wanted to be treated like the person in charge of the sugaring business, I was going to have to take on the bitter jobs as well as the sweet.

Just then Nicole called out that the coffee was ready and Kenneth and I met her in the kitchen. We chitchatted for a few minutes about the likelihood of snow and where they were planning to go on their vacation. That’s one of the good things about a tree farm. Nothing to milk, nothing to feed every day.

It’s a long-term game not a short one but there is more flexibility for those who want to be stewards of one bit of land while still being able to see some other lands, too. The trees never hold it against you if you leave them to their own devices even years at a time. Of course if you let things slide too long, you have underbrush problems and trees of sorts you don’t wish to grow volunteering their presence in the woods. But an annual vacation is something even the best foresters among us could manage. I said good-bye, scratched Bingley’s ears, and headed west toward Frank’s place on the outskirts of town.

I had saved Frank for last for two reasons. One, he had already sent me packing the week before when I had felt obligated to ask him if he wanted to join the cooperative. He had to be asked because he was one of the primary syrup producers in the county, let alone Sugar Grove, but I had gotten an earful once he heard a state inspection was the entrance requirement. Frank was an antigovernment conspiracy nut. He had scoffed and yelled and given me pitying looks about my naïveté and gullibility but he hadn’t thrown me out bodily. I had to believe he wouldn’t this time. At least it wasn’t a definite. I hoped.

Have you ever seen one of those illustrated storybooks with a drawing of the big bad wolf’s house? That was Frank’s place they used as the model. For years, before there was a town recycling program, Frank hauled things back from the dump and found ways to justify having them at his house. His house was sided with everything from old license plates to cast-off dryer doors. The entire place had been plumbed with used garden hoses repaired with duct tape when the need arose.

He had a homemade composting toilet that adults wouldn’t speak of and kids on the playground whispered about more than how babies were made. While I admired his plans on behalf of the planet, I wasn’t entirely sure leaving other people’s garbage heaped up throughout the yard was actually a greener option than it sitting around rusting at the dump.

If only Frank’s slovenly habits applied to his sugaring, I’d have had no need to visit. But it was one area he had shipshape. As much as people poked fun at Frank for his whacky ideas about JFK and aliens on the grassy knoll no one ever had a disrespectful word to say about his sugaring operation. Not even Kenneth.

Even from inside the Clunker I could hear the shouting. Frank is not an easy person to communicate with under the best of circumstances. I had picked the wrong time altogether if he was angry to begin with. I hadn’t seen any other cars in the driveway besides ones driven by Frank and his stepdaughter, Phoebe. As much as Frank was not good to most people, he was good to Phoebe. Her mother died while Phoebe was in elementary school and pretty much everyone in town expected an aunt or grandmother to swoop in and cart her off to be raised by someone with some social skills and a working knowledge of child rearing.

But no one ever came. Phoebe’s mother, Iris, had moved to Sugar Grove after her divorce with baby Phoebe in tow. She never really spoke about her family and folks assumed they must not be close. Phoebe stayed in the house on the hill with Frank and grew into a young woman. She was a grade behind Piper and me in school and tended to tag along with us like a little sister. I wasn’t as nice to her as I should have been, mostly because, as the youngest in my family, I so rarely had the opportunity to boss anyone else around.

And with Phoebe, you could boss her around. She was sweet and wanted to do whatever anyone asked of her. It was so easy sometimes you almost wanted to provoke a reaction from her. I wasn’t always the kindest child and am embarrassed when I think about it now. I’ve apologized a few times but it never seems to make me feel better, especially since she acts like she doesn’t even know what I’m talking about.

But today, from the noises I could hear penetrating all the way into the Clunker, Phoebe was not about to be bossed around. Frank was shouting and, for once, she was giving it right back. The back window that wouldn’t close let the sound of their voices in clearly. Whatever was wrong wasn’t my business but I didn’t want to stay if Frank was going to be even more unreasonable than usual.

“I can’t believe you would do something like that. It’s my business, too, and you had no right to go making that sort of decision without me.” Phoebe’s usually pleasant voice was shrill and louder than I had ever heard.

“I don’t regret it one bit. That’s no way to show appreciation for everything I’ve taught you.” Frank sounded like he did regret something and was being defensive about it.

“That’s because I don’t appreciate this at all.” Phoebe whipped around the side of the shed and came into view. Her blond hair streamed out behind her and I could see her breath puffing out in little bursts in front of her like unspoken words. I lifted a hand to wave but she blew right past like she didn’t even see me. Frank was hot on her heels yelling and waving his arms around like he was limbering up for a trapeze act. Phoebe got into her little car and backed down the driveway without another glance at either of us.

I didn’t know what to do. I was desperately hoping Frank hadn’t spotted me when it became clear he had. He walked over to my window and tapped on it. I kept telling myself that no matter how many acres he had to hide a body in, there was little reason to think he would actually kill me, unless it was from my brain imploding from crazy-talk overload.

“If you’re gonna eavesdrop on other people’s conversations, you’d be better off rolling the window all the way down.”

“I’ll keep that in mind for next time,” I said as I got out of the car and followed Frank a few yards down the driveway.

“It can’t be good news that brings you all the way out here on that rickety piece of imported crap. And I don’t expect you came here to listen to me having a bust-up with my little girl.” Frank looked down the driveway and in an easier man I would have said he was on the edge of tears. It was a little scary. Scarier even than listening to him yell.

He folded his flannel shirt sleeved arms over his chest, resting them on his belly shelf like a pregnant woman. I took a deep breath and reminded myself if I hurried, I’d be passing the Stack restaurant just in time for lunch. Time to take the plunge and lay on the grease.

“You know it is always good news when I can lay eyes on your gorgeous mug. Give me a twirl and let me take it in.” That shut him up. “I’m here to ask a question and before you start, let’s get one thing out of the way right now. You aren’t going to like it but I would appreciate it if I don’t need to report anything rude to my grandfather about how you respond.”

“Get on with it then.” Frank liked playing cards and he was just barely back from being on the outs with Grampa over an incident that might have been construed as cheating if one played according to Hoyle.

“You haven’t by any chance changed your mind about joining the co-op have you?”

“Have you decided to drop the state inspection requirement?” I had decided to make membership dependent on each sugarhouse passing the state’s quality-assurance standard. I knew the price for the inspection was affordable and that it would ensure no one was aligning themselves with low-quality producers. Frank had actually looked intrigued about the cooperative until I had mentioned the state inspection.

“No, I have not. I think it is important that even if a producer is small compared to the others they would at least be able to claim equality in some way.”

“Didn’t your folks ever tell you about the time my father didn’t pay for his parking tickets? Haven’t you heard what happened to that woman nursing her baby in her own car? What about the cost of them passport cards for getting into Canada now? State inspection, my fat aunt Fanny.” He picked up a baby car seat that looked like it might have been at home in a Ford Pinto and hurled it across the rutted cart track he called a driveway and off toward the tree line. I was beginning to wish I’d brought a witness. With a gun. Frank was rumored to have an arsenal of unlicensed and illegally obtained firearms somewhere on the property. He didn’t believe in hunting licenses either and his smokehouse was usually busy curing a poached deer or preserving fish he’d decided to reel in without permission.

“Frank, you don’t have to participate. This is just like one of those times when people offer me gum even when they know I hate the stuff. They feel like it’s polite even though they know I won’t say yes. I didn’t expect you’d changed your mind but I thought it best to ask.”

“You think it was polite to insult me by suggesting some stranger with a clipboard should poke his nose into my inner sanctum? Into the alchemy that is syrup making? If that’s your idea of polite, I’d pay to see you insult someone.”

“I meant no offense.”

“This place is already crawling with people poking their noses into my business. Just two days ago that damned Mindy whatshername sauntered in here begging me to tell all my secrets to the syrup-making business.”

“Did you tell her anything?” Frank made great syrup and acted like there was some secret to his production. He hinted sometimes that it was the higher elevations on the hillside that made it so good. Other times he mentioned the type of wood he used to fuel the evaporator. He even had once suggested the old wooden buckets he used to collect sap imparted a certain special flavor to the sap and thus the finished product. No one took him seriously except himself as far as I knew, but Mindy didn’t have any sugaring experience.

“I told her all sorts of things. None of it true but she didn’t know that, the damned fool. I’m just afraid she’ll keep coming back for more information and I’ll never be rid of her. You know how womenfolk are. Always digging their noses into things that aren’t their business.” He hurled a length of chain close enough to my feet to make the point that he had remembered my gender and didn’t approve. The only women he ever had a kind word for were his late wife, Iris, and Phoebe.

“I can take a hint. No more news of the cooperative for you. No joining, no inclusion in the informational mailing list. No invitations to meetings.”

“No nuthin’.”

“I understand you feel strongly. Which brings me to my next question.” I took a deep breath and reminded myself once again that I had wanted to be in charge.

“Someone damaged my car this morning while I was in having breakfast at the Stack.”

“What’s that got to do with me?” Frank bent down and tossed a piece of galvanized pipe as far as he could throw it.

“An anti-cooperative message was scratched into the new paint job.”

“And you think I’d do a thing like that?”

“Considering your attitude toward participating in the co-op, the thought had crossed my mind.” He heaved a cinderblock next to the length of chain. It landed with a crack and sent a sizable chunk flying against my shin.

“I’ve had a thought just cross my mind, too. Beau!” Frank put two fingers in his mouth and whistled. My stomach dropped into my socks and my kneecaps turned into water balloons. Every junkyard needs a guard dog. Beau was on duty at Frank’s place.

I started to run for the Clunker even before Beau and his drooling, snapping jaws hurtled into view. Before I could get my second leg safely stowed and the car door shut, Beau had his teeth sunk into my snow boot. I yanked as hard as I could and slid my foot out. Beau landed with a thump on the lumpy driveway, my footwear clutched firmly between his jaws. I pulled the door shut and threw the car into gear.

“I’ll send your regards to my grandfather then, shall I?” I called through the crack in the window as I let out the clutch with my stocking foot.