Maple Mayhem (A Sugar Grove Mystery) (7 page)

As soon as I approached, the two men stopped talking like little boys caught chatting during a spelling test. “So what’s it that you two are talking about while everyone else is lining up the cards?” I noticed Bob slipping a wad of bills into his pocket.

“Dean was just asking me about the lawsuit I’m bringing against Frank Lemieux.” Well, I expected him to fib but I didn’t expect it to be something like that.

“What lawsuit?”

“He’s taken over part of my property that adjoins his. He’s planning on tapping it and he says it was his all along. I have the place on the market and his behavior is ruining my sales potential,” Bob said.

“What kind of behavior?” Frank would be intimidating if he took a notion to confront a potential buyer. I could see why Bob might be upset.

“I mean I hired a surveyor to come out and clear things up once and for all and he ran the guy off with a shotgun.”

“So you filed a lawsuit?”

“What else can I do? I called the police but I didn’t feel like it was enough. I’ve had a bunch of different hot prospects look at the place and then go on to buy something else. When I asked my Realtor why he said the buyers told him the guy next door threatened them and painted a clear picture of what he would do to dogs, adults, and kids that trespassed onto his property. There is only so much a man can take before he has to get serious about stopping a problem.”

“I can see your point. I wouldn’t want to be you.”

“No one does. That’s why I can’t find a buyer.”

“And that’s the only thing you were talking about? I thought I saw you smiling, heard you laughing. I might have even seen a flash of cash changing hands. Did you just hire Dean to be your lawyer?”

“Oh look at that. Your grandfather’s spinning the cage again.”

Sure enough he was. The sound of the balls rattling got everyone’s attention. Grampa asked if the crowd was up for a full-card session instead of just simple bingo.

“I am if you are. My luck’s great no matter how we play,” Knowlton said.

“I was never someone who thought they had too much luck until I ended up in Sugar Grove,” Graham said. “But I feel like when I’m here I’m the luckiest guy around. So bring it on.” He gave Grampa a little salute and nodded to Knowlton.

Grampa called number after number over the noise of the crowd. People shouted out “Got it” from all around the hall. Daubers were dabbing and people were giggling and I hadn’t seen so much animation in the crowd in a very long time. Probably not since the shouting match at the town meeting the year Merton Spinks proposed we hire a woodchuck he discovered living under his front porch and whom he called Leon as the town administrator. Merton announced it couldn’t do a worse job than the guy who had been occupying the position for the last four years. His comments had caused an animated debate and a lot of laughter.

Cards filled up fast and I could have sworn I saw smoke floating up from the bingo ball cage. Knowlton’s breath came in small pants and every time one of Graham’s rows filled across he yanked on the hair of the nearest troll doll. I felt sort of sorry for the little thing and wondered if it would be forced into an early retirement if he managed to snatch it bald. I wasn’t sure but I guessed from Knowlton’s patting that all the luck must be in the hair.

And then, when it was neck and neck with only one blank space each for Knowlton and for Graham, it was over. Graham sprang up on the very tips of his toes, then sank back down, leaned right up next to my ear and whispered, “I’d be happy to share my sausage with you anytime.” I was so flustered I heard myself speaking before I thought it through.

“Do you want to go camping?” There, I’d said it. I felt better until I realized I hadn’t been specific about the details and who wanted him to camp. I felt myself blushing as I considered how his shared-sausage comment might pair up with a request for a sleepover. I felt like I had leapfrogged us over a whole bunch of dates and landed myself into a place that was much more forward than I had intended. I knew he was surprised by the way his eyes widened and then he stood up so straight it was like someone strapped jumper cables to his feet.

Before he got a chance to respond the crowd surged in between us. Graham’s back must have been stinging from all the good-natured slapping it was enduring. I caught a glimpse of Knowlton slinking out the door. Tansey hurried after him carrying a box of his forgotten daubers and troll dolls.

I decided to wait for the crowd to die down before attempting to explain the camping invitation to Graham. It took quite a while, especially since most people were taking their sweet time heading home. I’d be willing to bet an acre of prime sugar bush that they were hoping to eavesdrop on our conversation. I would have waited for him in the parking lot but I was afraid Knowlton might be waiting there, too. He had looked so dejected leaving I didn’t trust myself not to agree to a date just because I felt so sorry for him. Finally the crowd thinned to just those people involved in the cleanup effort. Graham crossed the room, a paper packet of sausage in his hand and a grin on his face.

“So about this camping trip,” he said. “When did you want to go?”

“I don’t.”

“Has something happened to change your mind in the last fifteen minutes?” The grin left his face like it had never even thought about being there. In that moment I disliked Mindy Collins even more than I had when she was offering advice about my sex life.

“I think you misunderstood me and that’s definitely my fault. I was actually inviting you on behalf of my nephew’s Squirrel Squad leader. She needs another adult for the overnight winter camping trip tomorrow night. She asked me this evening to find out if you would be willing to help out.” I could tell from the look on Graham’s face that he was both disappointed and trying not to show it. It was a little flattering.

“I see. Tomorrow?”

“Yes. I totally understand if you aren’t free or even if you don’t want to do it.”

“What time?”

“The kids arrive sometime after lunch at the Collins’s place.”

“I’ll do it.” The grin was back in full force.

“Are you sure?” All of a sudden it occurred to me that Mindy might take it upon herself to make the same offer of seduction education to Graham that she had to me. I wasn’t sure I wanted him anywhere near her.

“I’m sure. I love camping, I’m free tomorrow, and I like your nephew.”

“I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong impression.”

“You can make it up to me.”

“What did you have in mind?” My stomach fluttered and thrashed and generally made a nuisance of itself. I was torn between wanting to know what he would say and dashing out the door and down the steps before he could squeak a word out.

“I’m sure I’ll think of something.” Graham pointed his packet of sausage at me, gave me a light peck on the top of my head, and strode out the door.

Saturday morning breakfast at Greener Pastures is a thing of beauty. On weekdays we eat well. There is no shortage of home-baked goods and oatmeal or eggs. Sometimes someone even makes bacon and if you are up early enough, there will still be some when you get to the table. When we were all growing up, weekdays were school days and there just wasn’t enough time to do breakfast justice. So Saturday was set aside as
the
day for life’s most important meal.

Everyone gets to the table by eight with the sort of attitude generally reserved for religious occasions. Reverence is what Grandma’s breakfasts bring out in the family when she has time to unleash her full culinary skill set. Her own mother, who was the cook for a logging camp as a young bride, had taught Grandma the way round the kitchen. Which meant she was taught to make everything from scratch and in generous amounts.

Considering how good a cook my grandmother is, the quantities manage to disappear no matter how much she churns out. When we were all teenagers Grandma baked at least three loaves of bread each day. The breakfast menu is always a surprise since Grandma didn’t even know herself what she would want to create until she woke up that morning. So it was with eager anticipation I trotted to the warm and cozy kitchen and poured myself a cup of strong coffee. Stirring in a glug of maple syrup and a generous splash of cream, I asked if there was any way I could help.

Grandma may be a whiz in the kitchen but she is a teacher at heart. Every one of us is adept at whipping up a sit-down meal for forty. Well, maybe not the kids, just yet. Grandma starts in early teaching whoever is new to the family how to bake beans, frost a cake, or season a stew. Grandma believes everyone should know how to cook for themselves even if she prefers to do it for them. She’s fond of mentioning that when she teaches one of us something her mother taught her, it makes her feel like her mother is still with us.

I know just what she means because I feel the same about sugar making. I can’t remember a time when I didn’t help in at least a small way during sugaring season. As soon as I was walking, my father would take me with him and point out his favorite trees. Which ones were the best producers, which ones needed the attention of an arborist. He showed me how to tap, how to boil sap down, and, most important, how to be a good steward of the patch of land we influenced. Every time I taste Greener Pastures syrup it is like he’s still out there. Like I might just spot him weaving through the trees, running his hands over the bark on one, leaning up against another.

“No, you just sit yourself down and get ready to tuck in.” Grandma waved a potholder at me and opened the oven door. A sugary, bready smell wafted out as Grandma attempted to hoist an oversized cast-iron skillet from its depths. Loden shot to his feet and took over.

“You just tell me where you want it and I’ll move this to the table.” He gave her one of the smiles I keep hoping will win Piper over and Grandma didn’t make even the slightest protest. Celadon slipped into the room just as the pan reached the maple leaf shaped trivet and Spring followed in her wake, dragging her favorite blanket behind her. Grampa brought up the rear and took his place at the table, tucking a checked napkin into the neck of his shirt.

“Well, Olive, tell us how you’ve outdone yourself this morning.” He rubbed his hands together and grinned.

“It’s an experiment. I’ve made a version of those Dutch apple pancakes you all like so much.” A cheer went up from the table. Grandma’s apple pancakes were a thing of beauty. Puffy and eggy, with just the right balance between the tartness of the apple, the sweetness of the sugar, and the richness of the butter it made me want to tear up. But I didn’t. I saved my energy for wrangling an extra piece. It was strange not to see my mother or Hunter at the table but it meant there would be more for the rest of us and that promised to be a good thing with Grandma womaning the stove.

Grandma wiped her hands on her vintage floral apron, moved to the table, and sliced into the pancake, dishing up heaping servings onto empty plates. I cut into mine with the side of my fork. I gave an appreciative sniff before popping a bite into my watering mouth. The apples I expected were replaced by sliced peaches. And nutmeg. The sweet flavor of brown sugar and the silkiness of butter in the sauce cascaded over the fruit.

I took a second bite and more nutmeg, stirred into the batter before baking, met my taste buds. I had never been so glad that my family was smaller on this particular Saturday than I was at that moment. I’m sure, eventually, I would miss my mother and nephew but with a breakfast like this one it was hard to imagine I’d regret their absence anytime soon.

I cleaned my plate and served myself seconds. I sometimes wish that I needed to watch my girlish figure or that my figure might have the hope of ever being something other than girlish but today was not one of those days. Today was about a super metabolism. I closed my eyes in order to better enjoy what was going into my mouth. Things were perfect. Until Celadon added her two cents.

“You know what would go perfectly with these? Those sausages Graham won last night at the meat bingo.” I slowly squeaked open one eye and gave her a dirty look with it. She didn’t seem to notice. “Any chance he’s going to be traipsing down the stairs to join us for breakfast?”

“Celadon, don’t tease your sister like that. She’ll get around to managing Graham’s sausage in her own time.” Grandma gave me a tight smile and I wanted to drop through the floor. Loden started choking on a bit of pancake and all I could do was be grateful my mother wasn’t here to contribute to the conversation. She would be sure to explain the innuendo to Spring, just in case, as a six-year-old, she managed to miss it.

“I’m just suggesting Graham seems like a great catch and that they looked pretty cozy last night. I thought maybe we might start planning a June wedding if Dani would find a way to turn on some more charm.” Even caramelized peaches can turn to dust in your mouth given the right circumstances. I swallowed a swig of coffee to clear my palate.

Before I could say anything else the phone on the wall rang and I jumped up to answer it. I wondered who could be calling so early and then worried it was my mother and her psychic sense on the other end of the line eager to add her long-distance thoughts to the conversation.

“Dani, it’s Jill Hayes. I was hoping you could come on out to my place this morning to take a look at something.” Jill sounded angry. Her voice was pitched higher than usual and she was speaking so fast she sounded like she must have completed an auctioneering course.

“Sure. When did you want me?”

“Now.” I looked around the table and noticed with some regret the speed with which the pancake was disappearing. I also noticed the faces of the family gently leaning in my direction, their ears flapping and their eyes shining. I needed space more than I needed extra carbs.

“I’ll be right over as soon as I dress my feet.” I rang off and headed for Grandma to kiss her on the top of the head.

“Please tell me it was Graham calling,” Celadon said. Our father always said she had a one-track mind once she was onto an idea. She wasn’t going to let it drop until she got her way. Celadon had managed to get the school cafeteria to switch to locally sourced, organic food. She had started a program to provide transportation for seniors in town who could no longer drive and she had spearheaded a rails-to-trails program that turned miles of disused train track into hiking and biking paths. Now it seemed the entirety of her laserlike focus was on my marriage prospects. I was done for if I didn’t steer clear of her to the best of my ability.

“Jill Hayes. She wants me to look at something up at her place.”

“While you’re out would you stop in at the hardware store and pick up some birdseed? We’re almost out.” Grampa took bird feeding seriously. He was like some people are about gas in their cars. When the seed barrel got half-empty he filled it up because you never knew what could happen. As far as I remembered we had never experienced a birdseed emergency at Greener Pastures but that might have been because of Grampa’s careful planning. Besides, that’s what family is about right? Helping with the priorities of your loved ones even if they are not your own.

“Sure thing.” I waved at them and dashed for the mudroom. It wasn’t muddy or raining but I stuffed my feet into my rain boots because they didn’t need tying and dashed out the door clutching the keys to the Clunker in my sweaty fist.

*   *   *

The road up to Jill’s place offered a long look out over the town. Sugar Grove is quintessential New England. The roads wind, the river runs, the white church steeples stretch high above any other structures. Even at this time of year, when snowbanks were growing as fast as teenage boys, it looked beautiful to me. A gray squirrel skittered across a bare limb of a towering oak at the roadside. It would have been a lovely drive in the Midget. In the Clunker, it was something else.

In a lot of families kids end up with their car privileges suspended if they have done something wrong. That was never the case in my family. My mother decided early on that parenting a teenager who could drive him or herself to after-school activities and out on errands was a whole lot more convenient than parenting the non-driving kind. She saw no reason to punish herself because her kids’ report cards or ability to make curfew was unsatisfactory. So instead of taking away car privileges, kids in trouble had to drive the Clunker.

It was easily the ugliest car in town, with its mismatched doors, bald spots in the upholstery, and a predominant paint color best described as earwax. It started on the first try only half the time, one window wouldn’t roll up, and the heater never worked. Not that you’d want it to. At some point a skunk had sprayed while positioned just in front of the open window and had soaked the upholstery. Even after all these years, even with all the windows down in the summer, it was hard to sit in the thing. Just thinking about what it would have been like in winter with the windows mostly closed and the heater blasting made me want to gag.

And the worst thing of all about driving the Clunker was that it served as a general announcement around town that you were in trouble. My mother had gone ahead and spread the word to everyone she bumped into about Loden’s unusual transport the first time he was sentenced to drive it. From then on part of your punishment was the public knowledge of your private business. I thought again about the person who had attacked my Midget and I didn’t need the heater to get all warmed up.

Jill’s place was on the outskirts of town and it took a good fifteen minutes to reach it. Jill was standing in the yard waiting for me when I pulled up. She looked about how she had sounded on the phone, hot and bothered, despite snow covering the ground. She didn’t stop pacing even when I got out and slammed the Clunker’s door.

“I think your cooperative idea is causing me a bunch of trouble.” Jill crossed her arms over her chest as if to emphasize her words.

“Has something happened?” I felt sick to my stomach. Yesterday I had been angry about the damage to my car but also relieved no one else associated with the cooperative seemed to be experiencing problems. Maybe I had been too quick to set my fears aside.

“Follow me.” Jill took off for her sugar bush, which is what sugar makers call their stands of sugar maples. I struggled to keep up. Jill’s legs were longer than mine and she was fueled by rage. She was a hard act to follow but I managed to keep her in sight until she stopped abruptly near a magnificent old maple. I stopped next to her and looked where she was pointing. What I saw yanked a gasp out of me like one from a rescued drowning victim. Tears filled my eyes and I understood her anger completely.

“Girdled. And it isn’t the only one.” Jill’s hands trembled as she stuck them into her pockets. I couldn’t believe someone had done such a thing. The trunk of the maple in front of me was more than two feet in diameter. Someone had deliberately removed a four-inch wide strip of bark in a ring that completely encircled the tree.

Bark is more than a passive outer layer on a tree. It is the nutrient delivery system for the entire entity. If a tree has been girdled, as this one had, it could no longer use the pathways in the layers of the bark to move nutrients up from the roots to the rest of the organism. Someone had deliberately set out to kill that tree and was most likely going to succeed in doing so. Bridge grafting might save it but it was a lot of work and there were no guarantees that the graft would take. Any way you sliced it, it was a bad situation.

“I can’t believe this. How many others were damaged?” I looked around and spotted another, and then another, from just where I was standing.

“Six that I’ve found. All mature specimens with no signs of disease.”

“This is shocking, but are you sure it is connected to the cooperative?”

“I’m not certain but considering what I heard about your car, it makes me wonder if that could be the cause. I can’t think of another reason.”

“Any idea who would want to do it?” I hoped I wasn’t going to hear what I was sure I was going to hear.