Sleuthing at Sweet Springs (The Sleuth Sisters Mysteries Book 4) (3 page)

“Lie,” I corrected automatically. “People
lie
awake. They don’t
lay
awake.”

“Everybody says
lay
except you, Barbara,” Retta shot back. “With the lie/lay verbs, that whole present-tense-here-but-past-tense-there thing is just too confusing.”

Before I could argue my case Faye broke in, sounding as irritated as Faye ever gets. Retta does that to a person, because she thinks her opinion is superior to everyone else’s. “I didn’t mean I would take the chickens in myself. The boys could take them on the farm.”

“That’s true.” Faye’s two younger sons, Bill and Cramer, had moved to our family farm in early summer. For Cramer, the bunkhouse he’d converted to an apartment and repair shop was a great place to work on his beloved computers. For Bill and his wife Carla, the farm offered a life they’d always wanted: self-reliance in a natural setting, with various herds, flocks, and colonies for company. Though not expert farmers yet, they were happily learning the ropes.

Before we left Sweet Springs, we decided (well, Retta did and nobody objected) to follow the lane to its end-point, circling the lake to get a look at the other properties. The edge of Clara’s section was delineated by a rail fence. The second quadrant of the lake shore went with the house we’d seen to the west as we stood on Clara’s dock. Similar in structure to hers, its ancient fieldstone gatepost was festooned with an elaborate
c
and a realty sign advertising its availability for purchase.

“People named Clausen used to live here.” Retta pointed. “Pull into the driveway, Barbara, so we can get a better look.”

The condition of the property was as different from Clara’s as possible. Everything was run-down, piles of junk lay at intervals between the house and the lake, and the roof looked like it wouldn’t last through another Michigan winter.

Retta’s frown indicated disapproval. “Clara said the owners moved away.”

“Doesn’t look like they’re coming back,” Dale observed dryly.

Returning to the lane, we drove on. The road became even less of a road, and, hearing mud hit the underside of my car, I resigned myself to the fact that the Chevy would need a carwash when we got back to town. Finally, almost directly across the springs from Clara’s house, we came to the ruin we’d seen from her dock. “This place belongs to someone named Warner, or maybe Werner,” Retta said. “They live somewhere else, so this was just a vacation home.”

“They’d torn down the old place and built a new one.” Dale pointed to a pile of rotting logs and clumps of the old mineral wool type of insulation that had been hauled to one side of the yard. In the center of the area was what was left of the newer structure, which had been much larger, judging from the scorched area. Both structures were heaps of rubble, just different kinds.

“The fire crew wouldn’t have stood much chance of stopping the blaze,” Dale said. “Long trip from downtown Allport.”

With not much to see there, we went on. The last property on the lake sat on the sharp rise we’d seen from Clara’s dock, almost hidden by trees. The house was small and cramped-looking, and repairs had been made with mismatched materials that gave it an unbalanced look.

“Clara went to school with the guy who lives there,” Retta informed us. “He’s the only full-time resident left on the lake.”

At the top of the rise the road leveled off, running past the house before looping around a clump of maple trees, signaling we’d come to the end. As Dale had predicted, there was no access to the main road down the steep incline, though we could see bits of pavement through the trees.

As I navigated the turnaround, doing the best I could to avoid potholes where the primitive road had washed out, the view before us opened up. Bumping through one last hole, I stopped the car to give everyone a good look.

We sat above the lake about twenty feet, with the Marsh place on our left. The green-blue water rippled gently in the breeze. Green dominated along its perimeter, but streaks of autumn color caught the eye. The three other properties were visible in the distance, like the four corners of the globe laid out in miniature. “Mr. Marsh has the best view of all,” Retta said.

“I hope we don’t scare him,” I said. “He probably doesn’t see strange cars out here very often.”

“I hope he doesn’t keep a shotgun behind the door, in case he does get spooked,” Dale said with a wry grin.

Retta gazed across the empty lake. “I can see why the niece doesn’t want Clara out here. Two eighty-somethings living on opposite sides of a lake isn’t safe for either of them.”

“It sounds like Clara would rather die alone out here than spend the rest of her life with CNA’s and Hoyer lifts at the Meadows,” Faye said. “I know I would.”

“Don’t be silly,” Retta ordered. “Neither you nor Barbara is going to spend one minute in a nursing home. When the time comes, you’ll move in with me, and I’ll take care of you.”

I dared not meet Faye’s eyes in the rear-view mirror, lest one of us let out a snort of laughter. Having Retta “take care” of me would drive me insane within twenty-four hours. At least at the Meadows, a person gets to
think
what she wants to.

“Something odd down there.” Dale pointed at a spot on the shore below us. On the lake side of the house, rough log steps led down to the water. Set into the hillside and leveled with dirt, they made a cheap and effective means of descent. Now, however, there was a splash of bright orange near the bottom step that didn’t belong on the green lawn. Craning my neck to see better, I made out a pair of jeans, gray sneakers, and a shock of white hair.

Retta was out of the car first, hurrying down the slope at an intersecting angle. Her high-heeled boots sank into the soft ground with every step, but she staggered on.

I followed, fumbling for my phone as I ran. When I reached her, Retta was checking the prone man’s neck for a pulse.

“Is he—?”

“Dead,” she finished. “The poor old guy must have tripped on those steps and broken his neck.”

Dale and I were the last to reach Mr. Marsh’s body. We went up the driveway, around the house, and came carefully down the steps the owner hadn’t been able to navigate. I held Dale’s arm, which was necessary though embarrassing for him. He did well enough on even ground, but vertigo kicked in when the way wasn’t flat, and he needed me to lean on. Despite being his anchor, I was the one who was huffing and puffing by the time we got there.

Barb had called 9-1-1. Stiffness of the limbs indicated Mr. Marsh had been dead for some time, but Retta stroked the man’s wrinkled face as if he could feel it. “I’m sorry,” she told the corpse. “It’s a terrible way to die.”

Shocked as I was, my mind argued the point. In this beautiful setting, at this gorgeous time of year, on his own property, at eighty-whatever, it seemed to me Caleb Marsh’s quick death, with perhaps only a moment of realizing his time had come, wasn’t a bad way to go.

But then, I’m weird that way.

In just over twenty minutes, we were joined by an ambulance and a sheriff’s car. The deputy, one we knew from cases we’d worked on, took our statements and told us they’d be in touch if they needed anything else.

“Bad thing,” he said soberly. “The logs on these rustic stairways get mossy, which makes them slippery.”

We drove home, shaken as one is by the reminder that death can sneak up on a person. Each of us was probably more appreciative of the beauty of nature—and of each other—as we left Sweet Springs, aware how quickly the wonderful gifts life offers can be snatched away.

When we got back to Barb’s house—I always think of it that way though it’s also where Faye and Dale live
and
the offices of the Smart Detective Agency—I got into my car and started for home. With the tragic end to our outing, I’d almost forgotten about Clara’s chickens, but as I passed the So-Rite Real Estate office, my promise to Faye came to mind. I felt a little silly fussing about poultry, but she was sure to call later and ask what I’d found out. Faye’s the sweetest person ever, but don’t get between her and animals in trouble.

Inside the office, two desks faced each other on opposite sides of the room, a woman at each one. Farther back a private office sat empty, the desk so neat it looked unused. The place smelled of canned, rose-scented potpourri.

One of the women, past thirty years old but trying hard for twenty, was on the phone. The other, my age or a little older, typed at her computer, peering through half-glasses perched at the end of her nose. After glancing at the younger woman with a hint of irritation, she turned to me. “How can I help you?”

“I’m looking for the agent who represents the property on Sweet Springs.”

“That’s Ms. Sherman.” She leaned to one side to look around me, catching her co-worker’s eye meaningfully. “Uh, Gail?”

The other agent went about ending her call and stood to greet me. Ms. Sherman was an attractive woman with what I think of as a bad case of Too-Much: too much eyeliner, too much fashion buy-in, too much body hardware. No matter what the designers preach, we girls need to think for ourselves when getting dressed in the morning. Even if yellow is proclaimed this fall’s color, that doesn’t mean you should put it next to your pasty face in the form of a bulbous, loose-woven infinity scarf.

Of course I would never in a million years say such a thing aloud, so I said, “That’s a lovely scarf.”

She patted it. “Thanks.”

“I like silky ones in muted tones for autumn,” I said. “For me, the bulky ones are a little overpowering.”

Her smile told me she didn’t get the hint, so I got down to business. “I met a lady the other day who lives on Sweet Springs, and I’m wondering if you’re her niece.”

Gail’s nose wrinkled as if she’d caught a whiff of something nasty, but it was gone in an instant. “You met Aunt Clara?”

“I was visiting a friend at the Meadows and ran into her in the TV room.” It didn’t seem like a great idea to let on we’d snooped on Clara’s property. “She wondered how her hens are doing.”

She looked blank for a moment. “Oh, the chickens. They’re fine. I went out there this morning to check on them.”

A sharp movement at the other desk said Gail’s office mate didn’t believe Gail any more than I did. While I’d seen for myself that the chickens weren’t fine, the other woman must have come to her conclusion based on experience.

Gail’s blithe assurance was a problem. I couldn’t very well call her a liar to her face, and if I didn’t, I had to accept her contention she’d done as her aunt asked. That meant coming up with another reason for stopping in. “I understand there’s property for sale on Sweet Springs.”

Her nails, painted black with little orange pumpkins, tapped on the desk a second too long before she said, “No, there isn’t.”

Again I couldn’t contradict her, but we’d seen the signs: one at the turnoff and one in the driveway to the Clausen house. “I must have misunderstood. Clara said—”

“Clara gets things mixed up,” Gail interrupted. “That’s why she’s in a nursing home.”

“Oh. She seemed okay. Told me about the springs and all.”

“People with dementia live in the past,” she said bluntly. “Clara couldn’t stay out there by herself any longer, so I got her into a place where she’s taken care of.” Her manner became brisk. “I hate to rush, but I have a showing in twenty minutes.”

The other woman had stopped typing to listen to our conversation. Noting that two deep lines had appeared between her brows, I thought she was surprised and possibly irritated by what she’d heard. Since nothing I’d said would bother a total stranger, I guessed she was unhappy with Gail.

Barbara sneers at what she calls my “need for intrigue,” but something in that office smelled wrong. It wasn’t just the odor of stale cigarette smoke emanating from the jacket Gail took from a peg on the wall behind her. She’d lied about the chickens—Okay, maybe she was ashamed to admit she’d neglected her duty to her aunt—but she was lying about the parcel of land as well. Her co-worker bit her lip, as if trying not to say what she was thinking.

Eager to know what that was, I pulled a trick I’ve used once or twice when I want to speak to someone alone. Casually setting my sunglasses down on the desk where Gail couldn’t see them I said, “I’ll let you get to your showing. Thanks for your time.”

Ten minutes later Gail left the office, lighting a cigarette as she went, and got into a bright red SUV. As soon as she was out of sight, I went back inside. “Did I leave my—? There they are. My husband used to say I’d forget my head—you know.” I scooped up the glasses, acting frustrated with myself.

“Mine says stuff like that about me all the time.” I looked at the desk-plate to note her name, Norma Ziegler, as she went on. “But when a man loses something, who does he expect to find it? His wife.”

“Like the uterus is a homing device.” We laughed at my corny man-bashing joke. Glancing at her desk, I noted the pinkish-red can of bargain-store air freshener. Non-smoker versus smoker in the workplace.

“I was hoping that property on Sweet Springs was still available,” I said. “It’s beautiful out there.”

“It is.” Norma’s fingernails clicked nervously on her desktop for a moment. “I’m surprised the property’s gone. Gail didn’t mention a sale to me, pending or final.”

“It would have been a nice spot for my daughter and her husband for weekends and summer.” I let doubt creep into my voice. “Just yesterday someone said the signs are still up.”

She sighed. “Gail hasn’t been keeping up with stuff the way she used to.” She grimaced. “At least you’re being nice about it.”

“Clients have been upset with her?”

A shrug indicated she shouldn’t say more, but she went on. “It’s not my business, except sometimes I get to deal with them.”

I let my eyes widen with disapproval. “You shouldn’t have to explain someone else’s mistakes to the customers.”

When Norma leaned forward, I knew I’d hit the right note. “This morning I got an email from some people in Ohio interested in the Clausen place. They planned to drive up this weekend to take a look at it.” Touching her phone as if in anticipation she finished, “They won’t be happy when I tell them not to bother.”

“So Ms. Sherman has put you in hot water.”

Norma pressed her lips together to keep from further criticizing a fellow agent. “Like I always tell my kids, I’ve got broad shoulders.”

And she did. I could have given her some pointers on minimizing them, but I stuck to my purpose. “Does Gail do stuff like that a lot?”

“She’s always been, um, independent.” She rearranged some folders at her elbow, and I guessed she was lecturing herself against bad-mouthing a colleague. The lecture must have been successful, because she said, “It’s the trouble with her aunt. Since Clara’s got nobody else, Gail had to make the decision to move her to a care facility.”

“That had to be tough.” After a beat I asked, “Will Gail decide what happens to Clara’s property if she’s judged incompetent?”

Norma shrugged. “I guess so.”

“That’s a worry for her, but I suppose it’s frustrating for you to have a colleague who’s so distracted.”

She grimaced ruefully. “I try to keep in mind that deciding what’s best for someone else is hard.”

It is if you care about that person
, I thought. We didn’t know how much Gail cares about Clara, but we did know she wasn’t overly concerned about Clara’s chickens.

I left the office with a complimentary chocolate mint that was delicious and a head-full of questions. Why was the property next to Clara’s still marked for sale if it had sold? If Gail had made a deal recently, why hadn’t she told her fellow agent? There was also the question Faye would ask: Who would take care of the chickens if Gail didn’t feel obligated to keep her promise?

When I called my sisters the next morning to report my stop at So-Rite Realty, Barbara said Gail Sherman’s failure to take the signs down was probably simple logistics. “Sweet Springs is pretty far out, so it might take a while to get out there and remove the sign. And the fact she didn’t tell the other agent was probably an oversight due to the stress of what’s been going on in her personal life with the aunt.”

Faye argued my statement that Clara was as sharp as a tack. “People in nursing homes often appear capable, Retta, but that doesn’t mean they are.” Her strongest concern was for Clara’s hens, and she was not happy to learn Ms. Sherman had lied about doing her poultry duty.