The Final Tap (8 page)

thirteen

After leaving Jason to
his animals in the barn, I headed for the visitor center. I still had over an hour before Stroud arrived for the tree tapping class. Two buses of school children would arrive at about the same time, and I needed to have my wits about me to make sure everyone went in the right direction.

It was still hard for me to believe that the Maple Sugar Festival was finally here, kicking off with the tree tapping class. It had taken months of planning. By late Sunday afternoon, it would all be over. I sighed. Or would it? With Beeson's death, I felt like I would be talking about maple sugar for many weeks to come.

My radio crackled at my hip. “Kelsey, are you there? Over,” Benji said. She loved to end radio conversations with “over.”

I removed the radio from my hip. “I'm here, Benji. What's up?”

There was a pause, and I waited and waited. Finally, I said, “Benji, what is up?”

“You didn't say ‘over,'” she complained. “How do I know you've finished speaking if you don't say ‘over'?”

I groaned. “Can you just tell me what's going on?”

There was a pronounced pause when Benji didn't say a word.

“Over,” I said grudgingly.

“Sure!” she said as if she'd won the lottery. “Shepley's here at the visitor center. He had a few choice words to say about the Maple Sugar Festival.”

“Of course he did,” I muttered.

“And he wants to talk to you.”

“What about?” I asked, wrinkling my nose at the thought. “Over.”

“I don't know. He refused to tell me,” she said. There was a little bit of hurt in her voice. Before I'd promoted her to my assistant, Benji had had a good relationship with the ornery gardener. More than anyone, she'd been able to carry on a normal conversation with him. That had seemed to change when she was promoted. It was almost as if Shepley felt that she'd sold out by leaving her post at the brick pit and taking a job in Farm management. I knew that Benji would never admit it, but it hurt her that Shepley now treated her like he did the rest of us.

“Okay, I'm on my way.” I clipped the radio back onto my belt and increased my pace.

When I stepped into the visitor center, I found Shepley pacing back and forth near the door. I knew something was up right away. He never came into the visitor center, not even for mandatory staff meetings. He thought that the rules and directions I gave the rest of the staff didn't apply to him.

Judy nodded in his direction when she met my gaze. She was in the process of counting out tickets for the pancake breakfasts.
Pre-sales
had been strong, so much so that I'd hired a few extra cooks from a temp agency so that we would be able to keep up with the demand for pancakes.

Shepley tapped his foot. “What took you so long?” he snapped.

“Hello to you too, Shepley.”

He curled his lip into a sneer. The gardener was a small man, close to my own height of five two. His long gray ponytail was tied back with a piece of garden twine. The white scar cutting across his left cheek, which had never been explained, stood out more than usual with his face
beet-red
in anger. “You shouldn't keep me waiting when such a violation has happened.”

“I didn't know a violation was part of the story,” I said. “You didn't tell Benji your reason for wanting to talk to me this morning. I don't have much time before our maple sugar expert arrives, but you can tell me now.”

“You're going to want to make time for this. It's a top priority.”

I removed my hat and could feel the aura of static electricity floating around my head as hair escaped from my standard long French braid. “Please just get on with it, Shepley.”

He glared at me and said, “I want to know what you're going to do about the damage to my garden.”

“Damage?” I asked. Now he had my full attention. “What damage? I walk the grounds every day and haven't seen anything out of the ordinary on the village side.”

“Then your observation skills are severely lacking. Someone has broken into my garden and trampled it. Trampled it!” He shook with anger.

“What?” I cried.

He nodded as if I'd finally given him the reaction that he'd been looking for. “Yes. Someone has broken into the garden and stomped every bed I have.”

“At least it's winter and nothing is in bloom,” I said to myself.

Shepley heard me. “It's still no good for the plants. The crocuses are sprouting.”

“Will they be all right?” I asked.

“I think so, but this makes me very uneasy as spring approaches. I will not have all the bulbs that I planted one by one last fall be trampled to death this spring. We have that fence around the garden to keep the deer out, but it seems that some
two-legged
cretin has broken in instead.”

“Are you sure it wasn't a deer? Perhaps the gate was left open.” Even as I said this, I knew that Shepley would take offense to it, but it was a question that had to be asked.

“I would never leave the gate open.” He eyed me. “Did you leave it open? You and I are the only ones with a key.”

“No. I peek through the fence on my daily rounds, but I never go in.” Maybe the damage was in the back, which would be why I hadn't noticed it. “Why don't you show me now.”

Benji slid into the lobby and saw me standing with Shepley. She pulled up short.

“Do you need something, Benji? Shepley and I are headed to the gardens. It appears there was some damage overnight.”

“What kind of damage?” she asked.

Shepley pointedly ignored her, and I suppressed a sigh at his childishness. “Someone stomped through the garden. Would you like to come along?”

She looked at Shepley's stony face and shook her head. “I'll stay here. There are just a few things that I need to mark off our list for the weekend and we'll be good to go. The classroom is all set up for the tree tapping class.”

“Thanks, Benji. I don't know what I would do without you.”

She gave me a small smile, but she watched Shepley, who refused to meet her eyes. I sighed. I would have to deal with the rift between them at some point, but it would have to wait. The Maple Sugar Festival and a murder were about my quota of what I could handle at the moment. I motioned to the door. “Let's go, Shepley.”

Shepley and I walked in silence down the pebbled path. As the snow melted, the path became muddy. I hoped that it would be mostly dried out by Saturday morning when the festival was in full swing. If not, mud would be tracked into all of the buildings.

I was just happy for the silence. It gave me time to wonder what I was going to do about Dr. Beeson's death. I knew Detective Brandon wanted me to leave it be, but I wasn't sure I could do that. Who would stab a man like that with a drill? It was just too gruesome for words.

As we crossed Maple Grove Lane, Shepley pointed at the barn. “I wouldn't be surprised if it wasn't that boy you allow to live on Farm property who trampled my plants.”

“Jason would never do that. Barton Farm is his home,” I said, coming to my farmhand's defense.

“Oh, I know it's his home.” Shepley picked up his pace as we entered the green, and I had to increase my speed to keep up with him.

The gardener looked over his shoulder. “If there was decent oversight of the Farm by the Cherry Foundation, he would never have been allowed to live on the grounds in the first place.”

I came up alongside of him. “Shepley, if that were the case, you would have been fired a long time ago. The Cherry Foundation would never put up with you for as long as I have.”

He scowled but didn't argue with me. Maybe because he knew it was the truth.

The gardens came into view. A
five-foot
-high
split-rail
fence lined with chicken wire surrounded the main garden. Even at a distance, I could see that the damage was extensive. As upsetting as that was, I was happy to see that the much smaller medicinal garden next to it appeared untouched. A
seven-foot
-high iron fence surrounded that garden to keep intruders out. Many of the plants inside were poisonous. We grew them on the Farm because the Barton family had had a similar garden to treat aliments on the same spot. Mrs. Barton used many plants and herbs from that garden to treat ill children and neighbors. However, because of the contents, it needed to be under lock and key. We had an incident last summer when someone with malicious intent broke into the medicinal garden. Because of that, it was padlocked twice. I wasn't going to allow anyone to use the Farm's plants to hurt anyone else again.

Shepley unlocked the gate to the main garden, and it swung open.

“Was the gate locked when you found the mess?” I asked as we stepped inside.

He nodded. “It was locked up tight.”

I frowned. That could mean that someone from the Farm had gone in. Shepley and I had keys, yet there was also a spare key in my office. I kept my office locked, but Benji had a key to my office and could access all of the keys … but she would never have done this.

I examined the damage. It looked like someone had done the Irish jig up and down the rows of plants, twice. I again felt relief that it was in the middle of winter. Had someone walked in the garden like that in the middle of the summer, it would be truly devastating to the Farm. Our heirloom gardens, which only had plants in keeping with what could readily be available and used in gardens during the Civil War, were one of the Farm's great showpieces. Shepley's gifted hand with plants was the only reason I kept him around.

Shepley watched me. “What are you going to do about this?” he shouted. “No one, absolutely no one, should come into my garden without my permission.”

“Shepley, I don't know who may have entered the garden, but I need to remind you that the garden is technically the property of Barton Farm. It's not your personal space.”

He ignored my last comment. As far as he was concerned, the garden was his and there was nothing I could say that would convince him otherwise.

“Listen, I can see why you're upset,” I said. “This is upsetting to me too. You've put a lot of hard work into the garden to make it the envy of the county.”

He nodded, as if mollified. “And see the crocuses. Some of them won't recover their spring growth because of this.” He pointed to thin green leaves peeking out of the snow. Some were stomped beyond recognition.

I shook my head. “The first thing we need to do is secure the garden. Go to the hardware store and buy a new padlock for the gate. Then, if someone has a key, at least it will give them pause.” I sighed. “This could just be a practical joke by local kids with no plans to return. The fence is only five feet high.” The Hooper boys immediately came to mind.

“We should put barbed wire on the top. That'll keep the cretins out.”

I frowned. I didn't like that suggestion. There were too many children on the grounds during the summer. I didn't want any of them getting hurt by a
barbed-wire
fence. There were enough ways to get hurt on the Farm as it was without adding to the list. “I don't think that's a good idea.”

“And you think a new padlock is?” Shepley asked. “Is that all you're going to do about it? It's vandalism. Someone should be held responsible.”

I didn't argue with him on that point.

“Are you going to call the authorities?” he continued.

I wondered about calling Chief Duffy. He would brush it off as kids, just like I'd tried to. But I thought Detective Brandon might take it a little more seriously, especially if it could be tied to Dr. Beeson's death. “I'll talk to Detective Brandon about it.”

“When?” he asked.

I wasn't sure. “As soon as I can. The tree tapping class is today, and I really should get back to the visitor center so I can meet with the new instructor.” It was the best answer I could give him. My eyes swept over the garden again. “Shepley, do you see that?”

“What?” he barked.

“There's a clear footprint in the snow.” I took a couple of steps closer to it. “You're right. This definitely wasn't done by any deer.”

Shepley walked over to me and stared at the spot. It was a boot print, and the shoe size was much larger than mine. It was most likely from a man, but I couldn't completely rule out a tall woman either.

“Now will you call the police?”

I sighed and removed my cell phone from my pocket.

fourteen

The dispatcher said Detective
Brandon was already on her way to the Farm for her current investigation, and in fact
she was walking across the muddy village green five
minutes later. Officer Sonders followed behind her at a much slower pace.

The detective joined us inside the garden and took a moment to take in every detail of the scene. “You said there was a print.”

Shepley scowled at her. He liked the police detective just about as much as I did.

“It's over here,” I said quickly, before Shepley could voice a rude comment.

She stared at the boot print while Officer Sonders snapped photo after photo of it. She waved him away. “That's enough, Sonders. It's one measly print. You don't need four hundred shots of it.”

The officer put his camera away.

“Do you think this could be related to Dr. Beeson's death?” I said. It was a question I'd been dreading to ask ever since the officers arrived, but I knew it had to be considered.

“Not likely. Nine times out of ten, vandalism like this is committed by a group of bored teenagers. My advice would be to change the locks to the garden gate and consider getting some type of extra security.”

“The gate wasn't unlocked,” I said.

“That could mean one of two things. It was someone with a key—”

I started to protest, but she held up her hand. “Or someone climbed over the fence. It's only five feet high. That wouldn't be a huge deterrent for someone determined to get in.” She walked to the fence and pointed to an overturned wheelbarrow on the other side of the fence. “In fact, I think that's exactly how they got in. They climbed onto the wheelbarrow and jumped the fence. The person would have to be agile, but it wouldn't even be a challenge for a teenager.”

I frowned, upset with myself that I hadn't noticed the overturned wheelbarrow first.

“I suggested barbed wire to keep the cretins out,” Shepley said.

“That certainly would be a deterrent.” Detective Brandon nodded as if she liked Shepley's thought process. I didn't think it was a good sign that the two of them were
like-minded
. “I'd say this was a case of random vandalism,” she added.

I didn't like the sound of “random vandalism,” and I debated telling her about the Hooper teenagers, but I stopped myself. I still wanted to talk to Pansy Hooper and her sons before turning their names over to the police.

Even if the Hoopers were innocent, the trampling of the garden was upsetting. Yet it could have been much worse—what if some rowdy teens decided to damage one of the historic buildings in the village? Not for the first time, I wondered if I should install security cameras on Farm grounds. I had the money from the Cherry Foundation's trust to do it. However, a security system wasn't in keeping with the nineteenth century integrity of the village. Not to mention there was no electricity on this side of Maple Grove Lane. Jason's trailer ran on a small generator. I would either have to ask the electric company to run some wires or purchase a much larger, much more expensive generator. Both options would cost more than I could imagine.

“I think Sonders and I are done here,” Detective Brandon said. “We have everything we need.” She nodded to Sonders and the two of them headed out the gate.

I left Shepley standing in the frozen garden alone and jogged after them. “Detective, doesn't it seem strange that you had to come out here twice in as many days? I think you shouldn't automatically assume the vandalism in the garden was done by teens. It may be related to Dr. Beeson's death. You have to entertain that idea.”

“Ms. Cambridge, rest assured that I entertain every idea when it comes to solving my cases.”

I almost cracked and told her of my suspicions about the Hoopers, but the radio on my belt crackled. “Kelsey, come in? Over.”

“Yes, Benji?” I said into the radio.

There was a pause, during which Detective Brandon and Officer Sonders took the opportunity to walk away. The paused stretched a few seconds longer. I sighed. “Over.”

“Robert Stroud is here to set up for the tree tapping class. I thought you'd want to know.”

“I'm on my way,” I said and headed for the crosswalk on Maple Grove Lane.

When I stepped into the visitor center, I found Stroud holding a briefcase and standing with Judy at the ticket counter.

“Mr. Stroud,” I said as I approached him. “Thanks again for filling in on such short notice.”

“Please call me Robert,” he said.

“And you can call me Kelsey.”

He nodded and examined the visitor center's main room. “It's impressive what you've accomplished with the Farm in such a short time. I remember coming here when my nephews were small and enjoying it, and it wasn't half the establishment it is now.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I wouldn't be able to do it without the generosity of the Cherry Foundation.”

“It was a great loss to the community when Cynthia Cherry passed.”

I simply nodded. Thinking about Cynthia always brought tears to my eyes. I cleared my throat. “Let me show you where you'll be.”

He adjusted his grip on his briefcase and followed me across the visitor center to the classroom on the opposite side of the building from the dining room.

When I stepped inside, I found Gavin checking the equipment. On a long table there was everything that Stroud would need for his presentation: spiles, filters, and a hydrometer that would measure the sugar content of the maple syrup. The hand drill was missing—it was in the evidence room at the police station. Gavin had replaced it with a
battery-operated
drill. That would have to do.

Gavin stepped around the table. “Everything you need for the class should be here.”

Stroud walked forward and examined the table's contents. “This should do nicely. Thank you, Gavin.” He straightened up. “And I'm sorry about how last night's meeting went. Rest assured that no one at Sap and Spile thinks you had anything to do with Conrad's death.”

Gavin nodded curtly. “I'd better go get ready for my school visit.” He walked out of the door.

I pointed to the laptop and projector in the corner of the room. “I wasn't sure if you would be showing a PowerPoint as part of your talk, so I had Benji bring that in. I can set it up for you if you need it.”

He shook his head. “I'm a little old fashioned in that way. I'll pass out some handouts, and I see you have a whiteboard in the front of the room if I have to write something down for the class to remember.”

I nodded.

At the back of the room there was a table holding thirty copies of Beeson's book, along with a sign listing a price. Stroud noticed it and frowned. “What are those doing here?”

“I bought them,” I said. “So that Dr. Beeson could have a book signing after the class. Even though he's gone, I'd still like to get them sold. I think the students in your class will be interested in it.”

Stroud pursed his lips.

Thankfully, any further discussion about the books was interrupted with the arrival of the first students for the course. An elderly couple walked in and beamed. “Is this the tree tapping class?” the woman asked.

“It sure is,” I said.

“Wonderful! I've been looking forward to this class for a week. Ken and I have wanted to tap our trees for years. We have six sugar maples on our property. This will be the year that we're going to do it.” She walked over to the book table in the back of the room. “Oh, I've been so looking forward to reading this.” She picked up a copy and looked at Stroud. “Are you the instructor?”

He nodded.

“Can you sign my book before the rest of the class arrives? Ken and I might have to sneak out early to pick up our granddaughter from school. She goes to
half-day
preschool.” She moved toward Stroud with the book held out in her hand.

Stroud stepped back from her as if she offered him a snake. “I'm so sorry. You're mistaken. It's …” His voice caught. “That book is not mine. My name is not on it.”

The woman dropped the book to her side. “But the confirmation email I got said the author of
Maple Sugar and the Civil War
would be teaching the class.”

“I'm so sorry for the confusion,” I said in my best cruise director voice. “Conrad Beeson, who was going to teach the course and wrote that book, wasn't available today.”

I winced internally. That was one way to put it.

“Why not?” she asked.

The man, who I assumed was her husband, Ken, put a hand on her shoulder. “You remember, Carol—that's the professor who died yesterday. I read about it in this morning's paper. It said that he'd had a heart attack right here on the Farm.”

I bit the inside of my lip and waited to see if Ken would mention anything about murder. I hadn't been able to check the paper yet to see what the media coverage of Beeson's death was. I was disappointed that the Farm was mentioned. More bad publicity for my beloved museum. But when Ken didn't say anything more, I knew the fact that Beeson had been murdered hadn't been made public. I had a feeling that Ken and Carol would have shared that little fact if they knew about it.

Carol drooped. “What a terrible shame. I really wanted him to sign my book.” She looked to me. “I collect signed copies from authors, you see, and then sell them online. I've done very well at it. It's amazing what people will pay for a bestselling author's signature.”

Her husband nodded. “It's a shame. If we'd been able to have it signed before he died, then it might be worth more now that he's dead.”

Five or six more adults filed into the classroom, and as the sound of children's voices could be heard in the lobby, I took that as my chance to escape the awkward moment. “If you will excuse me.” I fled the room.

Three dozen children milled around the visitor center, whooping and laughing. Their teachers asked in vain for them to quiet down. I wove through the children and reached Gavin's side at the doors to the Farm grounds. He looked up from the clipboard that he held. “Looks like I'll have my hands full today.”

I scanned the room. “I think so.” I glanced outside. The sun was shining and the temp would be in the
mid-forties
. That was Ohio for you—one day it was the tundra and the next spring was knocking on the door. “The sap might be running today after all.”

He nodded. “I tapped a tree this morning in the sugar grove to test, and it's running.”

“Great. I'll let Robert know, so he and the class can tap some trees.”

Gavin nodded.

“Don't forget, after your school visit we have to check out the sugarhouse in the park,” I added.

His shoulders sagged. “I was hoping you'd forgotten.”

“I don't forget anything.”

“I know. It's annoying,” he said.

I laughed. “You'd better start the program.” I inclined my head toward the children in the room. “They're plotting mutiny.”

He nodded and then put his fingers in his mouth and whistled. The shrill sound brought all conversation in the room to a complete halt.

I rubbed my ear. Sheesh, he could have warned me. I'd need to get my hearing checked after that blast.

I returned to the classroom while Gavin told the kids to line up for a tour of the maple grove. I peeked into the back of the room. The class was full and Stroud was in the middle of his introduction.

“I've been maple sugaring since I was a child. It's a
long-running
tradition in northeast Ohio, and one that early settlers like the Bartons did in order to make sugar to sweeten their coffee and tea, and to bake with. Since there are so many varieties of sugar today, maple sugar is not as popular for baking as it once was.”

A man with a bald patch on the back of his head spoke up. Since I was in the back of the room, I couldn't see his face. “So the early settlers discovered maple sugar?”

“Oh, no.” Stroud shook his head and seemed to relax as he warmed up to his subject matter. “The Native Americans were tapping trees long before any white settlers arrived in the Cuyahoga Valley. They would use a hatchet to make a small
V-shaped
cut into the tree, and then they would take a sturdy piece of bark to make a spile. To boil the water out of the sap to create syrup, they used hot rocks. As you can imagine, that took a lot of time, up to three days of constantly heating and changing the rocks. Many of the Native Americans couldn't wait that long, so they made hard discs out of the maple sugar, and they even used that as currency.”

I slipped out of the room, happy to see Stroud had the class well in hand. I found Benji in the dining room, helping Jayne set the table for the children's pancake lunch. I was happy to see that the containers of maple syrup were sitting on the counter between the dining room and kitchen and would be distributed by an adult. The less maple syrup spills, the better.

“Benji,” I said.

“What's up?” she asked.

“Everything seems to be going smoothly with the school visit and the tree tapping class. I'm going to run an errand.”

She set a fork on a placemat. “An errand?” She glanced over at Judy, who was on the opposite side of the room, and lowered her voice as if she didn't want Judy to overhear. “This wouldn't have anything to do with Dr. Beeson, would it?”

“Maybe,” I said.

“Kelsey.” Benji stretched my name out into three syllables. She glanced at Judy again. “Gavin told me that the police confirmed Dr. Beeson was murdered.”

I nodded.

She blew out a breath. “Then don't you think you should stay out of it? Wasn't what happened last summer enough for you?”

“It was more than enough, but the police think Gavin is behind his death.”