The Rocky Road to Ruin

by Meri Allen

  “Police! You two, stop!”

  It took me a moment to realize the police were talking to Caroline and me. Voelker rushed into the clearing and played his flashlight over a campsite and the surrounding trees. A fire burned low in a cleared ring of stones and dirt, and a skillet was set on top of a grate over the fire.

  “We’re the ones who called. He went that way.” I pointed and headed off.

  Voelker grabbed my arm as two officers jogged through the graveyard and were swallowed up in the shadows of the tree line. “Let the officers do it.”

  Adrenaline pumping, I shook off his hold. “I can catch him.”

  “Let the officers do it.” Voelker’s voice was quiet, but his tone brooked no argument.

  I swallowed my irritation and turned my attention to the campsite. “Is it just me or does it smell really good here?”

  “It does.” Caroline came up behind me and clutched my arm.

  My heart rate slowed. The fire had been built by a camper making dinner. Again.

  The crimson lights of a fire engine swirled around us as it pulled up on Farm Lane. Two firefighters pushed through to the cemetery and conferred with Voelker.

  I turned my attention back to the campfire. The site was immaculate, the grate set on a neat pile of rocks, all debris cleared away. A mound of dirt was set to one side, at the ready to put on any stray embers.

  “It’s creepy thinking of someone camping up here in the graveyard.” Caroline, clad in flannel pajama bottoms and a T-shirt, hugged her arms.

  One of the officers returned, panting. “Lost him, sir.”

  “Probably just some Scout doing some camping,” Voelker said.

  A firefighter said, “Not a good idea with how dry it’s been, but this guy looks like he knew what he was doing. We’ll put it out.”

  Voelker turned to Caroline and said, “I’ll have someone drive by a few times tonight, make sure everything’s okay.” He threw me a hard look, evidently wondering how such a nice girl like Caroline had such a loose cannon for a friend.

  The second cop returned, and bent over, hands on knees, sucking wind. “He’s gone.”

  I bit my tongue. I could’ve run faster and might’ve caught the guy. I shook it off and made a point of thanking the firefighters and police officers.

  Voelker turned to us. “Best you go home.” It wasn’t a suggestion.

  Caroline tugged my arm. “Come on, Riley.”

  Chapter 25

  The next morning, I rose early and jogged back to the clearing in the cemetery. I picked my way through the headstones, looking for clues, trying to remember which way the camper had run.

  I threw my thoughts back to high school, those years before Caroline and I had driver’s licenses, when we’d been content exploring myriad paths in the woods around the farm. The camper had had his choice of escape routes through acres of rolling farmland and forest.

  Parts of the land on this side of Farm Lane belonged to the Danforths and part to the Gravers, er, Fairweathers. I didn’t know where the property lines were. Everyone had coexisted amicably, and the families represented in the cemetery had intermarried for years.

  The sound of a distant lawnmower accompanied me as I took the path that led to the small pond, scanning the ground as I ran, searching for any trace of the camper. I found nothing and returned to the cemetery.

  The shade of towering old oaks and massive stands of laurel provided a respite from the gathering heat. Most of the stones in the cemetery were weathered and covered with green lichen, so worn that any names on them were illegible. Except for one. I picked my way closer to a shiny stone of pink granite in the northernmost corner of the cemetery and shivered as I read the words carved on it: “Brooke Danforth. A Rose Barely Bloomed.”

  The grave was beautifully tended, the headstone flanked by yellow rose bushes that seemed to hold the stone in a protective embrace. Some daisies had been planted recently, the earth around them loose and dark. I brushed away a leaf on top of the highly polished granite.

  Approaching footsteps made me turn.

  Dandy, dressed in a pristine white Penniman Golf Club top and jeans, emerged from a path behind the headstone. She carried a watering can and a basket of gardening tools, the sinews standing out on her tanned arms. A golf visor held her thick hair in place. Surprised, she stopped short when she saw me.

  “Mrs. Danforth. Hello.” Here I was, thirty-five years old, still calling her Mrs. Danforth.

  She smiled. “Hello, Riley. I didn’t expect anyone to be here.”

  I stepped away from the grave. “Beautiful flowers.”

  She set down the basket and sprinkled water over the just-planted daisies. “Thank you. My hobby.” I wasn’t sure if she meant gardening or caring for her daughter’s grave. Probably both.

  “Did you see the fire last night?” I said.

  “What a commotion! I didn’t see anything but I did hear someone running through my backyard. Flo told me about the firebug”—her lips turned down—“camping here. Disrespectful. I hope the police put an end to that nonsense.”

  “Would you mind if I checked your yard?” I asked. “I wonder if the person dropped anything.”

  She tilted her head. “I didn’t notice anything, but you’re welcome to look.” I followed Dandy through the laurel to a path that looped from the cemetery, through her backyard and out toward the lane, passing the open doors of an elaborate garden shed that was almost as big as the Love Nest. Inside were gardening tools and shelves of equipment, all organized and immaculate. A lawnmower was parked next to it, the scent of gasoline and newly cut grass telling me she’d just been mowing.

  My eyes widened as we went into her backyard, a lush paradise of flowering trees and beds at odds with Dandy’s outward no-frills appearance and no-nonsense personality. Water trickled into a koi pond under a flowering pergola. Wrought-iron furniture with striped pink pillows decorated a stone patio. “Your yard’s beautiful.”

  A smile lit her face. “Thank you.”

  I walked quickly through the yard, scanning the ground, feeling more and more ridiculous, until I skirted along the back of the house. I saw a piece of dark canvas by the roots of a boxwood.

  I picked it up, my heart thudding with excitement.

  “You found something!” Dandy exclaimed.

  The thick black canvas was rolled, heavy, and its contents shifted as I set it on Dandy’s picnic table. I unrolled it, revealing a set of knives, ranging in size from a butcher knife to a small paring knife, all with dangerously sharp edges.

  Dandy looked over my shoulder. “That’s a gourmet set. Very pricey.”

  “I should take it to the police.” I could pump Tillie while I was at the station.

  “Nonsense. Don’t you watch NCIS? They’ll want to see it in situ. Come in and get a drink of water. You must stay hydrated in this heat.”

  Maybe she was right. “Thanks.”

  “I think this is important,” Dandy said as we stepped into her kitchen. “What if this fire bug had something to do with Mike’s death?”

  The thought stopped me in my tracks. I’d thought of the person in the woods—well to be honest, Stretch—as a camper, a drifter. “Firebug” put a different spin on him.

  What if the firebug murdered Mike? What if he’d seen Mike’s and Angelica’s expensive cars? What if he’d been sleeping in the barn? Maybe Mike surprised him and he lashed out. My stomach turned. Was it that simple, that awful?

  The roll of knives was heavy in my hands. Here I’d been thinking of the firebug as a camper, as—what did Voelker say?—a Boy Scout. I practically threw the roll onto Dandy’s kitchen table.

  But the note, I thought. There was the note.

  Dandy went to the refrigerator and poured a glass of water. “It’s a terrible thought, that this stranger was here, so close.” Dandy handed me the glass.

  “Thank you.” As I drank, I read one of those inspirational posters with a sunrise on the wall above her kitchen table:
“Perfection is not attainable, but if we chase perfection we can catch excellence.”

  Dandy picked up her phone. “I’ll call the police and let them know. There’s a bathroom down the hall if you need it.”

  “Thank you.” The thought of making small talk this early in the morning was not appealing, and finding those knives rattled me. Even though I didn’t need it, I went down the hall to the powder room and washed my hands.

  As I stepped out of the powder room, I could hear Dandy speaking, but now she was speaking very loudly, almost shouting. “—the fire in the graveyard.”

  I couldn’t make out his words, but I could hear a man’s voice answer.

  Dandy continued, “We found knives—”

  Directly across from me was a bedroom with soft yellow walls and a white canopy bed. Who has a canopy bed anymore? Dandy’s and the man’s voice faded as the room pulled me in. There were posters of gymnasts and impossibly thin models next to band posters on the walls, bands that had been popular when I was in high school. There was a full-length mirror next to a desk, and on the desk was a vintage computer with a huge monitor. It was probably a valuable collector’s item now, but when I was in high school, it had been the latest model. This was Brooke Danforth’s bedroom, and it hadn’t been changed since she died.

  Above the computer, a program for the Penniman High School Players Spring Production of Brigadoon was tucked on the shelf with a dried bit of heather. I blinked. I’d painted scenery for that play.

  A stack of books drew me. On top was a paperback copy of Tess of the D’Urbervilles, a Summer Required Reading sticker on the spine.

  My heart rate ticked up. I ran a finger on the desk but there wasn’t a bit of dust. Suddenly I was sure that Dandy had kept everything exactly where Brooke had left it when she died.

  A Penniman HS gymnastics jacket hung on the back of the desk chair, State Champions embroidered on the sleeve.

  On the bed, a pile of silky pillows. There was a denim-covered book on the nightstand, Diary embroidered in yellow stitching on the cover.

  There was a sudden silence. The phone call had ended.

  “Riley?” Dandy joined me, her face drawn. I’d crossed a line.

  “Oh, sorry,” I stammered. “I was lost in thought about the guy with the knives. This room faces the backyard.” I pointed weakly at the window. “I wonder where he went.”

  “A real firebug from what Aaron said,” Dandy frowned.

  She’d been talking to Aaron the Hermit?

  She reached past me and shut the door. “We’re going to talk to the police outside.”

  I felt terrible having invaded what she must consider sacred ground. My stomach fell when I realized Brooke would be a woman my age now. The kitchen gleamed with updated appliances, but Brooke’s bedroom was frozen in time.

  Chapter 26

  Dandy and I exited the gate of her white picket fence enclosed front garden as a stocky man emerged from the overgrown yard across the lane. Aaron the Hermit swayed from side to side on sandaled feet as a dachshund waddled behind him on a blue leather leash. Aaron’s stringy gray hair was swept over his head in an ineffectual comb-over, and thick dark hair covered tattoos on his beefy forearms. He wore thick metal-framed glasses, and another pair dangled from a leather lanyard around his neck.

  I’d heard stories about the Hermit of Penniman and now here he was. I didn’t have a preconceived notion of what he’d look like, but I did find his gold necklaces and three heavy gold rings surprising, as was his cute little pet.

  Dandy said, “Aaron, this is Riley Rhodes. She’s a friend of the Spooners.”

  The dog whined and Aaron picked it up. “McGillicuddy, say hi to the lady.” McGillicuddy had sweet glossy black eyes. A blue bone-shaped tag swung from a matching blue leather collar. Aaron smacked a big kiss on his head and then set him gently down. “Rough business with Mike. I’m sorry about Buzzy. What a great gal.”

  “She was, thanks,” I said.

  “How’s Caroline holding up?” Aaron asked.

  “She’s okay. I’m going to help her with the ice cream shop.”

  “What’s that?” He cupped his hand behind his ear.

  I repeated what I’d said more loudly.

  “That’s great,” he grinned. “Is that big real estate deal still going through?”

  I didn’t like the glitter in his deep-set eyes. “No.”

  “It will. Everyone has a price,” Aaron chuckled.

  “Have you been contacted about selling your property?” I asked.

  Aaron rubbed his finger along his nose. “That’s my business.”

  Before I could ask him more, a police SUV parked on the road next to us and Detective Voelker got out.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Danforth.” Detective Voelker’s eyebrows shot up when he saw me. “Ms. Rhodes. Mr. Tuthill.”

  So, Aaron the Hermit had a last name.

  Aaron said, “I’m going to take McGillicuddy for a little walk.”

  Dandy led Voelker through the gate and her lush garden of rosebushes into the house. I followed.

  In the kitchen, Detective Voelker opened the roll of knives. “You’re sure it’s from the person camping in the cemetery—”

  “Who else’s would it be?” Dandy scoffed. “I cleared weeds from that area yesterday and there was nothing there. People don’t just traipse through my yard.”

  “I’ll have my team look for footprints,” Voelker said.

  Oh, great, they’ll definitely find mine. Inwardly, I groaned.

  I remembered that Gerri and Flo lived next door to Dandy. I wondered if they’d heard anything. I’d ask when they came into work.

  We went back through Dandy’s front yard and out the gate. Voelker gave me a resigned look, got in his SUV, and took off.

  Dandy closed the picket fence gate behind me with a firm click. From here I could see the Love Nest down the road, with Mike’s car still parked in front.

  Aaron and McGillicuddy hadn’t gone far. I’d probably not get another chance to talk to the Hermit of Penniman.

  “Aaron, did you see anything the night Mike died?”

  “Nope,” Aaron said. “Like I told the cops, I feel bad I forgot to turn on my security cameras that night. They don’t go as far as the barn anyways. Just here on the road.”

  He’d forgotten to turn them on the night of Mike’s murder? What a disappointment for the cops. Even filming cars coming down the road would’ve been valuable for their investigation.

  I couldn’t help but glance into his thickly treed lot. Had I been filmed every time I went for a run? Everyone had cameras. My handlers had taught me to always assume you’ll be on video.

  McGillicuddy wrapped his leash around Aaron’s legs, lunging at something only he could see.

  “Wish I had turned them on that night.” Aaron scratched his belly and raised his voice. “Quiet night. I walked little McGillicuddy here, but didn’t see anything, right, Donna?”

  Donna. Dandy’s real first name. Dandy was busy deadheading the rose plants in her front yard, and I’d forgotten she was there. She called, “Sorry, I missed what you said.”

  Aaron continued, “I said I didn’t see anything the night Mike died, after McGillicuddy and I went in. I stopped for a chat here with Donna over the fence like we often do around eight o’clock. Then I went in.”

  “I saw nothing and heard nothing out of the ordinary.” Dandy bent to pull a weed. “Most of that night I was in the potting shed behind the garage.” She pointed down her long driveway to a weathered freestanding garage, where a blue minivan was parked. “I worked quite late preparing for the Garden Club booth at the Sunflower Festival.”

  Aaron picked up and nuzzled McGillicuddy. “Sure hope they catch the guy who did it. Or gal. That tennis gal’s a looker. Shame if she’s the killer.”

  His thin lips curved in an ugly smile. I said goodbye and ran back home, mulling over what I’d seen. So much bothered me. The way Dandy had turned her daughter’s room
into a shrine; Aaron’s evasiveness when I asked if he considered selling his property; the fact that some drifter was carrying not just one knife but a set of knives. I shuddered thinking of those sharp blades. I’d make sure the door was locked.

  After a quick shower I dashed out of the house with an apologetic pat on the head for Rocky. There was so much to prepare for the Sunflower Festival and I had no time to play. I dashed back to secure the door, again shaking my head at the flimsy old lock.

  When I got to the shop, Caroline already had the chiller running and a custard cooking on the stove. “When you didn’t come home I figured you were here. I was worried!” she said.

  I filled her in as I set hot fudge to warm. Her hand crept to her neck and her eyes widened as I described the set of knives I’d found. “Why does someone carry something like that around with them? Is this guy really dangerous, like a serial killer?”

  I’d thought the same thing, but resolved to stay cool. I said, “It’s just some guy camping.” I hesitated, wondering if I should mention Stretch. Was it fair to him that I had pegged him as the camper? But when others called him a firebug, it didn’t seem right. He’d seemed a gentle person. I said, “But to be safe, I locked the door.”

  Her voice faltered. “What if that guy in the cemetery killed Mike?”

  “I don’t—” I was going to say I didn’t think Mike was killed by a stranger, but that was worse. “As far as that camper, I bet this place is too crowded for him. The police are doing the best they can.” I gave her a sidelong glance. “Especially the cute guy who’s crushing on you.”

  Caroline hit me in the shoulder with a towel, a smile curving her wide mouth. It was good to see her smile. “I wish we could go into town for the festival on the green.”

  “Me too. I’d love to go browse the bookshop and visit Dad,” I said.

  “I insist you take off on Monday,” Caroline said.

  “We’ll see.” I wouldn’t mind stopping by the police station and chatting up Tillie.

  The crowds were steady and festive. A brief shower swept through around three o’clock, but it was soon a memory. I thought of the camper and hoped the rain had given him a good soaking.