by Maris Soule
Since I’d told my reasons to Detective Ferrell on Sunday, I didn’t see a problem with repeating what I’d heard to Agent Tailor. “Because not long before she died, I overheard Brenda talking to someone on the phone. She said she’d been caught looking at some pictures on the computer, pictures she’d taken.”
“Did she say what these pictures showed?”
“Hidden compartments.”
“In what?”
I shook my head. “She didn’t say. What she did say was her boss had threatened her and that he came after her. She thought she’d given him the slip, but I think he must have figured out where she was and ran her down when she left the church.”
“Did she ask you to keep something for her?”
“Keep something?” Her question triggered my suspicions. “No, she gave me nothing. Tell me, Agent Tailor, why is Customs and Border Protection investigating a hit-and-run?”
She smiled but ignored my question and asked, “How long did you two talk?”
“Not long. I had to go to the bathroom and there was only one working toilet, the one she’d been using. Was she working for the CBP?”
Again, Agent Tailor ignored my question. “And that’s it?” she said. “You heard her side of the conversation, she left, and you used the bathroom?”
If she was trying to make me feel guilty, she was succeeding. “We did talk for a few minutes before she left, and I told her if she was being followed she should call 9-1-1.”
“What did you talk about?”
“Me. That I was pregnant. Married. Living here.”
“That’s all?” Agent Tailor frowned. “Nothing about her job or where she worked?”
“No. As I said, I needed to use the toilet. Badly. If she’d waited around, I would have asked.”
“You’ve never visited her at the furniture store?”
“No. You’re saying she worked at a furniture store?”
Agent Tailor didn’t answer. Without a word, she put her notebook back in her briefcase and stood. “Thank you for your information, Mrs. Kingsley.” She handed me a business card. “If you think of anything more, call me.”
I wasn’t ready for her to leave. “You still haven’t told me why an agency involved with border protection is involved. If she’d given me something, what would it have been?”
“I’m not sure.” Agent Tailor said. “I was hoping you could tell me.”
She started for my front door, and I followed. “She was talking to you, wasn’t she?” I realized. “On the phone. You were the one on the phone, the one who was supposed to meet her.”
Agent Tailor paused at the door, her expression sad. “Yes, I was the one.”
“Was she working undercover?”
Agent Tailor touched my arm. “When is your baby due, Mrs. Kingsley?”
“Soon. You’re not answering my question.”
“From what I’ve heard, you seem to get involved in some dangerous situations. In this case, you need to concentrate on having your baby. Let law enforcement deal with your friend’s death.”
I understood her message. It was the same thing Wade was always telling me: let law enforcement solve crimes. So why, as I watched Agent Tailor walk back to her car, was I already thinking of ways to find out where Brenda worked and what she might have discovered?
Chapter Fourteen
I should have gone back to work on Celia Hyland’s taxes, but the moment I sat down at my computer, I brought up the Internet. Thanks to social media, in less than ten minutes I’d found Brenda Cox’s marital status—divorced—her age—forty-six—and that she was employed as a bookkeeper at Patterson’s Furniture.
Patterson’s Furniture. The name sounded familiar, but I couldn’t remember why. I knew I’d never shopped there.
I found the store’s website. The Home Page opened to the name of the store and a wide-angle view of a furniture display. The photo showed several couples—young and old and from various ethnic groups—looking at sofas, beds, tables, and chairs. The picture was slightly out of focus, forcing me to lean closer to the monitor to see if one of the women might have been Brenda. Considering her height, I figured she’d be easy to spot.
I didn’t see anyone, black, tan, or white, who looked like her.
The menu bar under the picture was divided into room types: living room, dining room, bedroom. I clicked on the page showing mattresses and box springs. I wanted a king-size, but I wasn’t sure one would fit in our bedroom. Once I saw the measurements, I knew I’d have to be satisfied with a queen. But even that would be better than the double I’d inherited with the house.
Next, I went to the pages showing baby furniture. Until we added another bedroom—which we planned on doing in the summer—we had everything we needed for the baby: a bassinet for the first few weeks then a crib, along with a changing table. Patterson’s Furniture had some nice pieces with brightly colored designs etched into the wood. Made in Mexico by indigenous native craftsmen, it said in one corner of the page. The designs did have an Aztec look, and there was an adorable child’s rocking chair I would love to get, someday.
I scanned other pages: living room sets, dining rooms, and patios. From the looks of the website, Patterson’s Furniture was a first-rate store. So, what had Brenda discovered while working there that had ultimately led to her death? What did the pictures she took show?
The store had received four and a half stars, and the reviews I read were mostly positive. Furniture was of good quality. Salesperson was knowledgeable and helpful. One review was mostly smiling memes, the comment “More than I expected.” On the other hand, a one-star review said, “Poor quality product.”
I finally closed the site. I checked out a couple other places where the store was mentioned but learned nothing. All the while I was online, I kept telling myself to stop looking for an answer. I could almost hear Wade saying, “You’re going to have a baby, going to be a mother. You don’t need to get involved in Brenda’s death. Let the police handle the investigation.”
And I knew he was right, but I kept thinking I should do something.
I was about to go off-line when I decided I should check my emails. The moment I saw one from Anna, I remembered my promise from the night before. My phone was still plugged in, and I saw I’d also missed a text from her. All it said was: PICTURES?
I opened the photo icon on my phone and sent her copies of the pictures I’d taken while we were at the charity’s office Monday evening. In case she had trouble downloading the pictures from her phone, I also emailed them to me so I could save them on my computer. If she did have a problem, I would email them to her as attachments.
That done, I returned to Celia’s tax form and was almost finished with her federal taxes when Baraka again rose from where he’d been sleeping and began barking. A welcoming bark rather than a warning, his tail wagging as he headed for the kitchen.
I followed my dog, not surprised when I saw Howard Lowe’s blue Ford parked behind my Chevy. Howard was my closest neighbor, and in the year and five months that I’d been living in what was once my grandparents’ home he had transformed from a grumpy old man who ignored my “no hunting” signs to my best friend and uncle substitute. I guess I transformed a little, too. I know Howard still hunts in my woods, but whenever I’ve caught him coming out with a dead rabbit, I’ve pretended to believe his stories about how his dog Jake got loose and by the time he found him, Jake had injured the rabbit and Howard had to kill it.
We both knew the truth.
Howard is also very curious and seems to know what’s going on around Zenith the moment it happens. I wasn’t surprised to see him bent forward, checking out my left front fender. Either the Hammons told Howard about my accident or the pigs did.
He straightened and looked toward the house. From inside, I waved and he waved back, and then headed for my back steps. I had the door open by the time he made it to the top step.
“Fender doesn’t look too bad,” he said as he entered the kitchen. “There�
��s a guy in Zenith who can fix it, and it won’t cost you an arm and a leg. Everything else run okay?”
“Seemed to,” I said and headed for my dining room, “but the airbags will need to be replaced. You want some coffee?”
“Is the Pope Catholic?” he answered. “I can get it myself.”
He walked over to the buffet where I kept the coffee pot and a tray of mugs. There was half a pot left from when Wade had made some that morning. It would probably be pretty strong by now, but Howard seemed to like his coffee strong. “You want any?” Howard asked, glancing my way.
I shook my head and he poured some for himself, took it into the kitchen to heat in the microwave, and two minutes later was seated at the table across from me. “You okay?” he asked. “Neck? Back? Baby?”
“Neck’s sore,” I said. “Back’s okay, and I think the baby is all right, too. So far everything seems normal.”
“When do you see the doctor again?”
I could tell Howard was concerned. I smiled. He really was a dear. “Not until Monday, but I have another of those Mothers-to-Be meetings tomorrow. I’ll have the nurse check me out.”
Howard nodded his approval, then grinned. “Pigs, huh?”
“Yes, and don’t give me a bad time about that. There really were three pigs on the road last night. Really.”
“Uh-huh.” His grin turned into a chuckle. “Mike Mullen had a heck of a time rounding those sows up. It’s the second time they’ve gotten out. Said to tell you he’s sorry and he’ll cover your repair costs.”
That was a nice surprise. “Thank him, for me, and let him know I’ll forgive him if he’ll tell my husband there really were three pigs on that road.”
“Oh, I’m sure your husband believes you, but we men like to tease you women. It’s fun to see you get all riled up.”
“Maybe fun for you. Not for me.” I doubted Howard realized how much I worried about seeing things that weren’t really there. You needed to grow up with a schizophrenic mother to worry about things as I did.
I still didn’t know what happened to my thumb drive or if someone was in the house Sunday, and that bothered me. “Howard, you seem to know everything that goes on around here. Right?”
He shrugged. “It pays to keep informed.”
“Did you see anything unusual around here Sunday?”
“Your husband stopped by yesterday and asked the same question. Wanted to know if any cars or trucks had been parked in the yard or near your place Sunday.”
“He did?” Evidently Wade hadn’t disregarded the possibility. That pleased me. “And what did you tell him?” If Howard had seen someone that would at least let me know I wasn’t imaging things, hadn’t misplaced my thumb drive, and hadn’t left the back door open so Baraka could get out.
“Didn’t see anything because I wasn’t around Sunday. Drove to the VA hospital in Ann Arbor to visit an old buddy from the corp. He ain’t doing well.”
“That’s too bad,” I said, both because his buddy wasn’t doing well and because Howard hadn’t seen anyone Sunday.
“I did see a black car in your yard earlier today,” he said.
“A CBP agent paid me a visit. A lady agent.”
Howard’s eyebrows rose. “That’s Customs and Border Protection, isn’t it?”
“Yes, she was looking for information about a woman I used to work with, the woman killed in a hit-and-run last Friday. Brenda Cox. I’d talked to Brenda not long before she was killed.”
He nodded but said nothing. I knew he was waiting for me to say more. “That’s basically it.”
Again, Howard nodded, his brow furrowing. “A silver SUV went by your place several times yesterday. Know anything about it?”
“Silver SUV?” I shook my head.
“Older model Honda. Well kept up. I couldn’t see the license number. Probably nothing to worry about but knowing you and how you keep finding ways to get in trouble, I thought I’d say something.”
“I don’t keep finding ways to get in trouble.” Trouble found me, it seemed. “Ken Paget drove over here yesterday, looking for Wade.”
“It wasn’t your computer guru. He drives a Ford.”
Leave it to Howard to not only know who Ken was, but also what kind of car he drove. “How do you get all this information?”
He grinned. “Crows tell me.”
“That environmental agency you belong to or the birds?” Last spring it was the Civilian Resistance Opposing Wayward Science, otherwise known as CROWS, that helped solve the murder that brought Wade and me together.
“Come on, you know I never belonged to that group. I just contacted them when I saw a problem.” Howard stood. “And no, the birds didn’t tell me. However, they have trained some crows to talk.” Coffee mug in hand, he started for the kitchen. “Actually, in the videos I’ve watched, the crows only say a few words. But they are smart, so maybe, with the right training, they could say more.”
Howard was always telling me tidbits about crows. He loved those birds a lot more than I did. “Words might be better than the incessant cawing that starts as soon as I step out of the house,” I said. Or maybe not. If crows talked as much as they cawed, it would probably drive me crazy.
Baraka and I followed Howard into the kitchen. He set his empty coffee mug in the sink, then faced me. “Another thing about crows is the juvenile birds are frequently seen bringing food to mom and dad, as well as feeding their younger siblings directly. You’ve got a juvenile living here. Make sure he helps you when the time comes.”
“Don’t worry. If nothing goes wrong and I have the baby here, Jason will be helping. Connie, my midwife, has a list of tasks lined up for him.”
“Okay, I guess.” Howard absently stroked Baraka’s head. “But, if something happens, and you need someone to watch Jason when your time comes, don’t forget I’m just down the road. I can be here in minutes. Seconds, if necessary.”
“Thank you.” I certainly hoped nothing went wrong, but it was reassuring to know Howard was willing to help.
“Any time,” he said. “And, if I hear anything about Sunday, about someone breaking in here, I’ll let you know.”
He gave me a hug before he left. I smiled as he backed out of the yard. Maybe young crows help with parental duties, but I had an old crow ready to help me. He was a dear.
Chapter Fifteen
I finished Celia’s federal and state taxes before Sondra brought Jason home. For fifteen minutes that boy talked constantly. He’d had a wonderful time. He’d helped the other boys feed the chickens and gather eggs, they’d chased the goats out of Sondra’s vegetable garden—even though, Jason said, there were no vegetables in it yet, just weeds—and Mr. Sommers showed him how to milk a cow. “With my hands,” Jason said, looking at his palms as if they’d changed into something miraculous.
Finally, he said he was going upstairs to change his clothes. Considering he smelled like a cow barn, I thoroughly approved of the idea; however, a half hour later, when Jason hadn’t come back downstairs, and I hadn’t heard any sounds from up there, I became curious.
I was huffing by the time I reached the top of the stairs. The door to Jason’s room, which had been my father’s room when he was a boy, was shut. Dad had told me about the time he tied bed sheets together and climbed out of the window. As cold as it was outside, I didn’t think Jason would have done that, but I didn’t hear any sounds from the other side of the door.
I turned the knob and slowly cracked the door open enough to see inside.
Almost immediately, Baraka pushed his muzzle into the open space, and I realized he’d gone up with Jason. On the floor behind Baraka, lay a pair of dirty jeans. Even from outside of the room, I could smell them. And on the bed, curled up in the fetal position, was Jason . . . sound asleep. “You want out?” I whispered to Baraka and opened the door farther.
My dog trotted past me and headed for the stairs. There he paused and looked back at me, as if to say, “Aren’t you coming?”
/> I thought about simply closing the door again, then changed my mind. Heat rises, and the upstairs area was warm, but maybe not warm enough for a sleeping child. I went into the room and covered him with a plush throw. He made a small grunt but didn’t move. He looked so innocent lying there.
Without thinking, I stroked my belly. Soon he would have a sister. Would they be friends? Seven years was a big span in ages. Would he become her protector? I had no brothers or sisters and growing up I’d envied those who had siblings. It would have been nice to have had an ally when I was dealing with Mom.
I sighed, picked up the smelly, dirty jeans, and holding them away from my body, quietly left the room.
I hoped neither Jason nor the baby in my womb would have to deal with a schizophrenic mother.
* * *
Jason was awake and downstairs by the time Wade came home. While I fixed dinner, Wade heard all about the chickens, goats, and cows. Jason kept talking during dinner, which was fine. I didn’t want to say anything about my visitor in front of Jason. It wasn’t until after dinner was over and I was putting dishes in the dishwasher that Wade and I had a chance to talk.
Wade spoke up first. “Your buddy’s off the hook,” he said as he opened another beer. “At least off the hook regarding the white power we found in his trailer. Turned out to be Epsom salt, some that our good neighbor Howard Lowe had dropped off for Ken to use for his plants.”
“Epsom salt, not cocaine or heroin?” I grinned, knowing Wade had been sure Ken was using drugs. “Now, don’t you feel like a fool?”
“Don’t act so smug. An overdose of Epsom salt can lead to heart problems, coma, paralysis, and death.”
“So, you think Epsom salt killed Jerry?” I wasn’t sure I understood.
“No, but we couldn’t rule it out. However, the medical examiner said, since Epsom salt is basically magnesium sulfate, Mr. Herman would have had to take a very large dose to cause death and using NARCAN wouldn’t have revived him even for a short while. The quantity of powder we found does fit Mr. Paget’s explanation about why the bag was in the trailer. Seems he has house plants at his apartment in Kalamazoo and misting once a month with a weak solution of Epsom salt helps produce greener leaves.”
