The First Time I Fell

by Joanne Macgregor

  “Perhaps butterfly isn’t the right word. It makes her sound superficial, which she wasn’t, not really. She always jumped in with both feet — into every job, every relationship, every gig. She immersed herself, learned what there was to learn, threw her whole heart into the place and the people. But always, sooner or later, she moved on. Started over in a brand-new life.”

  “She sounds impulsive.”

  “I guess.”

  “Impulsive people make rash decisions.”

  “She didn’t kill herself, if that’s what you’re getting at,” he said flatly.

  “Are you sure of that? If she had problems at work, or in her relationship …?”

  “She’d just have packed her bags and moved on.” He turned his back to the pond, leaning against the rail. “She didn’t even want to be in one place after she died. Last year, she came down to New Orleans to visit me for a few days, right? We drank too much bourbon and got maudlin. Started talking about death, what we wanted to happen with our bodies after we died. I told her I wanted a full-on New Awlins jazz funeral with a horse-drawn hearse and a brass band bringing up the second line of the parade.”

  “And what did she want?”

  “No funeral and no burial. ‘Cremate me, and then fling my ashes into the air and let them be carried wherever the four winds take them!’ That’s what she said.”

  I picked at a splinter of wood sticking up from the railing. “Do you know any problems she might have had, anyone who might have wished her ill?”

  “No. We’d get together once or twice a year, but we didn’t have regular contact.”

  “I see. And — look, I’m sorry to have to ask you this — but do you know who benefits from her death?”

  Looking uncomfortable for the first time, he finished his cigarette and flicked it into the pond. I frowned down at where it sizzled on the water — I didn’t approve of littering.

  “Well?” I asked.

  “Isn’t it usually the woman’s partner who kills her?”

  “Who inherits her money?”

  “I do.” Again with that sideways smile. It was starting to unsettle me.

  “All of it?”

  “Nobody can find a will. It doesn’t look like she ever made one. Typical Laini.”

  “So, she died intestate, and you’re her next of kin?”

  “That’s why I want to hire you. If it was murder, they’ll look at me first. I want you to prove my innocence.”

  Or to make it look like you want to prove your innocence, I thought, trying to peel the jagged sliver of wood off from the railing and succeeding only in driving a splinter under my thumbnail. I pinched it out using my front teeth and pushed my thumb down hard on the rail until the nail went white, a thin streak of red bisecting the nailbed.

  “Speaking of hiring, what do you charge?” Kennick asked.

  I had no idea. I racked my brain, trying to remember what private eyes on TV shows quoted as their rates, and came up with nothing but a sense that I was a complete fraud.

  “Why don’t we see what I find out first, before I take any of your money?” I said.

  “Okay, but let me give you something for expenses in the meantime.”

  Taking out his wallet, a black leather one with a tiny horseshoe discreetly stamped on one corner, he counted out five twenties and handed them to me.

  “You’re a gambler. You like to bet on the horses?” I said.

  His head snapped around to me in surprise, and his fingers fumbled as he made to return the wallet to his pocket. It fell to the ground, and I quickly bent to retrieve it.

  “You saw that? You just got a vision?”

  “I saw this” — I tapped the horseshoe motif — “and yesterday you were reading the racing results.”

  His shoulders relaxed a little. “Oh.”

  Had he been worried about what I might have intuited?

  My fingers, still clutching his wallet, tingled. My scalp tightened, and my eyes began to water.

  A torn betting slip crushed underfoot.

  Bitter cursing.

  Resentment.

  “But you’ve been down on your luck recently.” The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them.

  He took the wallet from my hands, the wariness back in his face. “You’re the real deal. You’re a reader.”

  He pushed off from the rail and began walking back up the pier. I strode to catch up with him. Our footsteps sounded strangely muffled on the wooden boards as, ahead of us, the red glow of the Tavern’s neon sign emerged from its veil of mist.

  “What do you do for a living?” I asked Kennick.

  “I’m a financial advisor,” he said with a bitter laugh and another sideways smile.

  I said nothing, but it seemed to me that a financial advisor with a gambling problem was like a shop teacher with missing fingers.

  “So,” he said as we reached the parking lot, “what’s your plan of attack?”

  “Sorry?”

  “How will you investigate this?”

  Good question.

  “Um, I need to speak to Laini’s boyfriend, I guess, and the people who worked with her.”

  “I’m on my way there now — to the syrup factory. You can come with, and I’ll introduce you to Bethany Ford if you like?”

  “That would be great, just please don’t call me a psychic detective.”

  I walked with him to his BMW, which even I — no car expert — could tell was an expensive model. Kennick Carter clearly liked to project the appearance of someone who was financially successful, even though the reality might be very different. I wondered if there were more discrepancies between his appearance and reality.

  He unlocked his car with a remote and opened the passenger door for me.

  “Get in,” he said.

  – 14 –

  I took one step toward the open passenger door of Kennick Carter’s car, then stopped abruptly. I’d just convinced a man with a lucrative motive for murder that I did in fact get real psychic visions and might be able to identify Laini’s killer.

  “Um … I’ll meet you there,” I said.

  I followed the black Beemer out of town. About two miles down Route 100, a sign marked the turnoff to the Sweet and Smoky Syrup factory. The dirt road snaked through the dense woods, rising up a steep hill and then sinking down through the mist and dark shadow. If Laini had looked like a tragic sleeping beauty, then this felt like we were headed through an enchanted forest to the castle of the weak king and wicked queen. I half-expected to see seven little people with pickaxes heigh-hoing their way to work between the trees, or a handsome huntsman clutching a heart dripping blood.

  It was sugaring season in Vermont — the time of year when daytime temperatures started rising while the nights were still below freezing, driving the sap up through tree trunks. Across the state, farmers would be tapping the sweet sap of maples and boiling it down into the famous syrup. Smalltime operations tended to use the traditional method of drilling a spile into the tree trunk and collecting the flow of sap in steel pails hung below. This old-fashioned way of doing things was supposedly kinder to the trees, but the Sweet and Smoky outfit, I saw as I drove deeper through the forest of red, black and sugar maples, used the newer, more efficient technology of vacuum extraction.

  Plastic tubing plugged into the trunks high up on the trees, drew out the sap and fed it into thicker tubes which pulled it downhill to the pumping station and processing plant. The long sap lines crisscrossed the woods in a lattice of blue, red and green plastic, held up by trees and iron stakes. It was a bizarre sight — like the maples were hooked up to intravenous lines, only these tubes were drawing the lifeblood from the trees.

  Neat rows of fast-growing firs bordered the winding dirt road. They were still saplings, but in a few years, they’d mask the unsightly sap-collection in the woods behind. As we drew near the factory, the avenue of saplings ended, revealing huge maples plugged with spiles and cute pails dangling beneath — a
picturesque display presumably set up to charm visiting tourists.

  There were no tourists that day, however. The large notice board at the entrance to the parking lot announced that tours of the sugar works, along with the children’s program and sugar-on-snow events, would resume the following week. I pulled into a parking bay beside Kennick’s car and looked around. To the right was the sugar shack — an enormous shed with red clapboard siding, white-trimmed door- and window-frames, and a gabled metal roof from which a chimney billowed snowy plumes of smoke and steam into the air. A sign above the door declared, “May your sap run strong and sweet!”

  The building directly in front of me matched the style of the sugar shack but had glass fronting. Gold lettering on the windows pronounced this to be the factory outlet of the Sweet and Smoky Syrup Company, purveyor of Vermont’s finest hand-crafted maple syrup, candy and cream. It, too, was closed, although the lights were on and I could make out someone moving around inside. A sign to the side of the shop directed “staff only” to the offices behind.

  The smell of woodsmoke and boiling syrup hit me as I climbed out of the car. Kennick Carter was still in his BMW, talking on his phone. When he motioned for me to give him a minute, I nodded and walked over to the store, cupping a hand against the glass to peer inside. The clerk inside was counting bottles and making entries into a tablet — stock-taking? So, the business hadn’t entirely shut down out of respect to Laini Carter. I ambled across the lot to the sugar shack, but before I could peer inside the open sliding doors, a short man in blue overalls stepped out. Wiping his hands on a grease-stained rag, he peered out at me from a face as wizened as a walnut shell.

  “There’s no tours today, lady.” His voice was low, gruff and in no way friendly.

  “I’m not here for a tour. I came to talk to Bethany Ford. Mind if I look around while I wait?”

  I tried to take a step around him, but he blocked me.

  “I’m Jim Lundy, the custodian of the sugar shack,” he said, like he was announcing himself to be Prince Regent of the empire. “And you can’t come in. There’s no tours and no one to do the tours. Laini always does the tours.” A spasm of intense emotion crossed his face. “And Laini is dead.”

  Flashbacks of her dead body — in the quarry, on the stretcher — threatened. I curled my hands into fists and dug my fingers into my palms, trying to stay grounded in the present while Jim glowered at me, seemingly ready to tackle me to the ground if I attempted to penetrate his sanctum.

  “Garnet!” Kennick had finished his call and was beckoning me over to where he now stood with two people.

  I recognized the man immediately. Medium height with graying hair and as square as a refrigerator — this was the man I’d seen giving Laini the necklace. The woman was a few inches taller than my five foot five, with a lovely, fine-boned face framed in soft blond curls. She reminded me of an old-time Hollywood movie star — Grace Kelly, or perhaps Ingrid Bergman.

  “Bethany, Carl, this is Garnet McGee. She’s a special consultant who’s assisting the police with their investigation into Laini’s death,” Kennick said. “Garnet, this is Bethany Ford, Laini’s boss, and Carl Mendez, her partner.”

  They looked less than enthusiastic at meeting me. I shook both their hands, and though I’d been half-braced for the contact, I picked up no readings. Carl’s hands were bare, but Bethany was wearing a pair of dove-gray leather gloves. I needed to get a pair of those for myself; they looked both elegant and warm and might help with keeping my fingers out of my mouth.

  “What kind of a special consultant?” Carl Mendez asked, his gaze doing the usual flick between my differently colored eyes.

  “Uh …” I began.

  “Victim analysis,” Kennick said smoothly.

  “Victim?” Bethany Ford said. There was concern in her voice, but not a hint of a frown marred the smooth space between her brows. Botox?

  “I don’t believe my sister committed suicide,” Kennick said.

  Mendez shot him an assessing glance, suddenly alert. Bethany Ford’s expression, however, was one of compassion shot through with pity.

  “Oh, Kennick, this must be so very, very hard for you.” She shifted her gaze from brother to lover. “For both of you.”

  Honestly, it looked like it was hardest for her. Her eyes were swollen, her makeup smudged, her nose red, and she looked exhausted.

  “I need to go,” Mendez said.

  “I’d like to chat to you about Laini,” I said to him. “Can we set up a time?”

  “No.”

  He turned on his heel and stalked off across the lot. Bethany Ford hurried after him, and at his car, they embraced. Did I imagine it, or did the clinch last just a second too long for a condolence hug?

  Bethany returned to us, apologizing for Mendez’ abrupt departure. “He’s devastated, just devastated. Well, we all are, I guess.”

  His car disappeared, but she remained staring into space, lost in thoughts, or perhaps memories, that had her dabbing her eyes with a tissue.

  “Ms. Ford —”

  “Bethany. Everyone calls me Bethany.”

  “Bethany,” I began again, “I realize this is a difficult time, but could you spare me a few minutes? I’d like to find out more about —”

  “I’d do anything to help Laini and her family with this tragedy, but right now is not the time. I’ve just lost my best friend,” she said, smoothing her hair with a trembling hand.

  “Right. I’m very —”

  “And it’s taking everything I’ve got to keep the business on the rails and to sort out Laini’s affairs. Which reminds me,” she said, turning to Kennick, “the paperwork for you is in my office. Should we try to get that settled now?”

  She and Kennick set off around the side of the store toward the offices, while I trailed behind like an uninvited child. Feeling a prickle on the back of my neck, I glanced over my shoulder and saw Jim the custodian standing on the side porch of the store, watching me.

  – 15 –

  I caught up with Kennick and Bethany as they entered the office building. They paused in the hall, where a blue mountain bike with thick tires hung on a rack on the wall, with a matching helmet on a hook beside it.

  “This was Laini’s,” Bethany said, resting a hand on the bike.

  Immediately, I knew I needed to touch it. But Bethany and Kennick were blocking my way.

  “I think you should have it,” Bethany told Kennick. “Take it with you when you go.”

  She sounded eager to give it to him. Perhaps it pained her to have to keep walking past that symbol of Laini’s vitality. I wished she would walk past it right then, so I could grab a hold of it.

  Kennick didn’t seem to want it either. “No, you keep it. Or give it away.”

  “I thought maybe your kids …?”

  “They’re still on tricycles and training wheels.”

  Bethany nodded, and then led the way upstairs.

  I lingered behind, laying first one, then both hands on the bike’s handlebars. I got no images and no words, and nothing from the helmet either. Hurrying upstairs, I caught up with the other two outside Bethany’s office, where a round-shouldered, mousy-haired woman with bright-blue fingernails was updating her with messages.

  “The printing guy’s on the phone and refuses to go away until he speaks to you,” she said.

  “Oh dear,” Bethany sighed. She consulted a square high-tech watch on her wrist, and then said, “Denise, take Mr. Carter to Laini’s office.” To Kennick, she said, “There might be some of her things you’d like to have.”

  Bethany disappeared into her office while Kennick and I followed Denise to an office at the end of the hall. It was small and decorated in neutrals with pops of vivid color — an emerald-colored pen holder, a scarlet orthopedic cushion on the typist’s chair, a yellow mousepad on the desk. The room was dominated by an enormous picture window with a magnificent view of the woods and mountain ridges beyond. Unusually, the desk was pushed up against
the window so that Laini, when she sat in her chair, would’ve had her back to the door. It wasn’t the sort of setup I’d be comfortable with, especially with odd men like Jim on the premises.

  “She chose this office because of the view?” I asked Denise.

  “Yeah. She was supposed to get one of the bigger offices, but she wanted this one.”

  She handed Kennick a cardboard box for any keepsakes he wanted to take and left us to it.

  My gaze gravitated to a two-picture photo-frame on the desk. In one of the photographs, younger versions of Laini and her brother laughed as they high-fived clouds of purple cotton candy. In the other, Laini rode a painted horse on an old-fashioned fairground carousel. She sat sideways on her horse, holding the pole with one careless hand, while the other arm was flung out behind her, where her dress rippled in the breeze. Her face was filled with joy, and there was a wildness there, too. She truly had been exquisite.

  “I gave her this,” Kennick said, handing it to me. After a few moments, he asked, “Anything? From touching the picture, I mean?”

  “No. Sorry.”

  I walked around the office, trailing fingers across surfaces, picking up items that might have carried her imprint — a stapler, pens from the holder, the computer keypad and mouse — but my hunch that she hadn’t been much attached to objects was growing stronger. If only I could grasp the view through the window in my hands.

  An object on the top shelf in one corner of the room caught my eye — a soccer-ball-sized globe of the world resting on a brass stand and axis. Standing on Laini’s chair, I grabbed it and gave the earth a spin as I climbed back down. Tiny pearl-headed push pins had been pushed into different spots around the world — Egypt, India, Spain, Iceland. I placed my hand on the globe, blotting out Africa and Europe, then closed my eyes and concentrated. Bright light and colors coalesced into an image of Laini twirling the globe, randomly touching a place and sticking a pin in where her finger landed. A moment later, the image dissolved.

  Kennick, rifling through papers on Laini’s desk, hadn’t noticed my absorption, and I decided against telling him what I’d seen, because I hadn’t really seen much. As I lowered the globe into the box, Denise reappeared, telling Kennick that Bethany could see him.