Dyeing Season

by Karen MacInerney

  "I know," I said.

  "I don’t want you to end up like Eva," she said.

  "I’ll lock my doors at night," I promised.

  "Sure you don’t want to come stay with me?"

  "I don’t want to leave the livestock unattended," I said. "I promise I’ll call if I get into trouble. Now," I said, "let’s look at that box you brought."

  She reached for it, unfolding the top of it. "It’s just some things from my mother's house," she said. She pulled out some black-and-white family photos. "I’ve been meaning to look through it, but I didn’t have the heart. But when it fell on the floor, I figured it must be time."

  "I get that," I told her as she leafed through the photos. I knew there were still some things in the attic of the farm I should go through; I just hadn’t had the time.

  "Look at this," Quinn said, pointing to one in which two women, hair pulled up in a Gibson-Girl style, stood in front of the Town Square. "Those are my great-great-aunts on my father's side," she said.

  "They're pretty," I said. "The one on the left kind of looks like you; she's got a ringlet escaping."

  "She kind of does, doesn't she?" Quinn said. "But there's one thing in this box that I can't understand."

  "What is it?"

  "This piece of fabric," she said, pulling out a tatty length of felted wool. "It looks like it was handmade."

  "Hand-dyed, too, likely," I said, looking at the faded colors of mustard and gray.

  "There's a piece of it missing," Quinn said. "In the corner."

  "I see," I said. "It looks like someone stitched it up, though, so it wouldn't fall apart."

  "Why would someone do that?"

  "Maybe it got frayed and someone neatened it up?" I suggested.

  "But the rest of it's in fairly good shape," Quinn pointed out, touching the fabric.

  "It is," I said. "And it seems to have been made with a lot of care, too. It does seem weird that there's a corner missing."

  "I know it's just a piece of fabric, but why is it in this box with all the family photos and the family Bible and everything?"

  "I don't know," I said. "Any more luck on your grandmother's heritage, by the way?"

  "Not really," she said, "but I know when she was born. Look at this," she said, pulling out an old, leather-bound book and opening it.

  "It's in German!" I said.

  "They must have brought it over from the old country," she said. "The publication date is in the 1800s."

  She opened it up to the front page, where a list of names had been inked in multiple hands, in ink that was now fading. "Here's my grandmother's name: Elisabeth. She was born in October 1935, in La Grange."

  "She was an only child," I said. "That must have been hard on a farming family. They relied on lots of children to keep things going."

  "They weren't farmers, though," she said. "They owned the general store in town."

  "What was their last name?"

  "Zapp," she said.

  "Oh! You never told me your family was connected with the Zapp Building!" The Zapp Building was now a hotel on the square. I'd always admired its decorative brick and its long, wavy glass windows, not to mention the barrels of colorful flowers the current owner kept blooming on the sidewalk outside.

  "They sold it a long time ago," she said. "They ran the hotel for about thirty years, until it just got to be too much for them." She looked at the small list of names in the Bible. "Nobody had many children," she said. "Unusual for the time. I had some cousins on my father's side, but they moved to Pennsylvania and we've lost touch. My mother was an only child, so no family on that side."

  "No wonder you're curious about your grandmother," I said.

  "I just feel like there's something I'm missing," she said. "I've thought about it on and off over the years—and I did that DNA test a few months ago—but ever since the storm, it's just... it feels like I have to figure it out, you know?"

  "I've had things like that," I said. "Maybe Ancestry.com will help."

  "Maybe," she said doubtfully, fingering the soft cloth. "I don't know," she said. "I feel like there's a reason someone put this in here. And I'm never going to know what it is."

  "You never know," I said, trying to be hopeful, although I was pretty sure she was right.

  We finally closed up the box, after admiring all the old photos and trying to imagine what Buttercup must have been like one hundred years ago, and returned to the kitchen for tea and a few more cookies.

  "No word on Cinnamon, I presume?"

  "None yet," I said. "And nothing on Eva, either."

  "Have you talked with the guy she was seeing? Edward?"

  "Not yet," I said. "I should probably stop by with some brownies or something. Besides, I want to meet his daughter; apparently, Molly's son Ethan has been spending a lot of time with her, sneaking out at night and possibly getting into trouble."

  "That doesn't sound good."

  "I know," I said. "I hope they're not getting into too much trouble."

  "You definitely need to go and be neighborly," Quinn said. "Which reminds me, I found the best brownie recipe ever the other day. Maybe you should make a double batch." She pulled it up on her phone. "How are you for milk chocolate chips?"

  I checked the pantry. "I've got two bags of them."

  "Let's get started then," she said, and started digging through my cabinet for pans. As she dug, Chuck and Pip stalked to the back door and began to growl. Goose bumps rose on my arms. Was my chicken coop vandal back? I turned on the back light and peered out into the darkening evening.

  "What is it?" Quinn asked, joining me at the window.

  "I don’t know," I said. "I don’t see anything, but the dogs are spooked."

  We stared out the window for a long time, as the dogs growled and barked at our feet. Finally, they relaxed, and Quinn and I looked at each other.

  "Wonder what that was all about?" she asked.

  "I have no idea," I said, feeling uneasy. "Hopefully nothing. I think we would have seen it if someone was out there, don’t you?"

  "I think so," she said. "After that, I really need chocolate. Let’s get these brownies made."

  The sky outside the windows had turned dark, the sky spangled with stars, and we’d just finished off our fourth brownie each when Quinn patted her stomach and said, "I need to move. I know it’s late, but show me what you did today.

  "You mean the vegetables?" I asked.

  "Yes," she said. "I need to get outside and move a little bit."

  "I have mixed feelings about it, honestly, but the dogs seem okay."

  "They’d tell us if someone was here, and they’ve been quiet for over an hour," she pointed out. "Besides, this is Buttercup. We’re not in downtown Houston."

  "You’re right about the dogs," I reflected. "It’s probably just nerves; I’m still recovering from finding Eva. But I’m bringing my shovel, just in case."

  We put our boots on and headed out the kitchen door into the cool spring night air. I did grab the shovel I’d leaned up against the side of the house while Quinn took charge of the flashlight. "You hardly need it, really," she said. "The moon’s almost full."

  "Let’s take it just in case," I said.

  "You’re really nervous, aren’t you?" Quinn asked. "That chicken coop incident got to you."

  "It did," I admitted as I opened the back gate, the dogs at our heels. They both relieved themselves on Chuck’s favorite rose bush—poor thing—and then followed us out into the field. They did seem unconcerned. Quinn was probably right; I was just jumpy.

  "You made a lot of progress," she said, pointing to the neat row of broccoli starts I’d put in that afternoon. I’d spent a little bit on lettuce starts and reseeded the rest, hoping that if I rigged some shade cover over them once it started to get warm, I’d get a decent harvest before the heat of summer kicked in. "And you got the tomatoes in, too," she said, pointing to the row of new cages I’d bought and plunged into the ground. "And you got a scarec
row, too! That should help with the birds."

  "I didn’t put up a scarecrow," I said. "What are you talking about?"

  "There," she said, flicking on the flashlight and pointing.

  A rude scarecrow stood at the end of the second row, its mouth a red slash, its eyes black holes in white fabric. Below the crudely rendered face, my cherry blossom shirt bulged with straw, and my jeans sagged beneath it.

  "I didn’t put that there," I breathed.

  "I should hope not," Quinn said, focusing the light on the hilt of the knife protruding from the chest of my favorite blouse. I gripped the shovel harder. "Somebody’s got it in for you, Lucy," my friend said in a low, grim voice.

  13

  We took pictures of the scarecrow from all angles and studied the turned-up dirt for evidence.

  "Footprints," Quinn said, pointing to divots in the ground leading up to and away from the awful scarecrow.

  "Boots, it looks like," I said. The prints weren’t huge, but they weren’t tiny, either.

  "Likely a man?"

  "Or a woman with large-ish feet," I replied. I took a few photos of the prints, too, as Quinn and I followed them to the end of the row. Unfortunately, any further prints were lost in the long grass.

  "Think they came through the gate?" Quinn asked.

  "Probably," I said. We walked to both gates, but there was no further sign of boot prints in the moist ground.

  "Maybe they just materialized out of nowhere," Quinn suggested. "Whoever it was sure didn’t cross the creek, I’m guessing." Dewberry Creek was still swollen and rushing from the recent rains as we walked across the fence line back toward the farmhouse. We’d only gone about ten yards when we found two pieces of barbed wire lying on the ground. Someone had snipped through the fence between my land and Dottie’s. Quinn frowned as she shone the light on the wire. "Well, this explains why we didn’t hear any cars on the driveway."

  "Glad we found this now," I said. "Otherwise Blossom would be through this like a shot tomorrow."

  "Not to mention the goats," Quinn said.

  I sighed; it was one thing after another lately. "I’ll fix it in the morning, when it’s light."

  "Are you sure you don’t want to come and stay in town with me?" Quinn asked.

  I shook my head. "Thanks, but I want to make sure my animals are okay."

  "That scarecrow was dressed in your clothing," she reminded me. "That was a threat."

  "I know," I said.

  "Who did it?" she asked.

  "Someone who doesn’t want me asking questions about Eva?" I guessed. "I don’t know."

  "I don’t like you staying here alone," she said. "I’ve decided I’m bunking with you for the night. I’ve got Pip with me, so there’s no need to go back into town."

  "Are you sure?" I asked.

  "I’m guaranteed fresh eggs in the morning, at least," she said. "Plus, I brought Mazanec."

  "Provided our vandal doesn’t come back," I said gloomily.

  "You padlocked the coop, right?" she asked. "I’m sure it’ll be fine."

  I just hoped she was right.

  The rest of the night passed without incident, fortunately. Quinn and I shared omelets and Mazanec for breakfast, still speculating on who had put up that horrible scarecrow. "What’s your plan for the day?" she asked finally as she washed the omelet pan.

  "I thought I’d swing by Edward’s house and see what he knows about Eva," I said. "I’ll bring what’s left of the brownies."

  "Let me know how it goes," she said, then fixed me with a stern look. "And be careful. If you won’t buy a shotgun, maybe you should take karate class with me sometimes. It’s good to know."

  "I’ll think about it," I said. Quinn was well on her way to a black belt, I knew, her martial arts journey inspired by a violent ex. It might be nice to know how to defend myself, I thought. My eyes drifted out to where the scarecrow had stood the night before, and I suppressed a shiver.

  Once Quinn headed to the Blue Onion, I called Opal at the station to tell her what had happened and sent an e-mail with pictures attached, then spent the balance of the day fixing the fence, putting in more vegetable starts, and checking on my animals (there was still no sign of the missing kid, alas). Once my outdoor tasks were done, I busied myself making a batch of cheese and then blowing a few more eggs and dyeing them; my market stock was running low. It was almost five before I finished my tasks and grabbed the plate of brownies from the kitchen counter.

  As I drove past Dottie's farm on the way to Edward's house, I realized I hadn't connected with Dottie's daughter yet. I dialed her number again, hoping she would answer. This time, she picked up after the third ring.

  "Jennifer? It's Lucy Resnick."

  "Oh, Lucy," she said. "I saw you'd called, but I've been so busy I haven't had a chance to call you back. Thanks again for taking care of Mom during that tornado. Without you and Quinn... I don't like to think what might have happened."

  "Well," I said, "I'm afraid I may have some bad news for you."

  I could hear the fear in her voice. "Is Mom okay?"

  "Healthwise, she hasn't changed. But did you know she's living in Sunset Home in La Grange and that the house is under contract?"

  There was a stunned silence. Finally, she said, "What? You're joking, right?"

  "I'm afraid not," I said. "I'm not a hundred percent sure, but I think it's your brother's doing. He moved her over there right away. I ran into him having lunch with Faith Zapalac down at the Blue Onion; almost immediately after, there was a For Sale sign on the property, and in almost no time at all, it says it's under contract."

  "That jerk," she fumed, shock giving way to anger. "He's been pushing her for years. I've told him to back off, but he must have convinced her. Damn it all," she said, then apologized. "I'm sorry. I don't usually cuss, but..."

  "I understand," I said.

  "That's the house I grew up in! My children visit her there every summer! How could he do such a thing?"

  "I don't know the situation, but I'd get in touch with your mom and find out what you can as soon as possible. I know there's an option period on contracts... maybe there's time for her to back out of it?"

  "I'm heading up there right now," Jennifer said. "Thanks for telling me."

  "Let me know if I can help," I offered.

  "I might need help killing my brother," she said, then added, "I'm just kidding. Thanks for the offer."

  "I get it," I said. I hung up a moment later, feeling sad for Dottie, and as I turned onto the road to Edward's place, found myself hoping Jennifer could find a way to keep the house in the family.

  Edward lived in a house not too far from central Buttercup, about a half mile down the road from the Kramers'. It was a small farmhouse not far off the main road, surrounded by several old oaks and a few pear trees with nascent fruit. I pulled up behind an old yellow truck, grabbed the plate of brownies I'd made, and headed to the front door, hoping he would be home.

  A girl around Ethan's age answered the door, her hair scraped back into a ponytail and her hands covered in paint. "Hi," I said. "You must be June. Is your dad here?"

  She gave a brief shrug, then turned, took a deep breath and yelled "Dad!" at the top of her lungs. Her powers of projection were impressive; I almost dropped the plate of brownies.

  "I'm coming," he answered from somewhere in the house. A moment later, he appeared, his hands covered in clay. "Oh. Hi," he said, looking surprised to see me.

  "Lucy Resnick," I said. "We've run into each other before. I was neighbors with Dottie, and I knew Eva."

  He nodded and turned to his daughter. "I've got it, June Bug."

  She looked at me for a long moment and then disappeared back into the house. Edward's eyes dropped to the plate of brownies. "What are those for?"

  "I figured it might be rough, with Eva gone," I said quietly. "I thought I'd bring a little something."

  "Come in," he said, stepping back and letting me into the house. "I've been workin
g on some paintings in my studio," he said.

  "I heard you were an artist. I saw some of your eggs at the market; they're amazing."

  "I do all kinds of things," he told me. "I should probably just stick to one thing, but I think I'd be bored. I may open a full booth at the Market this summer," he said as I followed him into the room he used as his studio. "I've been playing with oils this winter, doing landscapes."

  "They're beautiful," I said, looking at the rich colors on the canvases lined up under the window. I recognized many of the scenes, but in Edward's hands, the rolling hills took on new contours and depth. "You really are talented."

  "I've got a decent eye," he admitted. "I don't know how long I'll have a job at the knitting shop, so I'm trying to find a way to make a living. Marketing art can be a challenge."

  "Maybe, but you obviously know what you're doing," I said, admiring a large landscape on canvas depicting an incoming storm, a small barn huddled in the forefront of the frame. I thought of the tornado, and shivered. "Where did you learn how to do that?"

  "I got an MFA at UT a few years back. It's hard to find a job as an artist, though. Unless you're a graphic designer, that is. I did a little of that, but I prefer working with my hands."

  "Where do you want these?" I asked, lifting the plate of brownies as he picked up a paintbrush and made a minor adjustment on his work in progress, a landscape that looked rather like Dottie's farm, now that I looked at it.

  "On the shelf is good," he said. "I could go for a snack, but I'm going to finish this first. Why don't you go ahead and have one?"

  "Thanks," I said, lifting the plastic wrap.

  "Let me just get this last bit done and I'll join you," he said. As he made a few adjustments to the little farmhouse, I set the brownies on one of the few clear spots on the bookshelf and sat down on a wooden chair across from him.

  "Is that Dottie's house?"

  He nodded. "I took a picture of it about a month ago," he said, showing me the printed picture he was working from. Although it resembled the painting taking shape on the canvas, it didn't have anywhere near the depth and beauty. Nor did it have the white and black SUVs in the driveway. I didn't recall seeing either of them at her house before. Whose could they have been? I wondered.