Mulberry Mischief

by Sharon Farrow

  “It was a thoughtless thing for us to do. And I regret it. As I regret this conversation.”

  Long after she left, I stood there thinking about how frightened Laeticia Murier must have been on that yacht. Especially after it ran into bad weather. And how did anyone even convince her to go up on deck?

  The decision to take the nanny on that boat ride was more than thoughtless and cruel. It was deliberate. Someone wanted to get rid of Laeticia Murier and a long yacht trip on Lake Michigan served as the perfect opportunity. Ellen Nagy was just an unwitting passenger.

  One of the Sables did come up with that idea, however. And carried it off so well, the nanny ended up dead and another person blamed for the crime.

  I needed to find Leticia, or Ellen Nagy as I now thought of her. If I couldn’t, I feared the killer would. But where was she?

  Ellen didn’t think or behave like the rest of us. She was eccentric in the extreme. Some people thought she was crazy. It might take another crazy person to find her.

  I knew exactly who to ask.

  Chapter Twenty

  The head of a black bear looked down at me from the opposite wall.

  “I hope you didn’t kill that bear,” I said to the older man by the stove.

  Old Man Bowman chuckled. “Do you think he died in his sleep outside my tent? Took two days of tracking in Menominee County to finally bring him down.”

  “I’m not a fan of hunting for sport.” I sipped coffee in the blue enamel mug he’d given me. He’d brewed it so strong, this one cup might keep me up for days.

  “Don’t get on your high horse with me, young lady. You ain’t no vegetarian.” He gestured at the bacon frying on the stove. “Unless you don’t want this bacon to be part of the breakfast I’m making for us. Or the eggs neither. If so, all you’re gonna get are the bread and dried berries I put on the table.”

  My mouth salivated at the smell of the bacon. “I’m not about to turn down bacon.”

  “Exactly.” He flipped the bacon strips in the cast-iron pan. “And don’t mistake me for some damned trophy hunter. I use every part of an animal I kill: hide, meat, bones, fat, fur. The meat from that black bear kept me fed over the winter of ninety-nine. Along with my venison.”

  I eyed the various pelts that accompanied the mounted bear head. “Do you plan to do the same thing with Bigfoot if you ever find him?”

  Old Man Bowman snorted. “I’m no murderer. And Bigfoot’s as close to a human as anyone in Oriole Point. Hell, he’s more human than a few of them, especially the politicians. Nah. I’m gonna trap the big fellow. Keep him alive to show the world the legends are true. And prove that those of us who believe he exists have been right all along.”

  Now that I’d mentioned Bigfoot, he launched into his latest sightings in the forests up north. I’d heard these tales before, and directed my attention instead to the thick slices of brown bread on the table, the butter in a ceramic butter keeper, and a wooden dish of dried cranberries. All of which tasted delicious. And he hadn’t even brought the bacon and eggs to the table yet.

  “Did I tell you the Kiefer boy saw a young Bigfoot up in Tawas last spring?”

  “I don’t recall.”

  While he proceeded to describe the Tawas Bigfoot, I slathered butter on another slice of bread while examining the room. I’d never been inside Old Man Bowman’s home. He lived in a real log cabin, not a modern-day facsimile like Leticia’s. The three-room structure looked much older than Bowman, who was seventy. Since the Bowman family came to the area in the nineteenth century, it likely belonged to his ancestors. They would have felt right at home.

  He cooked on a woodstove. Kerosene lamps hung on the walls and sat on rough-hewn shelves. An ancient refrigerator hummed in the corner, so he did have electricity, but the kitchen sink had a pump, not a spigot. The wooden furniture looked handmade, and when I arrived, I spotted an outhouse in the woods out back. The weird thing was that he had built a state-of-the-art treehouse in his yard. It not only had running water and electricity but Wi-Fi, too. I’d asked him about it once, and he said he’d built the treehouse for guests.

  However, the only treehouse guest I knew about was Natasha, the widow of his deceased nephew, Cole Bowman. She lived here for a month after her husband was murdered, Old Man Bowman viewing himself as the young widow’s protector. Looking at the number of wild animal carcasses hanging on the walls, I thought Natasha should feel quite secure. And if my high-maintenance Russian friend felt comfortable living in that treehouse, it had to be plush.

  Wendall Bowman, known as Old Man Bowman since he was in his fifties, could afford to zhuzh up a dozen treehouses. He made a fortune decades ago with one of his inventions. Something to do with the adhesive used in automotive engines. Whatever it was, it made him rich. However, he continued to live like Davy Crockett.

  “I came by yesterday,” I said. “But you weren’t home.”

  “What time?” He cracked eggs in the pan. The sound of sizzling grease filled the air.

  “Close to six.”

  “That’s fishing time. They like to bite at dusk in my lake out back.”

  Bowman lived a couple miles inland on a patch of forested land that included Sumac Lake. I steered clear of the lake, assuming the name meant poison sumac flourished in the vicinity.

  I’d been disappointed to not find him home last night after I’d left the conference center. Old Man Bowman didn’t believe in phones, so there was no way to call him. Because he kept pioneer hours, I woke at dawn this morning, skipping breakfast in order to arrive before seven.

  When I pulled up his dirt drive, he had been outside chopping wood. I lucked out when he offered to make breakfast, which he now set before me. I took my first bite of bacon, crunchy and blackened. Exactly how I liked it.

  He sat across from me with a grunt, pouring a cup of coffee from the enameled coffeepot on the table. “What did you want to see me about? I know Natasha’s fine. I saw her yesterday afternoon when I dropped off the maple syrup I tapped earlier this year.”

  “You have homemade maple syrup?” I said with my mouth full.

  “I’ll give you a bottle before you leave. Now why are you up so early?”

  “I need your help. I’m trying to find someone who doesn’t want to be found.”

  He shrugged. “I’d respect that and leave ’em alone.”

  “She’s hiding because she’s afraid of some people who are in town this week. I want to find her before they do.”

  “Do I know these people?” He raised an eyebrow at me, always a distracting sight. He had jet black bushy eyebrows—so thick they resembled dark fuzzy caterpillars. They stood in sharp contrast to his snow white hair, which he wore in a long twisted braid down his back.

  Before I could answer, something moved in the corner. “Uh, there’s a raccoon in here.”

  He sipped his coffee before answering, “That’s Mamie. Pay her no mind. Tell me about these people this lady is hiding from.”

  “Funny you used the word ‘lady,’ because Leticia the Lake Lady is the one who’s hiding. And the Sable family are the people she’s worried about. With good reason, I might add.”

  My attention was diverted once more when a small brown rabbit hopped from behind a feed bag by the sink. Since a raccoon sighting seemed common in the Bowman kitchen, I saw no reason to point out the rabbit.

  “If Leticia has good reason to be worried, you should be, too.” He pointed his fork at me. “Don’t go looking for trouble.”

  “I’m not looking for trouble. I’m looking for Leticia. Of course, that might be the same thing. But she’s pulling pranks on the Sables. She’s got them all riled up. If one of them is a murderer, that person might find her first. I want her to come out of hiding and tell the police what she knows about the Sables. I think it’s her only chance to be safe.”

  “They haven’t found her so far.” He scooped up a large piece of fried egg with his bread.

  “I’ve had enough experience with the
criminal mind this past year. Murderers who think they might be caught are more dangerous than that black bear on the wall.”

  “Why do you think I can help you?” He chuckled. “Wait. Don’t tell me. You think since I’m as much of an oddball as Leticia, I’ll be able to figure out how her mind works.”

  I shrugged. “Basically.”

  He laughed again, then turned his attention to his breakfast. I did likewise. When we’d eaten every morsel of food on our plates and mopped up the grease with bread, we both sat back.

  “That was the best bacon I’ve ever had,” I said.

  “Get it home cured from the Kiefer hog farm.” He refilled both our enameled coffee mugs. “All right. Tell me what you know about these Sables and the Lake Lady.”

  I related everything I’d learned about the Nanny Murder, Leticia, and the Sable family since last Saturday. His expression didn’t change, except when I mentioned how Felix Bonaventure had been shot.

  “Not many with the aim to shoot a man clean through the heart with an arrow,” he said.

  “Ingrid Sable could. At least well enough to qualify for the Olympics back in the seventies. And her daughter-in-law has spent years emulating her. In addition, both Sable sons and the father go bow-hunting for deer every fall. Any of the Sables could have made that shot.”

  A tapping noise drew our attention to the kitchen window. An enormous crow sat on the outside ledge. He peered in and used his beak to tap on the glass again.

  “Hold on.” Old Man Bowman stood up. “Edgar wants his morning hard-boiled egg.” He grabbed an egg from a bowl near the sink, then opened the window. As there were no screens on the window, I expected the crow to fly inside. Instead, Bowman cracked the shell of the egg, broke it in two, then laid it on the outside sill. Edgar the crow dove in with that large pointy beak, and Bowman closed the window once more.

  I felt like I was having breakfast with Hagrid at Hogwarts.

  “Edgar?” I asked when Old Man Bowman sat down again.

  He grinned. “Always had a fondness for Edgar Allan Poe. And crows and ravens belong to the same family. Corvids.”

  “Let’s get back to the death by bow and arrow. Leticia told me that Gareth Holmes crafted a bow-and-arrow set from mulberry wood for her. But she needed to practice shooting targets first. After she accidentally shot one of her cats, she got upset and left the bow and arrows out in the field.” I took a sip of coffee. “Where the killer must have found them.”

  “And killed this ghostwriter fellow?”

  I nodded. “Bonaventure was in Oriole Point last Monday asking for a woman called Ellen Mulberry. The Sables knew her real name was Ellen Nagy. I think they’d found out she was using a ghostwriter to put together a book on the Nanny Murder. And I bet at least one of the Sables was following Bonaventure. He led them straight to her house, only she wasn’t home.”

  “How did Bonaventure end up out in the field by the beehives?”

  “I suspect he was running for his life. If someone suddenly appeared with a bow and arrow, I’d start running, too.”

  Bowman looked thoughtful. “If this person wanted both Bonaventure and the Lake Lady dead, why not wait until she showed up, too?”

  “She wasn’t home when Bonaventure arrived. And the police estimate he was killed shortly before we got there. Around eight a.m. All the Sable family members have had talks and events scheduled at the health fair from nine o’clock on. If one of them didn’t show up, it might seem suspicious. Especially if Leticia went public with her accusations against the Sables.” I frowned. “But if she handles it wrong, she may wind up dead.”

  “I’ve met Leticia. Don’t see how you think you’ll convince her.”

  “I haven’t had a lot of opportunity to do so. And she’s pulled some sort of stunt on the Sables every day this week. Vandalizing their cars twice, setting off smoke bombs. Leaving a threatening note. Each time she does this, she risks getting caught.”

  He tried to top off my coffee but I waved him away. I already felt as alert as that brown rabbit nervously watching me from the corner.

  “Whoever is the killer in the Sable family wants her dead,” I continued. “And they want that manuscript she and Bonaventure wrote. Someone tore open all the boxes of mulberries on her porch the other day. That may have been where Leticia hid the manuscript or her laptop. I doubt she’d be foolish enough to conceal both of them on her porch.”

  Although I had to admit that Leticia’s logic often eluded me.

  “You think she’s still got a copy of that manuscript with her?”

  “Yes. Either printed off or on that computer. At least I hope so. It may be the only thing keeping her alive. Once the Sables have that, she’s expendable.”

  “You may be right.” Bowman cleared the plates, cups, and coffeepot from the table.

  “No one in Oriole County knows the back roads and woods better than you do. Where could Leticia safely hide? She can’t have gone far, not without taking the risk of being seen on her purple scooter. Do you think she’s holed up in an abandoned barn by the orchards? Maybe a vacation home closed for the season. She could even be camping out. Unless she has a friend I don’t know about. Someone willing to hide her. Do you know of anyone?”

  “Sure do.” He shot me a mischievous look as he placed the plates in the sink. “Me.”

  “You?”

  “Always did have a soft spot for damsels in distress.”

  I stood up. “Where is she?”

  “Where all my guests stay. In the treehouse.”

  * * *

  My giddiness at discovering Leticia’s hiding place dimmed as soon as Old Man Bowman and I went outside.

  “I told you. She ain’t here. Took her scooter about an hour before you got here.” He walked me over to the ladder that led to the treehouse. “Go on up and see for yourself.”

  I did just that. The trapdoor had been left open, and I emerged into a room illuminated by dappled sunlight on the plank floor and braid throw rugs scattered about. It was airy and bright, probably less so in spring and summer when leaves covered the branches outside the windows.

  The main room contained a loveseat, chair, desk, TV, and bookshelves. A chandelier made of deer antlers hung near the stairs, which led to an open loft with a bed, reading lamp, and a rattan chest of drawers. An electrical baseboard had been installed to provide heat in cold weather. I spotted a bathroom sink along one wall, a rustic mirror hung above it. I could figure out how he wired the house for electricity, but had no idea how he got water up here. He’d even built an outside patio deck furnished with a small table and four chairs.

  I was impressed, but disappointed. Leticia wasn’t here. Although I took heart at the sight of what must be several changes of clothes piled neatly on the coverlet of the bed. However a quick look through all the drawers revealed they did not contain a manuscript or a laptop.

  When I climbed down the treehouse ladder, Old Man Bowman was leaning against the tree that held the house. He gave me a knowing look. “I told you she wasn’t there.”

  I looked around the wooded lot, spying the waters of Sumac Lake off to the left. “Did she tell you where she was going?”

  “Never says anything to me about how she spends her days. It ain’t my business to ask. But I do know how she gets in and out of here ’cause I showed it to her.” He pointed to a small trail that led into the woods.

  I walked closer to the trail and saw single tire marks on the dirt. “Where does it lead?”

  “It’s an old Potawatomi trail. Takes you to the big lake. Once you’re there, it’s easy to get on an access road to anywhere in Oriole Point.”

  “How long is the trail?”

  “A little over two miles. Big enough for a scooter, but not a car. That’s what makes it safe. No car’s gonna sneak up on you in there. That’s why I told Leticia about it.”

  “How did Leticia wind up in your treehouse?” I asked.

  “Saw her at Oval Beach early Tuesday morning.
I was there with my metal detector. You’d be surprised what you can find in the sand with one of those. Last year Gil Palka found a Lincoln-head copper penny from 1943 there. They issued them by mistake during World War II, which makes them real valuable. He ended up selling it for over fifty thousand dollars!”

  I needed to get him back on track. “We don’t have time to talk about numismatics. You must have spoken with her right before she came home and found Bonaventure’s body.”

  “She and I aren’t total strangers. Two years ago I asked for permission to go hunting on her woods. Heard word that Bigfoot spoor had been spotted nearby. She was nice enough to let me track on her property. I owed her a favor. So that morning, I reminded her that if she ever needed anything to just come to me. A few hours later, she came up my drive in that scooter, wanting to know where she could hide for a few days.” He gestured at the treehouse above us. “Told her she could be my guest as long as she needed.”

  Despite his odd beliefs and pioneer lifestyle, Wendall Bowman was quite the knight in shining armor. “Did she have a laptop or a manuscript with her?” I asked.

  “Not that I could see. But she brought a big backpack.”

  “I saw her backpack on the bed. Nothing in there but socks, underwear, a scarf.” I kicked at the dirt in frustration. “You said she left about an hour ago.”

  “That she did.”

  Edgar the crow chose to strut up to us, bold as brass. Old Man Bowman bent down and stroked his head. I needed to bring Theo here. He’d be thrilled with Edgar.

  “If I took the trail, I’d come out on the lake.” I turned toward the opening in the woods.

  “Sure will. The lake will be right below the bluff. The trail dead-ends there. Been that way since the Beekmans cleared the land to build their fancy resort.”

  I bit my lip. “Oh no. The Beekman is where the Sable family is staying.”

  “She better be careful when she leaves the trail there. One of ’em could spot her.”