by Joan Hess
“How did you avoid it?”
“Luck of the lottery. I was ready to go to Canada if I had to. Tuck, I seem to recall, starved himself to get a 4-F. To celebrate, he ate a bucket of fried chicken, and then spent the next forty-eight hours in the can.”
“Let’s go back to Sarah,” I said hastily. “You tracked her here two years ago and rekindled the relationship, right?”
Miss Poppoy closed the oven door and sat down with us. “I do enjoy a good love story. Don’t think for an instant that I read those books with bare-chested swashbucklers and raven-haired damsels with excessive cleavage. The damsels, not the swashbucklers. Well, mostly.”
Roderick bit his lip for a moment. “I hope I don’t disappoint you, Poppy. I had the name of the town, and I knew Tuck had an organic blueberry farm. I asked around, found out where they lived, and watched the house. When Sarah drove off by herself, I followed her to the diner where she worked. It took me a week to get up my courage—”
“You swashbuckler!” shrieked Miss Poppoy, her eyelashes fluttering. “Do you have a scar?”
“Not one that I could show to a lady,” he said, glancing at me as if I could constrain her. In his dreams. “When I finally waited for her in the diner’s parking lot, I was as nervous as a freshman at his first mixer. My hands were sweaty, and my mouth was so dry I could barely speak. She was stunned. I had to help her to her car. We had a long talk about the last forty years—her life with Tuck, mine as a convict and a vagrant. What happened after that is private.”
“You had sex in the backseat?” Miss Poppoy said. She held up her hand until Roderick gave her an unenthusiastic high five. “How absolutely romantic! The neon lights from the diner, customers coming and going, car doors slamming, the danger of being caught! You must join me in a martini, Roddy. We shall toast your daring!” She went to the refrigerator and peered inside it. “Blast it, Geronimo finished off the olives. We’ll have to make do with radishes. Now what did I do with the martini glasses?”
I would have handed over all my cash for a roll of duct tape. “How did you end up at Zachery Barnard’s house?” I asked him.
“I couldn’t afford the Hilton.” He accepted a jelly glass from Miss Poppoy, eyed the radish with distaste, and took a cautious sip. “I ran into him at a bar on Thurber Street. Well, on the sidewalk, since he’d been thrown out. He told me I could park the van in his shed for a small fee. After some negotiations, I followed him home and pitched a tent in the woods. I slept in the van when it was cold. I found enough work to buy him a bottle of rotgut whiskey every week and keep both of us in bread and beans. He had a secret fishing hole that was good for catfish and crappie. I shot a squirrel or a rabbit every once in a while.”
“Were you there when he drowned?” I did my best to sound curious rather than accusatory.
“You don’t think I…?”
Miss Poppoy’s eyes widened. “Did you push poor Zachery in the pond? That was very bad of you, Roddy. I cannot condone that sort of behavior. You must leave at once!”
“Of course not, Poppy,” he said soothingly, putting his hand on hers. “I was clearing brush for some guy I met at the co-op. He lives on the other side of the county. After Claire’s appearance at Zach’s place, it seemed like a good idea to split for a couple of days. When I got back last night, I thought he’d gone to Thurber Street and gotten himself arrested for drunk and disorderly. I didn’t know what happened to him until you told me.”
I did not inquire how he thought Zachery had gone anywhere without a means of transportation. He could explain his reasoning to Deputy Norton or the FBI. “Are you willing to come forward to give Sarah an alibi?”
He gazed at the floor while he considered his answer. His voice was barely audible as he said, “If it comes down to it, I will. The consequences don’t much appeal, though. She didn’t kill Tuck, and neither did I. That means someone else did. Do you have any leads?”
Miss Poppoy had remained silent for all of one minute, which seemed to be her limit. “We must uncover the identity of the murderer so that Sarah and Roddy can fulfill their dreams.” She eyed him critically. “You two are too old to have children. Perhaps you can have grandchildren instead. You can name them Vera, Chuck, and Dave.”
“When I’m sixty-four,” Roderick said, grinning at her.
We all cringed when the telephone rang. Miss Poppoy put down her glass and waggled a finger at us. “No talking until I get back. I don’t want to miss a single word. This is so much more stimulating than those novels I never read.” She scurried into the living room.
“I do have a lead,” I admitted, “but it’s based on a dubious assumption. You might be able to help me, Roderick.”
“I don’t know how, but I’ll do what I can to help Sarah. She was miserable with Tuck. The last few years were especially awful. He prowled around the house like a manic cat, convinced the mice were plotting against him. He made her eat before he did in case she’d poisoned the food. She and I talked about splitting, but she was afraid he might kill himself—or come after us.”
“Naughty, naughty,” Miss Poppoy said as she came back into the kitchen. “You were supposed to wait for me. That was Geronimo. He was coming to visit when he saw two cars from the sheriff’s department parked alongside the highway less than a quarter of a mile from here. Because of a wee problem with them in the past, some nonsense about his mother, ferrets, and a meth lab, he drove past the driveway and saw another car. Is that what’s called a stakeout?”
“Geronimo?” said Roderick, clearly bewildered.
“He blames it on the ferrets.”
I put my elbows on the table and cradled my face. “Did anyone drive by while you were picking up Roderick?” I asked Miss Poppoy.
“Quite a few people, come to think of it. Larry and Marie honked and waved. They go to the movies on Sunday afternoon, come hell or high water. Oh, and a state trooper with sunglasses. He stared, but he didn’t wave. That tacky woman who lives by the turnoff to Pinkie Sheer Road was in her front yard, jabbering on her cell phone. When she saw us, her cheeks expanded like a puffer fish.”
I sighed. “Yes, it’s a stakeout. The deputies must be waiting for the FBI agents before they descend on us. I estimate no more than five or ten minutes. Miss Poppoy, you need to get in your car right now and leave. If they stop you, tell them that I dropped by with a friend and we discussed the weather. Please don’t mention any references to Sarah or Tuck.”
She bristled. “I will not be forced out of my home by a bunch of deputies. Shall we have another round of martinis?”
“I don’t want you to get hurt,” Roderick said. “As long as you stick to Claire’s story, you won’t be accused of harboring fugitives.”
“Harboring fugitives? I am harboring my dear friends.”
I lifted my head. “When the deputies arrive, they’ll be anticipating trouble. Their guns will be drawn, and they’ll be nervous. You need to leave—now. Otherwise, we’ll have to tie you to a chair and put tape over your mouth, just like those intruders did last year.”
“You’ll do no such thing! If both of you insist on leaving, you can hide in my backseat.” She clapped her hands and laughed. “I know where we’ll go. There’s a wonderful bar and grill in Maggody, about thirty miles from here. We can have dinner there, and dance afterwards. You do like to dance, don’t you, Roddy? I’ve been told there’s a motel out back with beds that vibrate.” Her eyebrows, drawn with an unsteady hand, wiggled.
“The deputies will search your car,” I said. “You need to go have dinner in Maggody on your own. Roderick and I will wait here.”
“I have cookies in the oven.”
“We’ll share them with the deputies and the feds,” I said. I did not bring up the probability of tear gas canisters and assault weapons. Miss Poppoy might be testy when she returned to find shattered windows, broken doors, and bullet holes, along with bloodstains on the carpet. “I need to call my husband,” I said in a small voice, very close
to tears. Or hysterics, as I envisioned Caron’s grief and Peter’s devastation.
She gave me a dishcloth and waited while I dabbed my eyes. “You don’t have time. There’s a riding lawn mower behind the garage. Geronimo bought it because he and I like to cruise the back roads on moonlit nights. It doesn’t go fast, but it can go down narrow, rocky paths. If you keep going in a westerly direction, you should be safe.”
Before I could come up with a response, Roderick gripped my wrist. “Let’s go, Claire. Poppy, go in the living room and watch for figures moving toward the house. When they get within a hundred feet, go out on the porch with your hands up. Tell them—I don’t know what, but you’ll come up with something. Offer them cookies. Hell, make them martinis with radishes. Does the riding mower have a key?”
“It’s in the ignition,” she said. “Are they allowed to drink on duty? I don’t want to waste perfectly good gin if they aren’t going to drink it.”
Roderick yanked me to my feet, although it took little effort on his part. I went around the table to hug Miss Poppoy and then allowed Roderick to escort me out the back door.
* * *
In The Great Escape, one of my favorite movies, Steve McQueen masterminds the unexcused departure of more than seventy POWs from a high-security stalag in Germany via a tunnel. The men, dressed in civilian attire, disperse in different directions. Most of them are recaptured and executed. Captain Hilts, our star, takes down a Nazi on a motorcycle, changes into his uniform, and roars across a meadow in a futile attempt to jump a barbed-wire fence into Switzerland. I may have gotten a few details wrong, but it’s been a long time since I’d seen it.
Roderick and I chugged across a meadow at no more than five miles per hour. He drove, while I perched on the back rim of the seat, my arms wrapped around him. My derriere protested each and every bump, but riding mowers are not designed for two. The noise seemed louder than one of General Sherman’s tanks. I wished that the sun would sink, allowing us sheltering darkness, but I had little control over the matter. When we reached the edge of the woods, he veered sharply until he saw a path between the pine trees.
The mower lurched as we went down a steep incline. Miss Poppoy had said the path was narrow and rocky. I would have described it as two feet wide and strewn with embedded boulders—and perilous. I’d never before wondered if riding mowers had brakes as we bounced along, branches slapping at us, but it seemed to be a relevant issue. Roderick used his feet to keep us upright. I helped by yapping each time the mower threatened to topple. When we arrived at a riverbank, I whacked him on the shoulder and shouted, “Stop!”
Obligingly, he did. When he cut off the engine, the silence was almost as confounding as the noise had been. I climbed off and tried not to grimace as I took a step. “I need a minute.”
“Who the hell is Geronimo?”
“This is hardly the time to analyze Miss Poppoy’s social life,” I said grumpily. I discreetly massaged my gluteus maximus while I studied our locale. “Or her idea of a romantic ride under the stars.”
“More of a suicide pact,” he said. “Too bad this Geronimo didn’t go for an ATV. He must be a masochistic dude.”
“In more ways than I care to imagine. It looks as though we can follow the river until we find a place to cross it.”
“And then?”
I picked up a pinecone and threw it at him. It was not a playful gesture. “How should I know? You’re the one who escaped from prison by slithering through a drainpipe. I’m a bookseller, a mother, and the wife of the deputy chief of police. My daughter and her friend were arrested for trespassing this morning. My mother-in-law is arriving tomorrow. The Ming Thing is in the local landfill.” I picked up another pinecone. “Furthermore, if we’re captured, I’ll be charged with aiding and abetting or some silly thing, and end up in court facing Prosecuting Attorney Wessell, who is a despicable weasel! How dare you ask me what to do?” I gripped the pinecone so fiercely that it crumbled in my hand.
He caught my arm before I could hurl the bits at him. “The path is flatter now. Let’s put a few more miles between the cops and us before we figure out our next move.”
“Take off your shirt.”
“Here? This is not a good idea, Claire.”
I held out my hand. “Your shirt, please.”
He gave me an odd look as he complied. I folded it into a long rectangle and felt its thickness, saddened that he hadn’t been wearing a sweater or jacket. “This will have to do,” I said as I glanced up. He was fumbling with the zipper on his jeans. “What on earth are you doing? Is this really the time to go for a swim? You’re the one who suggested that we plunge further into the wilderness. If the feds figure out where we’ve gone, they’ll come after us with ATVs and bloodhounds.” I abruptly realized what he was thinking. “This is going to serve as a cushion for the rim of the seat, not as a pillow. Sheese, Roderick!”
“Yeah, right,” he said, his face as red as I suspected mine was. “Westward ho, ho, ho…”
After he sat down on the riding mower, I climbed on behind him and tucked the cushion where it would do the most good. The path was level and less rocky, so we were able to chug along at a decent speed. There were still occasional jolts and joggles, but I was no longer terrified that the mower would flip over and crush us. Thorny vines left oozing scratches on my legs and ankles. Unmindful insects flew into my hair. Roderick turned his head and spoke, but I couldn’t hear him over the raucous engine. I would have preferred a Cadillac, a Jeep, or a carriage. There were no dealerships in the area.
We failed to encounter dragons in the ensuing half hour. The river was on our left, woods on our right. I was about to ask for a break when we came to a barbed-wire fence. Roderick turned off the engine, and once again silence engulfed us. Beyond the fence was a pasture with a scattering of cows. Those nearby raised their heads to regard us somberly. None of them looked mad.
I eased off the seat. My first step was a stumble, but I kept my balance. I was more concerned about my composure, which was less substantial than a cobweb. “What now?” I said as I stared at the cows. “If Steve McQueen couldn’t jump a fence on a motorcycle, our chance of success on a riding lawn mower is slight.”
“Nonexistent,” Roderick responded distractedly. “I didn’t see any place we could get across the river on this contraption. We have less than three hours of daylight. It’s gonna get hairy after that.”
“Unless these are feral cows, there has to be a farm around here. I’m afraid to use my cell, but I might be able to persuade the farmer to let me use his.” I had no doubt that my charming demeanor would overcome anyone’s reservations about admitting a stranger inside his house. The problem was whom to call. Not Peter or Evan. I contemplated calling the local taxicab company, but I’d have to use my credit card to pay the fare. Once my card was swiped, the information would be in the system and the feds would be chortling at my naiveté. Luanne was my best hope. I did not look forward to the conversation. “Any better ideas?” I asked the cows.
Roderick snorted. “Our faces may already be on the local channels. I’ll be described as armed and dangerous. We may find ourselves on the porch, staring at the barrel of a gun.”
“So stay out of sight,” I said with a modicum of irritation. “I’m only wanted for questioning—or I was, anyway. My rap sheet is growing an inch every hour I spend with you. For all I know, I’ve been accused of being your accomplice when you escaped from Folsom.”
“When you were a teenager? Don’t get carried away, Claire. When we’re in the vicinity of the house, I’ll disappear. I’ve had plenty of practice.”
“Leave the key in the ignition,” I said as I gingerly eased through the strands of barbed wire. I had accumulated more than enough scratches without adding one across my sore derriere. “Geronimo will know where to find it.”
“Who the hell is Geronimo?” Roderick asked again as he followed me. “I keep picturing a seven-foot-tall guy in war paint.”
I
told him what Miss Poppoy had said as we followed the fence. The cows shifted away from us. I am not a student of bovine psychology, nor do I aspire to be one, but I assumed we made them nervous. I dearly hoped it was a celibate herd, lacking an ill-tempered bull. I was not in the mood for a taurine confrontation.
The farmhouse was rustic but tidy. I was encouraged by the satellite dish on the roof. Anyone with access to six hundred channels surely had a telephone. “Find a place to hide near the road,” I told Roderick.
He gave me a snarky salute and crawled through the fence. I went through a gate and walked around the house to the porch. I brushed leaves and twigs out of my hair, pasted on a civilized smile, and pushed the doorbell.
“Coming!” called a raspy voice from within. I maintained the smile when a stout, dark-haired woman opened the door. She was holding a spatula rather than a gun. “Hey,” she said, “are you here for the baby shower? I’m Abbie Benton, Olivia’s sister-in-law. Come on in and make yourself comfortable. As soon as I finish plating the lemon bars, I’ll get you a cup of coffee. Your name is…?”
“Claire,” I said. “You cannot believe how much I would prefer to be here for the baby shower, but I’m not. Please give Olivia my best wishes for a healthy baby. I’m in a spot of trouble. I need to make a call, but my cell is at the bottom of the river.”
She studied me. “You look like you’ve been dragged through the woods by your hair. I won’t ask what happened to you because it’s none of my business, but if there’s a man involved, you need to dump him. You’re welcome to use my phone, long as you’re not calling overseas.”
“Farberville. Thank you so much, Abbie.”
She ushered me into a living room decorated with ceramic figurines, posters of puppies and kittens, multicolored throw pillows, and a TV only slightly smaller than the mural of the Last Supper. “Phone’s in the kitchen,” she said. “How about a glass of iced tea?”
