Healing Grace

by Lisa J. Lickel

  Hart snorted. “That will put Judy’s nose out of joint, having to miss the interrogation.”

  “It won’t be all that bad, now.”

  “I meant, Ardyth interrogating the sheriff.”

  Hart’s partner smiled. “What’s this I hear about Ellen coming?”

  “Yes, she’s coming down tomorrow for a couple of days to help plan the baby’s room. And you know how she likes history, so she wanted to see Judy’s program at school.”

  “How’s she doing, living with your brother in the big house, since your dad passed? It’s been what, two years?”

  “That’s right. Mom’s getting along pretty well. Jim and Margie take good care of her. Or is it the other way around?”

  Bryce laughed. “Well, I’m sure she and Ardyth will kick up some adventure. Best thing ever, those girls getting on like they do.”

  “Made our wedding nearly as fun as yours.”

  “We’d better get ready for the meeting,” Bryce said.

  Hart watched Ardyth bustle about the office kitchen, gathering napkins and mugs to set on a tray. She poured carafes of coffee and arranged a plateful of vanilla nut cookies that smelled like she had baked that morning. Knowing her, she probably had. Her only plaid today was her royal blue and red tennies, on which she trotted back and forth between the kitchen and the conference room. “When my grandson Bryan comes to visit after school is out,” Ardyth said, “Bryce and I plan to take him to visit the Dells and the capitol. He’s even got a friend.”

  “That sounds nice, Ardyth,” Hart said. He saw her sneak a glance out the dining room window that faced the smoking ruins of the barn. Though she had never lived here, she and Bryce and Judy’s uncle had spent a lot of time together chumming around both places as kids. It must hurt to see the end of a great piece of family history.

  “What’s that?” Ardyth blinked. “Sorry. I was just…thinking.”

  Hart patted her shoulder. “That’s all right. This is all a shock.”

  “And how.”

  At five minutes to nine, Hart’s boss and the company spokesperson sauntered into the house. Hart had his mouth open, ready to ask about the assembly situation when the doorbell rang.

  Bryce ushered in two sheriff’s deputies. Their uniforms were crisp, their black shoes shiny. The perpetually smiling one’s nametag read “Phil Hansen.” Phil’s partner stepped around him, after peering in the direction of the office equipment on the way into the room and giving the windows a once-over. He held out a hand to everyone, giving a precise jerk once up and once down. “Hilton Rogers.”

  Hart remembered him from the investigation of Judy’s aunt’s death. He greeted them and showed them into the conference room they had made out of the house’s former dining room.

  Deputy Hansen took charge of the meeting. Ardyth hovered in the background like a plaid parakeet, waiting for her babies to crack through the shell.

  “Thank you for coming this morning. The first thing we’d like to do is talk about the events leading up to the fire,” Hansen said.

  “We were together all day,” Crawford said. “After the morning’s work and demonstration, the team members returned to the motel until we went, all together, to the Wingate home for dinner. Afterward, we settled into our rooms.”

  “But then that wicked man went back to Hart and Judy’s house,” Ardyth said.

  Hansen’s head snapped up. “What was that?”

  Hart winced. “What Ardyth meant, sir, was that Harding drove back to our house later in the evening.”

  “Oh? Can you elaborate?”

  “He said he was sorry for his behavior,” Hart said.

  “And what was that?” Hansen asked.

  Ardyth plunked the coffee carafe down. “He was an absolute boor—just a—”

  “Ardyth,” Bryce said. “What my wife means is that Harding expressed some opinions about the nature of the work we were doing for the company.”

  “Negative opinions?” Rogers asked, pen poised over his notebook.

  “I can assure you,” Maura Fergusson said, “that InventivAg employs only the absolute top-notch engineering minds of the country, officers. All our products enjoy international renown. We’re known world-wide for our quality-assured equipment.”

  “Harding was the leader of this fine team project,” Crawford said. “Well respected in his field. Everyone is—was—responsible to ensure a successful product.”

  Rogers and Hansen each jotted a note. “What time did Mr. Harding return to your house, Mr. Wingate?”

  Hart squinted. “Oh, everyone left about when, Ardyth? Eight? So, it was after that.”

  “Do any of you have an opinion as to why he returned to the workshop?” Hansen asked.

  “No, we don’t, officers,” Crawford said.

  “What else can you tell us about the movements of the team members before the fire?”

  “As far as I know, we stayed at the motel. If John went out, he must have returned quietly. He insisted on a room to himself, though the rest of us shared.” Crawford said. “The rooms are adjoining. Not very sound-proof.” He frowned. “I put in ear plugs.”

  “So you don’t know when Harding left the motel? No? We’ll proceed to what we’ve been able to ascertain about the fire, then,” Hansen said.

  “More important,” Fergusson said, “is that we keep this information contained. Officer, you must assure us we have full control over what gets to the press. The damages to InventivAg”—she swept her hand toward Hart— “to our people’s reputations, are of vital concern. We cannot allow company secrets, or detrimental reports of any kind, to be released to the media and perhaps fall into the hands of our competitors.”

  Hart folded his arms. What was she trying to say?

  Hansen dipped his head to her. “The fact there was a fire is already out,” he said. “The public information act ties our hands somewhat.” He cleared his throat. “Moving on, then. Mr. Wingate, I understand you had combustible material in the barn workshop?”

  “Nothing that I didn’t contain properly,” Hart said. “And I never left the models out there overnight. The battery and panels are downstairs in this house right now.”

  “But you had some material from your work—yours and Mr. Edwards’—out there?”

  “Individual components only. Stored correctly and properly marked.”

  Ardyth took the carafe of coffee around the table. When she got to Hansen, she asked, “Deputy, do you believe our fire has anything to do with the vandalism going on in Robertsville?”

  Hart frowned. They had discussed the newspaper reports before dinner, but Hart had forgotten all those problems when bigger ones loomed. Trust Ardyth to reach for connections.

  Deputy Rogers flipped a few pages back in his notebook. He scrunched his nose and squinted. “We have no evidence connecting the previously reported events with this one. Chief Hutchinson doesn’t support correlation. Quite often this time of year, graduating kids get nervous or cocky, and the chief can pick up suspects for the incidents he’s investigating. The chief said usually there’s a rash of this kind of thing, but there are no similar reports from anywhere nearby. We’ll certainly keep an eye open.”

  “The fire simply doesn’t feel like an accident,” Bryce said. “And nothing was ever stolen, those times you found the doors unlocked.”

  “Yeah, what about that?” Ardyth asked. “You ever find the culprit?”

  “Ardyth, we’re not here to talk about our doors,” Bryce reproved his wife. Ardyth responded with her usual sniff.

  “Going on, then. Unfortunately,” Hanson said, “fire trucks and all the activity in and out of the driveway erased any sign of tire tracks, but our people have photographed the site.”

  Rogers went back to his notes. “Found in the debris was the presumed point of origin: shattered glass from what appears to be a lantern.” He looked up at Bryce. “Any idea how that got there?”

  Ardyth started to answer. “My husband had nothing to do—
”

  Bryce cleared his throat. “We kept an old one out there since I was a kid,” he said. “As far as I know, it was never used and we haven’t had any fuel for it in years. I doubt the filaments were even any good.”

  Rogers didn’t reply. He consulted the notebook. “Kerosene was considered the inflammatory agent.” He raised his face. “Does the name ‘Hugo International’ mean anything to anyone here?”

  “That’s our—” Maura’s declaration stopped at a touch from Crawford. Crawford carried on without hesitation. “Ms. Fergusson was about to tell you that out of many companies by that name, one also markets farm implements and components. What’s that got to do with your investigation, Officer?”

  “One of the fire marshals bagged a partially melted lighter casing with a corporate logo like a wheel and chain with that name on it,” Rogers said. He didn’t give anyone a chance to respond. “We also discovered debris that, according to your…” He flipped the notebook back a few pages, “inventory, perhaps would match a drafting table?”

  Hart folded his arms. “I had a drafting table out there, yes.”

  “And some larger pieces of milling tools, power equipment, welding supplies, and oxygen tanks?”

  “Correct.”

  Rogers said. “And then there are the human remains to consider.”

  “How did Harding get back inside last night?” Hart asked. “We locked up tight.”

  Rogers and Hansen traded looks. “There was a twenty dollar bill wedged in the lock,” Hansen said. “We found remains of it in the small door in the lower level.”

  “A twenty!” Ardyth muttered. “Why, no one around here would be so reckless. A dollar, maybe—”

  “Ardyth, how about you bring us some more cookies?” Bryce said.

  After she left, Fergusson asked, “Are Harding’s death and the fire considered separate incidents?”

  Rogers snapped his book shut. “We’re looking into it, ma’am. Right now we can’t say. We’d like to see the basement, please. Mr. Wingate?”

  “Of course. This way.” Hart led the group to the kitchen where he unlocked the cellar door and turned on the lights before taking them downstairs. He and Bryce had made the area into a supplementary workshop. “Here we have our safe where we keep designs, back up discs, and the more valuable equipment.” He continued to point out improvements while the others clumped down the wooden steps. “We barred the windows, as you can see. The exit ramp to the yard is enclosed.” He knocked on the doors. “Heavy steel. Combination lock.” He walked to his workbench. “And yesterday afternoon after we were finished in the yard, here’s where I brought the…I set it right here…under this…”

  Hart held up the canvas that had covered the battery. “Bryce?”

  “I see it. Or, rather, I don’t see it.”

  “But, how could…?” Hart looked at Crawford’s impassive face and wished he hadn’t.

  “Okay, everybody!” Ardyth said. “Start looking around. Maybe it fell…”

  Hart covered his face with his hands and groaned.

  “Please, no one touch anything,” Hansen said. “Everyone, outside, now. To the yard.” Rogers was already on his portable radio, calling headquarters.

  Once outside, standing in a herd on the front lawn, Ardyth sniffed. “Well, you never know.” The color of her face matched the pink crabapple blossoms of the tree under which she stood.

  “Excuse me, Deputy Hansen? While we’re waiting, could you please tell me if you know how Harding died?” Hart asked.

  “Initial review by the coroner says wood splinters were found in the wound on the back of the head. Possibly blunt-force trauma, but we’re still waiting for the final report.”

  Judy would kill him when she found out Ardyth heard it first.

  Ardyth gasped. “Murder?”

  Also by Lisa Lickel

  The Last Bequest

  An Inspirational Cozy Mystery

  School teacher Judy Winters sets out to solve the mystery surrounding her only living relative’s murder. Back on the farm where Aunt Louise grew up, Judy encounters Hart Wingate, a young man renting the adjoining farm who helps with farm chores. When Judy learns that her boyfriend, Graham, had been secretly visiting Louise, Judy takes the opportunity to move away from him for the summer and think over the situation.

  Judy loves her teaching job, but is intrigued by her heritage in the farmstead and particularly the old house, but whether to sell or stay, she has yet to decide.

  Midnight visitors, a job offer, new friends, along with one special old one—Carranza, the opinionated cat—all figure into Judy’s dilemma.

  Meanwhile, Judy learns that a former friend of Louise’s father, Bryce, lost a treasure of gold somewhere on the farm. As Judy and Hart look for clues to the cause of Louise’s death and Bryce’s missing treasure they develop a close friendship. Judy breaks off her relationship with Graham, who doesn’t take the news very well.

  As Judy explores the farmhouse, she finds and follows clues in Louise’s mother’s diary to unearth the buried treasure. But was it the treasure that might have been behind Louise’s murder?

  Chapter One

  Judy Winters made divots in the lawn with her church shoes, the ones with the high heels she saved to wear once a week. She stopped her frenetic crisscross pacing under the clothesline to look at her trail. Hah! She could dethatch the entire yard if she kept walking. She needed a few minutes away from everyone in the house. Just a few minutes to grieve alone. And to think about poison.

  Hand at her brow to shield the sun’s harsh light, Judy surveyed her late aunt’s farm. The half-acre surrounding the house sure could use work. What had Aunt Louise Jamison done these past two years to allow her once lovely yard to decline into crabgrass and thistles? Birds might enjoy the seeds. But only a recent lawn-mowing kept the dandelions from taking over. Judy brushed a tear off her cheek, wondering inanely who had mowed since Louise’s death. Certainly not one of her new “earth hugger” friends who’d probably convinced her that mowing was bad.

  Judy had offered to visit last week when Louise acted suspiciously lethargic during their Thursday night phone call.

  “Nothing to worry about,” her aunt assured her. “I don’t want you catching whatever bug I’ve come down with, Judy dear.”

  Louise hadn’t answered the phone the next night. While Judy dithered whether to drive over anyway, she’d received the shocking phone call from her aunt’s solicitor, Gene Reynolds. “Sorry to inform you, Miss Winters, but your aunt, Louise Jamison, has died.”

  Before Judy could catch a breath, Reynolds continued in his monotone, “The initial report indicates some kind of poisoning—not sure what kind.”

  What was the saying? That Louise bought the farm? Judy shook her head. What a horrible way to occupy her thoughts with her closest living relative freshly buried.

  “Your aunt had gotten into some of those odd nature food hippy granola crazes, you know,” Mr. Reynolds had said. No, Judy hadn’t known that. “She even tried to have me invest in some wheat juice thing for her. I told her I’d research it.”

  Wheat juice wouldn’t have killed Aunt Louise. But—poison? Louise’s condition at the time of death led the emergency room doctor and the sheriff to suspect a toxic substance of some kind. She’d obviously been sick and her skin was mottled, according to the doctor. But Louise was the smartest person Judy knew. Her demise couldn’t have been accidental, no matter what the doctor thought. Barry Hutchinson, the chief of police in Robertsville, agreed with Judy. But how to prove it? The autopsy report with toxicology screen would not be available for weeks.

  Judy continued to meander through the yard. Walking might keep her from wailing in grief in front of all these people. Louise had been all the family she had ever known.

  As she wandered to the back door, Gene Reynolds propelled himself toward her on feet that were much too dainty to hold up his great bulk. “Miss Winters, again our condolences.” He took her hand into his pudgy
moist one. Judy steeled herself not to shudder. “I have the legal paperwork regarding Louise’s estate to go over with you, at your convenience.”

  Reynolds’s pupils flickered just enough for her notice. He has something to gain. Sometimes Judy’s ability to decode body language came in handy. She’d picked up the trait in one of her continuing education courses and never seemed to be able to stop “ reading” people afterward.

  Judy removed her hand from his. “Thank you.” Other friends followed Reynolds to seek her out before taking their leave. She accepted a shoulder squeeze from a neighbor, an offering of sympathy, and an invitation to church while Reynolds stood guard on her right.

  She’d wanted to meet some of those people Louise gushed about, and wondered now if, in that last phone call, Louise had been making an excuse to keep her away.

  When they were alone, Judy asked, “Would this afternoon work out for you, Mr. Reynolds? I don’t want to rush or seem greedy, but I have two weeks left of the school year in Lewiston, and need to get back to work.”

  “Miss Winters, this afternoon would be fine. How about I go to the office, pick up the files and return, say in an hour or so? We can go over everything here.”

  “Yes. I appreciate your time.” Judy watched him clasp his hands together before joining his stately blonde wife in the driveway. He wants something, I can tell.

  She said goodbye to the last lingering guest, a woman dressed wildly in clashing plaids whose name Judy couldn’t conjure. She could hardly remember the names and faces of Louise’s many friends. If not for Graham Montgomery standing at her side all day until he had to leave for his own job, she didn’t know how she would have dealt with her aunt’s untimely and wholly unexpected death. Graham had not complained once about making small talk with strangers.

  While she waited for Reynolds to come back, Judy continued to poke holes in the creeping charley under the clothesline. This was where they’d found Louise.

  Mr. Reynolds said she’d been into natural foods. The news reported people always getting some sort of disease from sprouts and what not. But surely the doctor would have known that.