Mr. Forsberk shook his head, but then stopped and seemed to reconsider. “Well, actually, he’d whimpered when we passed her house the day before. I thought he was upset by the argument I’d had with her at that same spot. He was sensitive like that; he’d have remembered. Once we were a couple of houses away, he was fine. But that was different than what happened the day she killed him.”
Sadie nodded, but something was tapping at the back of her mind—something she remembered from years gone by when her friend Gayle’s son had raised hunting dogs. She gave Mr. Forsberk a sincere look of regret. “I’m so very sorry for your loss,” she said.
Tears welled up in his eyes, and he looked away, trying to hide his emotion. He nodded quickly, embarrassed, and folded his arms across his chest. “Thank ya,” he said. He sounded so much like a little boy that Sadie wanted to bake him something.
“Other than the situation with your dog, which is really horrible, have you had any other issues with Mrs. Wapple?”
“She stole my mail. She didn’t usually come out in the daytime, but I saw her stuffing envelopes in her coat and I yelled at her. Blake, next to your place, said he caught her stealing his mail too.”
“When did she take your mail?” Sadie asked, thinking of the piles of envelopes and magazines she’d knocked over yesterday afternoon. She hadn’t thought to see who the mail belonged to.
“Right after she moved in. Two months back.”
“But it only happened that one time?”
“That I saw,” he clarified. “I’ve had a few more things that never seemed to come, so a few weeks ago I took down the mailbox and asked the postman to use the mail slot.” He nodded toward the front door, and Sadie glanced back to see the mail slot about three feet up from the bottom of the door. “I ain’t had any problems since then.”
“That’s good,” Sadie said. “So, what were you doing out last night?” she asked, getting back to why she’d come.
He didn’t meet her eyes and shrugged one shoulder.
“If you saw anything, I’d really like to know.” Sadie smiled softly at him.
“I had to go out,” he said. “That’s all.”
“In the cold rain?”
He shrugged. Sadie waited, but after a few seconds she realized he wasn’t going to tell her. Not right now. She didn’t have any baked goods; how could she think he would roll over so easily when she was so poorly prepared?
“I gotta go to work,” Mr. Forsberk said.
He was dressed in jeans, an old Red Sox sweatshirt, and tennis shoes. Maybe he was one of those eccentric computer programmers who went to space cadet conventions on the weekends. “Where do you work?”
“I clean carpets,” he said, but without pride, which Sadie felt was a shame. There was nothing about hard work to be embarrassed about. She waved toward the mass of cables and wires on the table. “Then what’s all this?”
He looked around and shrugged one shoulder again. “Just a hobby. I . . . build things.” There was always so much more to people than first met the eye.
“What kind of things?”
“I like to take apart electronic things and rebuild them a little different.”
Sadie didn’t get it. Why would you want something to be different? “Like making a toaster toast faster?” she asked.
“Kind of,” he said, his cheeks red. “I used to work at Radio Shack.” He said it as though that was all Sadie needed to know to understand his hobby. He looked at his watch, reminding her that he had to get to work.
“Can I write down my phone number for you?” Sadie asked quickly. “You could call me later if you think of anything about last night.” In the meantime she’d find some excuse to come back after he’d had some time to think about things.
He went into the kitchen and retrieved a pen and an old envelope.
“One last question,” Sadie asked after writing down her number. “Do you like chocolate?”
“Chocolate?” he repeated, his eyes squinching up behind his glasses.
“You’re from Philadelphia, right?”
His eyes got big. “Sorta,” he said. “Harrisburg, actually.”
Sadie beamed for having guessed the basic area correctly. She’d been playing a game with Pete when they watched TV the last few months, trying to peg certain accents. “Maybe you’re more of a vanilla kind of guy?”
“Um, I like chocolate.”
Sadie smiled. “Of course you do,” she said with a nod. “And what time do you get off today?”
“Um, my last house is at two o’clock. I should be home by four thirty,” he answered. “Why?”
“Well, the other day I took cookies around to the neighbors but I didn’t have enough to go around, and now that I’ve met you I feel just terrible for not having made more of an effort to bring you a plateful. I’ll come back tonight with something special.”
He blinked. “Oh. Okay.”
Practically an invitation to return! “Wonderful.” He’d have worked hard for six hours and would be hungry, not to mention tired from his excursion last night. It was a perfect setup for a full confession. By five o’clock this afternoon, she was certain she’d know exactly why he’d been out so late.
She said good-bye and hurried down the block toward Jared and Heather’s house while pulling her phone out of her pocket and hitting speed dial number six.
“Gayle,” Sadie said as she looked both ways and crossed the street. She didn’t want to be hit by a car like Bark had been, but then if her theory was correct, there was little chance of that.
“Sadie, sweetie, how are you?” It was early in Garrison—7:00—but Gayle was a morning person.
“Um,” Sadie wasn’t sure how to answer that.
Gayle saved her. “You’re in the paper, sweetheart. I think you’d better stop leaving town.”
If only being in town wasn’t just as uncomfortable. “I know,” Sadie said for the sake of manners and time, though she had hoped the Denver Post wouldn’t have anything about her yet. “And I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m in a hurry and need some information.”
“Okay,” Gayle said, not sounding offended; she was such a good friend. “What can I help you with?”
“Remember when Darrin used to train those hunting dogs?”
“Darn flea bags,” Gayle said, and Sadie could picture her shuddering at the reminder. It was a testament to a mother’s love that she’d allowed one dog, let alone the eight Darrin had at one time.
“He used a whistle to train them, right?”
“Yeah,” Gayle said. “It was downright creepy the way he’d blow into that silver straw and the dogs would stop in their tracks.”
“Aren’t there dog whistles that actually cause pain to the dogs?”
“Sure,” Gayle said. “But Darrin never used those. They’re illegal in some states, and you don’t really need them except in extreme behavioral issues, which we never had. Why are you asking about dog whistles?”
“Long story,” Sadie said. “But you’ve never seen anyone use that kind of whistle then—the mean ones?”
“No,” Gayle said.
“I’m wondering if that kind of whistle could make a dog go kind of nuts—you know, act all weird and not obey commands, things like that.”
“I’m sorry,” Gayle said. “I don’t know.”
“Would Darrin know?” Last Sadie had heard, he was still raising hunting dogs down in Durango. His full-time job was as an investment banker; the dogs were more of a hobby.
“I’m sure he would,” Gayle said. “Would you like his number?”
Sadie had reached the front porch of the house and paused to dig the key out of her pocket. “Actually, could you call him and ask, then call me back? I’ve got a whole list of other things I need to do.”
“You betcha,” Gayle said. She loved to be involved; heck, she’d probably come to Boston if Sadie asked.
Holding the phone with one hand, Sadie fumbled with the key only to realize the door was
unlocked. Again. It wasn’t pulled all the way closed either. Sadie stared at it as a familiar cold chill rushed down her spine.
“Sadie?” Gayle said on the phone.
“Thanks,” Sadie said, distracted from the phone call as she stood on the porch, the memory of locking the door when she left distinct in her mind. “I appreciate it.”
“Sure,” Gayle said. “I’ll call you after I talk to Darrin.”
Sadie slid the phone back into her pocket before reaching out and pushing on the door. It swung open easily on its hinges, and she took in the details as she stepped inside. Everything looked fine until she reached the kitchen. She stopped in her tracks. Every cupboard was open and every drawer pulled out. The kitchen chairs, which had been around the table when she left, were pushed up against the counter, seats facing in. That stupid gauzy ghost she’d ripped off the front door and stuffed behind the couch was hanging from the curtain rod on the back door. Chills crept up her back as she took it all in.
“I don’t believe in ghosts,” she said out loud as she calculated how long she’d been gone. Ten minutes, maybe twelve. She remained very still and considered what this latest event told her. Mrs. Wapple hadn’t done it— she was in the hospital. She hadn’t done last night’s door slamming either. Sadie crossed her off the list. Mr. Forsberk, who had only recently become a consideration, couldn’t have done this either—she’d been standing in his living room talking to him about his dog. That left Gabrielle, but what would she be trying to scare Sadie away from now?
“Knock, knock,” she heard from behind her. She turned in time to see Jane step over the threshold of the open front door. Her hair was spiked to perfection, her face was bright, her mood elevated, and her eyes eager. “Okay, Sadie, Sadie, detective lady, where do we start?”
Chapter 26
Jane,” Sadie said. “Um, I didn’t expect you.”
“You need to get over your issues with asking for help,” she said, stopping between the kitchen and living room, where she leaned against the wall. She couldn’t see the cupboards and drawers from where she was, and Sadie debated whether to find a way to keep her in the living room or let her come all the way into the kitchen. Sadie felt like she was back to square one, at least in regard to the strange things happening at the house.
“And we need to bang this out, right?” Jane said.
“Bang what out?” Sadie asked.
“Solving the mystery. We need to find whoever’s behind all this, clear your name, and stamp a big ol’ solved on this case.”
“That would be nice,” Sadie said, accepting the fact that Jane was here and there was no way to shake her. But was that really such a bad thing? “How did you know where I was?”
“It’s nine thirty in the morning—where else would you be? Where are Pete and the kids?”
That’s right, Jane didn’t know they’d left last night. “Distracted,” Sadie answered. “I’m on my own with this.”
“Well, not on your own, per se,” Jane said, grinning broadly. “You’ve got me. I knew you’d pick up the scent, though, so it’s a good thing I showed up, right?”
Sadie couldn’t help but smile back, impressed despite herself with how determined Jane was to be a part of this and how certain she was that Sadie wouldn’t be able to let it rest. Sadie thought back to how she’d tried to leave Jane out in Portland and what Shawn had said about Jane looking up to her. Sadie decided to stop being so hard on Jane. And, the fact was, Sadie didn’t know where to go from here. Without Pete to bounce her ideas off of, she could really use a partner on this.
“I don’t think I could let it go even if I wanted to. It’s apparently what I do now.”
Jane nodded in agreement. “So, where do we start?” she asked, clapping her hands and rubbing them together.
Sadie looked into the kitchen. “Well, you better have a look at this.” She walked to the front of the table and Jane followed her into the kitchen, stopping in almost the same place Sadie had been.
“Whoa,” she said with a laugh, looking around. “It’s like something straight out of the Sixth Sense.”
“The sixth what?”
“A movie, came out in the late 90s—one of Shyamalan’s thrillers. You had to have seen it. Bruce Willis? ‘I see dead people’?”
“I prefer musicals,” Sadie said, looking at the cupboards again. “Not ghost stories.”
“‘Well, you best start believing in ghost stories, Miss Turner— you’re in one.’”
Sadie recognized the line from Pirates of the Caribbean. She’d seen every movie Johnny Depp had ever made—even Edward Scissorhands. What could she say, she had a vice. “It can’t be ghosts,” Sadie said, but even she heard the plea in her tone. Was she starting to fall for this? She shook her head; it was ridiculous.
She stepped forward and started putting the chairs back around the table. Jane stepped in and helped close the drawers and cabinets.
“I’m not ready to go that direction,” Sadie said. “And I need to clean up the kitchen so if you want to sit, I’ll keep my hands busy and fill you in on the details.”
“Oh, do tell,” Jane said before collapsing in a kitchen chair and putting her feet up on the table, ankles crossed.
“No shoes on the table,” Sadie said automatically. Jane did as she was told, and Sadie pushed up her sleeves and then told Jane what had happened while she chipped petrified beans out of the slow cooker and mourned the dried-out, over-risen cinnamon twists. Hopefully the whoopie pies she planned to make would work out a little better; she’d certainly be more vigilant this time.
By the time she’d told Jane the whole story, she had the kitchen straightened and the ingredients for the whoopie pies set out on the counter. She’d experimented with traditional recipes for whoopie pies after her last trip to Boston; the kids had loved the filled cakes that were as big as the palm of their hands. Once home, she’d been disappointed with her attempts to replicate the treats until she broke one of her cardinal baking rules and used a cake mix-based recipe. It turned out to be the winner, making perfectly moist yet dense cakes that supported the thick cream filling perfectly and simple enough that Sadie didn’t need to reference her Little Black Recipe Book, currently at the hotel. Lucky for Sadie, Heather was well-stocked on cake mixes and had everything else she needed for the traditional Amish dessert Sadie felt would only improve her chances of getting information from Pennsylvanian-born Mr. Forsberk. Perhaps the sugar content combined with the invitation of nostalgic feelings of his youth would help him trust her with whatever he was holding back.
“Okay then,” Jane said when Sadie finished explaining. She didn’t ask about the baking paraphernalia arranged on the counter. “Where do we start?”
“Well,” Sadie said as she ripped open the cake mix box and pulled out the plastic interior bag so that she could cut the corner rather than tear it, which was high risk for inferior pourability. “Shawn has found some landlord information from Mrs. Wapple’s former residence. I told him I didn’t need it, but now I think it would be a good idea to get a more full-bodied view of the family. The landlord might have some important details.”
“Agreed,” Jane said with a nod. “What else?”
Sadie poured the cake mix into a mixing bowl and added the pudding mix, water, eggs, and oil. “Mr. Forsberk, the guy with the dead dog, was poking around outside last night. I already talked to him, but he’s not giving up his reasons easily—hence the whoopie pies. He used to work at Radio Shack, and yesterday was the two-week anniversary of his dog’s death, which he believes was caused by a spell cast by Mrs. Wapple.”
“The plot thickens,” Jane said, her grin betraying how intrigued she was.
“Like roux in a soup,” Sadie said. She turned on the hand mixer, so they didn’t talk for the next two minutes as she whipped the ingredients into a thick batter. It was important to mix cake mixes according to the directions in order to ensure positive results, and since this one said to mix it for two minutes, th
at’s exactly what Sadie did. While it mixed, Sadie realized that Heather would be home soon. She looked at the clock and frowned. It was 10:10. If Heather’s flight landed at 11:14 and Pete had to be to the Jamaica Plain police department by noon then Heather would be home in just over an hour. Sadie turned up the speed of the mixer. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to see Heather, but she felt horrible about what had happened and didn’t know how to explain it. It would be nice to put off the potentially negative confrontation until she was more prepared.
“Anything else?” Jane asked as soon as Sadie shut off the mixer. “Anyone else we should dig into?”
Sadie immediately thought of Pete. Even though she’d been trying not to think about it, it was forefront in her mind. Telling Jane was out of the question, but the information weighed heavily on Sadie. There was a connection between Mr. Nutson’s case and this one . . . somewhere. Could she find it without Jane’s help?
Pumpkin Roll Page 22
