3 Sleuths, 2 Dogs, 1 Murder (The Sleuth Sisters)

by Maggie Pill

  Barb, Winston, and Rory joined us, and we trooped out of the garage. The light had died quickly, and the single headlight of each snow machine showed bluish in the dark of the yard. Faye stood on the sidewalk, lighting a cigarette as she watched us go. She tried to smile, but her success was iffy at best.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Barb

  Rory set a brisk but not taxing pace, handling the snowmobile with confident ease. Retta stayed back a little for safety’s sake. Riders were sometimes hurt when one driver stopped for a deer or a downed tree branch and the one behind him couldn’t do the same.

  After following the highway for a mile, we turned due north, taking a trail maintained by groomer drivers like Gabe. Using various types of vehicles, they flatten and smooth the trails periodically during sledding season.

  Aside from the noise, it wasn’t an unpleasant experience. Over Rory’s shoulder I saw that our speed was forty miles an hour, a bit fast for my taste but not particularly worrisome on a groomed trail. The first segment passed through lightly inhabited areas, mostly farms protected by barbed wire and warning signs. After that we entered heavily wooded land where the trail was the only thing that didn’t belong to Mother Nature.

  Retta was correct about it being beautiful. Our headlamps revealed ghostly tree-trunks and blue-white snowdrifts, often dotted with the tracks of rabbits and other small creatures. At one point Rory gestured at a deer that bounded into the woods ahead, desperate to avoid the oncoming monsters.

  The ride got scary when we left the trail. Without the packed surface, the machine bogged down. The engine whined with strain and Retta backed off even farther. Grasping the handlebars firmly, Rory gunned the motor. The machine bucked and fought its way forward.

  “Lean right!” he ordered as we came to a clump of trees. He did the same, turning the skis in that direction. I obeyed, though it felt like the wrong thing to do. I thought for sure we’d tip over, but the track dug in and we made the turn. Again he cranked up the gas, and we surged forward. “If we slow too much we’ll get stuck,” he shouted. I hung on, wishing the trip were over, but Rory was in control, and somehow the machine chewed its way through the deep snow, bouncing off buried rocks and pushing small trees out of our way.

  It was probably only a mile farther to the cabin, but it seemed to take forever. When the trees opened before us, I realized we’d turned onto a road. A two-track, I guessed, usable in good weather but buried now under snow.

  The headlight’s reach was limited, and I was peering around Rory’s substantial shoulders, so I couldn’t see much of what was ahead. When the road curved sharply, Rory stopped beside a clump of trees. “I think this is it,” he muttered, “but everything looks different at night.” I could tell we were at the edge of a steep decline, but it was impossible to see what lay below us.

  Retta pulled her sled up beside us and shut it down, and darkness descended like a heavy blanket. Along with it a dense, repressive silence settled. A cloud of exhaust fumes enveloped us, making me cough.

  Rummaging in her sled’s storage compartment, Retta called, “Here, Rory,” and handed him something. I heard his suit fabric rustle, a click, and a light came on directly over his eyes. It was a headlamp, held in place on his helmet by a wide elastic band. Retta had one, too, and soon her light complemented his, one above my line of sight, the other below it.

  Rory waded a few feet to the right and directed the light over the sharp drop-off. About fifty yards away and fifteen feet below us was the cabin, tiny, forlorn, and half-buried in white. Overhangs all the way around it kept the snow back from the walls, but beyond them it had filled the valley halfway to the height of the roof. From above we could see only part of the front wall with its large square window and plank door.

  Darrow peered over Retta’s shoulder. “That’s where we’re spending the night?”

  “You could be in the Millden jail,” I reminded him.

  “I could be dead.” He added glumly, “I just hope I live through this.”

  Rory led the way to the cabin, wading through waist-deep snow. I followed, dragging my feet to clear the spaces between Rory’s prints. Darrow was next, and I heard him grunting behind me. Retta came last, angling her headlamp downward to light our feet. Stumbling and panting, we made toward the building. Somewhere behind it I heard water: the Paling River, narrowed and possibly covered by ice in places. Dangerous.

  When we reached the cabin door, we were all out of breath. Darrow groaned in wordless complaint. Focusing his head lamp on a padlock threaded through a hasp-type fastener, Rory inserted a key and opened it. Setting it on the windowsill, he turned the knob, shouldered the door open, and led the way inside, spilling snow onto the floor.

  “Come in,” he said. “You’re probably freezing.”

  Though the temperature had dropped to a few degrees above zero, I was surprisingly comfortable. Veteran snowmobilers advise, Dress for it and you won’t get cold, and in my case they were correct. It wasn’t true for Darrow, though. His teeth chattered like castanets.

  The cabin was musty, dusty, and almost empty. Rory turned in a circle, showing us a single room with only a wooden table, two chairs, and a sink with a broken hand pump on one side. “No water,” he said, “but I stopped on the way to Retta’s and picked up some things.” Pulling the light off his helmet, he handed it to me. “Barb and I will get the groceries.”

  As I followed Rory out I heard Darrow ask Retta, “Is he kidding with this place?” Hoping Rory hadn’t heard, I closed the door and put the light on my own helmet.

  Clambering back up to the road, we got the sleeping bags and a small duffel bag from the sleds’ saddle bags. Back inside, I shook out the bags while Rory opened the duffel and removed an eight-pack of bottled water, four deli sandwiches, and a box of candy bars. “Not gourmet provisions,” he said apologetically, “but it’ll keep you alive until I get back.”

  Winston glanced around doubtfully, but Rory rubbed his hands briskly. “I’ll get the generator going. Barb, come with me so you can see how it works.”

  He led the way around the side of the cabin, where the overhang had kept the way almost clear. Halfway down was a small metal shed, its low door fastened with a padlock. Opening the lock, Rory ducked inside. I remained where I was, there being no room for a second person.

  The generator, about the size of a small steamer trunk, was painted red. As I focused the light, Rory pulled a cord and the machine chugged to life, emitting a low, continuous growl.

  “See how I did that?” he asked.

  “You turned that and pressed that.”

  “Right. There’s gas in that jug.” He showed me where it would go when the time came. “Good for ten hours.” Backing out of the shed, he stood upright. “Are you going to be okay?”

  “Yes,” I said firmly, though I’d begun to wonder what I was doing out here in the woods in the middle of the night.

  Stepping close, Rory put his arms around me, and I raised my face for his kiss. The world recedes a little when someone you care about kisses you, and I felt my fears ebb. If Rory thought I could do this, I could.

  When we separated he said gruffly, “Someday there won’t be a murder investigation between us.”

  “That’ll be good,” I replied.

  “Yeah.” He touched my cheek. “Guess we’d better go in and turn on the lights.”

  When we entered Darrow asked, “You guys get lost?” I bit back a nasty reply, recognizing that it was spooky in there with just Retta’s headlamp. I focused my light on Rory, who reached up and pulled the chain on a fixture much like those in any home. The room glowed to visibility, and we squinted at each other as if assuring ourselves we weren’t alone.

  “Let there be light,” Darrow sneered sarcastically.

  “Just one so far.” Rory sounded apologetic. “I have plans, but I haven’t done much yet.”

  Retta’s nylon snow-suit whistled as she stepped forward and set her headlamp on the table. “You cou
ldn’t have known you’d have company out here in January.”

  “At least I brought in wood, so we don’t have to dig in a snow bank to get a fire going.” Kneeling at the blackened stone fireplace, he began crumpling paper from a cardboard box at one side and tossing it in. He added kindling, stacking each piece at an angle to the one before it, and set two small logs on top. Taking a grill lighter from the mantel, he set the paper on fire. Flames licked at the kindling pieces, which in turn lit and went to work heating the logs to their burning point. As the fire took off we all moved toward it, watching the hypnotic dance of the flames while we waited to feel the warmth.

  When it was clear the fire was viable, Rory sighed. “I should get back to town.” Pulling on his jacket again, he started for the door. “By the way, the outhouse is on the far side of the generator shed.” He grinned, catching my eye. “You’ll hate it, but there are no other options.”

  Rory’s gaze stayed on me, and I knew he wanted to tell me to be careful. I was fighting the same urge. In this primitive setting, I was safe, though uncomfortable. He would return to a soft bed and central heating, but what if he had to face Basca and his men?

  As the whine of the single snowmobile faded, I stood in the center of the room, uncertain what to do. “We might as well make the place as clean as we can,” Retta said briskly.

  I agreed, not so much for aesthetics as to keep moving. The fire was only beginning to warm the cabin, but with its light and the lamp above, the need for housekeeping was obvious. Finding an old hand towel, I used it to wipe the cobwebs from the corners, the mouse droppings from the table, and the dust from the chairs. Retta swept the floor, using a broom so old it might have served at Castle Dracula. Darrow just watched until she handed him a towel and ordered him to help. With a pained expression he swiped at a few spots, his nose wrinkled with disgust.

  When the place was as clean as we could make it with no water and few tools, we ate some of the food Rory had brought. The bread on my sandwich was slightly stale, but the water was nice and cold—not that we needed chilling. When we finished, we moved the table and chairs against one wall and laid the sleeping bags out near the hearth.

  “Who’ll keep the fire going?” Darrow asked.

  Retta had taken off her snowsuit and boots, and she slid into her bag, wriggling into the most comfortable position she could manage. Darrow and I followed suit, avoiding each other’s eyes. “One of us will wake up when it starts to cool down in here,” she said confidently.

  She was correct. An hour, maybe an hour and a half after we settled down to sleep, I felt the room’s warmth start to fade. Shivering, I rolled out of the sleeping bag and tossed a couple of logs on, wrestling them into place with a metal rod that served as a poker.

  Later I heard Retta do the same thing. She groaned a little as she stood up, and I grimaced in sympathy. No one over forty is meant to sleep on a bare wood floor. I never heard Darrow get up and feed the fire, but then, I hadn’t expected to.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Faye

  When I went out to Retta’s the next morning, my husband insisted on riding along. In the fifteen years since the accident that almost killed him, Dale has struggled physically and mentally. He understands his disabilities but finds it hard to no longer serve what he considers a useful purpose. It doesn’t matter to me. He’s still the guy I fell in love with at sixteen. We didn’t even mind much when I got pregnant at seventeen. By then we’d already decided to spend our lives together.

  For years Dale provided for me and our three boys, and the jobs I worked were only for extra money. Things changed after he was hurt, and while his conscious mind recognizes that, Dale’s subconscious keeps trying to prove he can still contribute. His coping mechanisms are harmless, consisting mostly of helping me in ways that aren’t all that helpful. Mostly he gets in my way, but recognizing his need, I go along.

  Dale had sensed my nervousness when I returned the night before without Barb, so I’d shared some of the details of the Darrow case with him. When I said I had to see to Styx in the morning, he said, “I’ll go out there with you. I’m not Chief Neuencamp, but I can call for help if there’s somebody around Retta’s house that shouldn’t be there.”

  I knew my sisters were okay, having gotten a terse text from Barb. Still, the chief had figured Basca and his men would eventually find Retta’s place. Having a man in the car might serve as a deterrent if they were watching the place, so Dale’s presence was welcome.

  Still, it always takes a while to get going when my husband is involved. While I put on my coat, I heard the weather channel girl start talking, despite the fact that Dale had tuned in fifteen minutes earlier and a half hour before that. He often checks my iPad, too, in case there’s a difference in the forecasts.

  Long ago, I made up my mind to give Dale leeway in the areas of life where he has some control. While he checked one more time, I waited in the kitchen, filing my nails. Once he was sure that the weather was no worse than most January days in Michigan, we left.

  “Whose truck is that?” Dale asked when we pulled in to find a vehicle parked at the edge of the paved space.

  “The chief’s,” I replied. “He should be back by now.”

  Getting out, I went and looked into the truck. The glove box door was open, and items lay scattered over the seat. I’d seen the chief put the truck keys into the pocket of his snowsuit the night before, but now they lay under the brake pedal as if they’d been tossed there in disgust.

  Someone had been waiting when Chief Neuencamp returned last night. They’d taken his keys and searched his truck, no doubt looking for the mysterious book.

  Dread shivered down my back. He wouldn’t have given up his keys willingly.

  “Dale!” I called. “I think the chief’s here somewhere, and he might be hurt.” Or worse.

  He got out of the car, moving as fast as he was able, and I handed him Retta’s spare keys. “Check the garage and the house while I look out back. Be careful!”

  Opening the door, Dale disappeared into the garage. Soon Styx came bounding out to greet me, and I figured Dale had sent him to be my protector. First he put his paws on my shoulders so I could hug his big, shaggy body, but after that he turned away, nose in the air. “Go on, boy,” I urged. “Find the chief.”

  Styx started around the house. The sidewalk to the pole barn hadn’t been shoveled in a while, but feet and snowmobiles had packed the snow down, so the going wasn’t too bad. Skirting the burlap-wrapped shrubbery, I trailed Styx to where Retta’s sleds were kept.

  When he reached the door at the side of the structure, Styx clawed at it, whining. I tried the knob. Locked. Peering through the foot-square window, I saw a snowmobile inside. Rory had indeed come back, but he hadn’t left, at least, not in his truck. Impatient with me for not opening the door, Styx gave a yip of distress and clawed at it again.

  Dale appeared in the garage doorway. “The alarm is still on, so nobody went inside.”

  I rattled the handle of the pole barn’s door. “See if the key for this is hanging in the garage.”

  While I waited, I waded through ice-crusted snow to the window on the other side. From that angle I could see Chief Neuencamp lying motionless on the dirt floor. His helmet had rolled into a corner, and his gloves lay at his side, one atop the other.

  “Got it!” Dale called, and I trudged across the yard to get the key from him.

  “The chief’s in there,” I said. “Call for an ambulance.”

  My fingers trembled so much it was hard to fit the key in the lock. Steadying one hand with the other, I ordered myself to calm down. Neuencamp needed help, and it was up to me. Opening the door, I hurried to where he lay.

  The chief’s muscles were slack, but he was breathing. Putting my fingers on his carotid artery, I felt a pulse that, while I was no expert, seemed okay. Years ago I had first aid training, but there’d been no lesson on helping victims of a violent attack. Taking off my coat, I covered him wit
h it. Keeping body heat in had to be good.

  Not sure what else to do, I lit a cigarette to calm my nerves, stepping away from the chief every few seconds to take a brief, comforting puff. In between I patted his shoulder and told him help was on the way. He moaned once or twice, which I took to be a good sign, but he didn’t seem aware of me, which was really, really scary.

  The EMTs arrived, and I held Styx back, explaining to him it wasn’t a time for hugs. He behaved well, standing meekly off to one side as a young woman checked Rory’s vital signs. Her partner brought an immobilizing collar and a backboard. Dale and I watched, feeling helpless, though the EMT said we’d done well.

  Barb had found someone she cared about, and he might be dying. It felt like I should have done more, though I didn’t know what it would have been.

  As the ambulance sped off, Dale asked, “Are you going to call your sister?”

  Barb was already stressed. Could it help to add more stress? “I’ll wait until we get a prognosis,” I replied, adding silently, “If she wants to be with him, I’ll go out to that cabin and babysit Winston myself.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Barb

  I never claimed to be a camper, and no one who knows me would predict I’d be a happy one. In fact, when our parents sent Faye and me to camp the summer I was twelve, I called after one day to demand they come and rescue me. Faye stayed, learning how to ride a horse Western Style, shoot arrows from a bow, and make ugly ceramic ashtrays. She’d gone back three more summers, but I’d refused, claiming my time was better spent at the library.

  After Rory left for Allport, the adventure leaked out of the experience, turning it into an uncomfortable inconvenience. Around three a.m., when it was necessary to go out in the cold to visit the outhouse, I began to wonder why I’d stayed. I could have gone back to Allport with Rory, leaving Retta to babysit her smarmy boyfriend. I’d have slept in my own bed and visited my own bathroom to quell the urge that hits sometime around two a.m., no matter where I am.