“Can you tidy up things this morning? If I don’t get going, I won’t be on time, and you know how Sheriff Carver can be when it comes to that.”
Her laughter followed me up the stairs as she said she’d be happy to take over for the day.
Hot water pulsed against my skin as I lathered my body and hair. The heat relaxed the tense muscle and nerves in my neck and shoulders. I’d rinsed and dried myself off when it occurred to me that I had nothing to be nervous over. I’d committed no crime, other than breaking into Arty’s house, of course. I had no reason to be anxious, either. Then why was I? I shook my head, finished dressing, and tied my sneakers.
The blow dryer left my hair wild. Without time to primp in front of the mirror, I dabbed lipstick on my lips and scooted downstairs. I grabbed a bundle of the postcards and rushed out the door.
The public parking lot behind the police station was nearly full. Slowly, I searched for a parking spot. Many of the vehicles belonged to officers. I recognized some of them. Others might be owned by people who had business to take care of at the station. Nearly filled to the brink, only two empty slots remained. I parked in the one closest to the door and hurried into the station.
I stated my business to the officer at the front desk, who directed me through the security scanner. When the alarm didn’t sound, the officer showed me to Carver’s office. I already knew my way but let the man do his job.
I knocked on Carver’s office door and entered when he bid me to do so. He greeted me, motioned to a chair, and picked up the phone. After instructing the person on the other end of the phone to bring the prisoner into interrogation room one, he hung up and sat facing me.
“Don’t pussyfoot around, Jack, just tell me what you found out.”
His bushy brows hiked a tad as his eyes narrowed. It seemed he didn’t like my being forthright, but my nerves were stretched to the max as was my sense of humor over this new situation. Maybe Bun was right, maybe Jack was playing a game, maybe I was being paranoid, and maybe I needed to calm down.
He sat back in his leather chair and teetered a bit. Resting his elbows on the chair arms, Jack pressed the tips of his fingers together, reminding me of a pitched tent. I took an even breath, held it to the count of ten, and let it out slowly.
“Are you having a rough day?”
“Not at all. I have a lot to do, and I’d like to get this over with. After all, you called me. I hadn’t planned on this visit.”
He looked down at his fingertips, his brows drew together, and I wondered if the feeling of doom that hung at the edge of my horizon was about to become a full-blown event.
“I see. The man on your property has been squatting since your difficulties began at the farm. He refuses to admit he’s the one who broke in time and again, that he’s been trying to intimidate you, or that he even knew Arty. He also mentioned he doesn’t know you or that you own the land.”
I snorted. “What did he think, nobody owned it? Every piece of property is owned by someone. Is he of sound mind?”
“He seems to be. My gut says he’s not our guy. Any ideas?”
“None. I was surprised to find that campsite, and was even more so at his anger for having been arrested. Surely, if you’re a squatter, you might expect to be arrested when you’d been caught out, wouldn’t you?”
“You’d think so.” He stood and summoned me to follow him.
Entering a hallway, we climbed a flight of stairs to the second floor and came to a row of glassed-in rooms. All but one was empty. An officer stood inside the room with a lone man seated at a table, while another man stood guard outside the door. Inwardly, I quaked and hoped to never be in such a position.
The officers stood at attention. The one in the hallway opened the door for us to enter and tried to take my handbag as I walked in. I gave him a look, but he held tight, so I let go.
“Sit there.” Carver pointed at one of the chairs opposite the prisoner.
Once I was seated, I folded my hands in my lap and remained silent. Clearly, I was out of my depth. The man across from us had startling blue eyes, short, shaggy brown hair, and a scar that rode from his left eye to his jawline, which I hadn’t noticed the day before. Lean and lanky was how I remembered him. His shoulders weren’t wide, but bony, as though he hadn’t eaten a decent meal in ages. Empathy for his plight set in. I fought it off, knowing I’d be a fool to let his concerns move me.
Sheriff Carver asked, “Your name is?”
“Like I’ve said before, Andrew Stone.” The man’s voice, soft and even, didn’t hold the gravelly or sharp sound of my intruder.
“Where are you from?”
“Berkeley, California.”
“What are you doing in New Hampshire?”
“Nothing much, just camping on her land.” His chin jutted toward me.
“Why?”
“I had nowhere else to go, and it seemed a perfect spot,” he said, centering his attention on me. “I thought the land I camped on was state owned. A wildlife sanctuary, maybe.”
I said nothing. My need to ask him a thousand questions had instantly vanished. He was not the man we sought. Instead, he was homeless, in need of help, a job, a decent haircut, and fattening up.
Carver shifted in his chair. “What brought you east?”
“There was nothing for me out there, so I thought I’d head this way. Why am I locked up for camping? Is it against the law in New Hampshire?”
I sat up and said, “It is when you’re squatting on someone else’s land. If you had asked permission, I wouldn’t have cared, but you didn’t.”
“Is that what this is all about? I thought . . .” Andrew’s voice drifted off. He clamped his mouth shut and refused to answer any more questions.
I jumped at the chance that he’d seen someone hanging about on the property. “What did you think? Have you seen or heard something you’d like to share, Mr. Stone?”
“Why would I tell you if I did?”
“Because I’ve been having problems at the farm with an intruder. Now, if you have information, I’d be grateful if you’d share it with me.”
“I’m not your man. I don’t intrude, I guess I squat, but I don’t invade people’s homes or whatever this person has been doing at your farm.”
“Have you seen or heard anything that might help us find this man?” I sounded pathetic, like I was pleading, and I considered it a sign of weakness. Apparently, Mr. Stone didn’t feel the same way.
“I wasn’t aware of your farm when I first camped out. It’s some distance from my campsite, and I keep to myself. One night, I heard feet running across the hard ground. A man, breathing hard, raced past without noticing me or my setup. It seemed odd, but again, I mind my own business. I wasn’t willing to follow him and ask questions.”
As if we were in the room alone, I asked, “Why didn’t you come to the farm?”
“I had no reason to. I live off the land, eat what I can catch, and forage for what I need to stay dry and warm. I’m quite adept at that.”
I’d been about to ask another question when Carver interrupted. “Where did you learn your survival skills?”
“It doesn’t matter, I just know how to take care of myself.”
“Were you in the military?”
He fell silent, looked away, and then offered a half-hearted shrug.
Carver said, “Juliette, do you wish to press charges against Mr. Stone?”
“No. Mr. Stone can keep camping on my property, if he wishes to do so.” I slid my chair back and left the room, collecting my handbag from the guard. Soon, Carver was walking alongside me.
“You’ll allow this tramp to stay on your property? You don’t know anything about him, for goodness’ sake. What if he’s a killer? What if he hasn’t been honest with us? I’ll run a check on him to see if he’s a military man. I must say, you got more out of him than we did, and we took turns all night trying to get him to open up.” Carver smirked. “I should have called you in to handle the
questioning.”
“He could use some help, a haircut, and a decent meal. Don’t you see that? I’m not saying he’s harmless, I think he has other issues.”
“Oh?”
I stopped on the stairs and looked up at him. “I’m no doctor or psychologist, but just from what he said and how he’s malnourished, it’s plain to see he’s got problems. I’m surprised you didn’t notice, being a cop and all. Aren’t you folks trained to see past the norm? Isn’t there a homeless shelter in town or a parish that could help him out, even temporarily?”
Carver raised his hands defensively. “There are. I’m not a social worker, Jules, but I’ll point him in that direction. Maybe he’ll take advantage of their help. If not, there’s nothing I can do about it. When I get word from the military, I’ll let you know. Until then, I have to release him.”
We’d reached the main corridor leading to his office. I lingered at the door. “Thanks, Jack, I appreciate you taking this seriously. Tell Mr. Stone to stop at the farm before returning to his campsite.” I glanced at my watch, left the station, and drove to the supermarket. I hadn’t shopped lately, so my food supplies had dwindled, especially now that Jessica had moved in.
I left postcards at the service desk inside the market. The clerk, Bette Pringle, immediately read both sides and said, “You’ve never had an affair like this at the farm. Are you branching out? I heard Jessica Plain is opening a vet clinic in your barn. Is it true?”
Her curly red hair bobbed up and down as she spoke. The freckles on her face stood out, reminding me of a bad case of the measles, but her grin was infectious. I responded with a smile and told her we were finally inviting the public in to see how we care for the rabbits.
“Is that because of the person who keeps causing you trouble?”
“Not really. I want the public to be aware of how well we care for the rabbits, and the services we offer. Lizzy Fraser has taken on the publicity job and these postcards are her design.”
“Great job, bright and bold, eye-catching. I think you’re onto something, Jules.” She looked past me. I turned to see a line had formed behind me, and stepped aside.
“Bette, let me know if you need more postcards, okay?”
She gave me a nod and greeted the next person.
The market bustled with activity. Shoppers whizzed up and down the aisles as fast as I did, taking goods from shelves and filling carts. Little tykes sat in carriage seats pointing to this and that as their moms shopped. I was greeted by many, asked about the vet clinic, and a few shoppers inquired about the open house. Gossip ran rampant, and several people expressed interest in attending the open house after I mentioned the cards for the event were at the service desk. Maybe a dozen cards hadn’t been enough.
The checkout lines weren’t too long. Waiting my turn, I flipped through a magazine in the hope that I’d get out of the store before anyone could ask questions concerning our invasions. I didn’t want to discuss the issue, mostly due to what would then be twisted into something altogether different and spread around like wildfire.
Next in line, I set my goods onto the conveyor belt and paid the bill. After packing the bags into the carriage for transport to the car, I reached out to take my change from the cashier when I heard a familiar voice behind me.
Her voice low, but nasty as ever, Margery Shaw’s eyes gleamed with spite when I turned to look at her. “Where’s your creepy little rabbit, you know, Satan’s spawn? I bet you even dance on a pentagram with him right beside you.”
Stepping away from my carriage, I moved up to her, close and personal. “I’ve had enough of your crap. You should really see a psychiatrist for your paranoia, Margery Shaw. The rabbit does not talk, it’s all in your wicked little mind. Now leave me alone or I’ll call the police and tell them you’re harassing me.”
Her features had changed from cruel to shocked that I had the nerve to step into her space and tell her off. Until now, I’d scurried away from her, hoping to evade her meanness. After all I’d been through lately, my attitude had taken a turn, and I no longer let things slide. She moved back while I glared at her, then slammed her groceries onto the conveyor.
Angry, yet satisfied to have had the last word with the mean witch, I rolled the cart to the car. The groceries lay piled on the back seat as I headed to the library. I parked at the side of the building and went in.
Mary Brickworth stood behind the counter, eyeing me as I crossed the floor. Her five-foot ten-inch, reed-thin body was draped in clothing that looked as though it belonged to someone larger.
At one time, Mary had weighed in at a hefty 250 pounds. When her doctor advised her to lose weight or else, she decided she’d had enough of dragging the extra weight around. Now she resembled a wraith, but claimed to be healthier than ever. She was a good soul, strict when people were noisy in the library, but outgoing outside of work. I gave her what I hoped was a cheerful smile and murmured a greeting.
Her soft-spoken hello was accompanied by the repetitive question of what could she do for me today. I think librarians are trained to say that first thing when people step up to their counter.
“I wondered if I could leave these postcards here. I’m doing an educational open house at the farm on caring for and raising rabbits. I thought you might allow me to drop these off for anyone who would be interested in attending this free event.”
After I handed Mary the short stack of cards, I watched her read the front and back. There was no attendance fee listed, nor were there any merchandise sale ads. Her head bobbed up and down and she took the stack, gathered them neatly, and set them on the counter in plain view.
“These are very nice cards. You do such great public service programs, Juliette. I’m sure families with children will flock to the event. If I need more cards, I’ll call you.”
“Thanks, Mary. Oh, I wanted to tell you how wonderful you’re looking.” I smiled, bid her good-bye, and scooted to the next stop on my mental list, the corner coffee shop Jessica and I had stopped at after going to Ferguson’s Fabulous Furnishings. I’d never gotten the name of the coffee shop, but did so now and chortled as I pulled up to the curb and read the sign above the door.
Cassi’s Café au Lait had few customers this late in the day. I’d spent a lot of time with Carver and then the market, and though my stop at the library had been brief, I’d eaten up the morning hours.
With postcards stuffed in my purse, I ordered a coffee to go. The waitress rang up the sale, and I foraged in my purse for money, setting the cards on the counter to dig through the mound of junk I carried before finding my change pouch. The waitress, who chewed gum, had shocking green hair clipped on top of her head, and a nervous tic in one eye, snatched one of the cards and read it.
“You that woman who’s been having police problems at yer farm?”
“There haven’t been any police problems, I’ve had an intruder.” I handed her the correct change. “Could I speak to the owner, please?”
Her eyes widened. “I didn’t mean nothin’ by that question.” She leaned toward me and whispered, “If you complain to Cassi, she’ll fire me. Please don’t make me lose my job.” She spit the wad of gum into the trash and looked at me with pleading eyes.
“I have no intention of making a complaint. I simply want to ask if I can leave these cards for your patrons.”
She shook her head. “I don’t think we have any patrons. We only have customers.”
Though I was sure of her sincerity in the matter, I nearly chuckled. Since she wouldn’t have known what I was laughing about, it would have been more than rude to do so. “In that case, why don’t you ask Cassi if I could speak to her about leaving these cards for the customers.”
“Sure thing. Wait right there.” She went through the swinging doors to the kitchen and called to Cassi.
Truth be told, this young girl had no idea how to present herself to customers or to her boss. I gazed around the small café and wondered how much business she did. The place ha
d been quite busy when Jessica and I had come in. Swinging doors banged against the wall as Cassi walked through the opening. They swung closed behind her and she gave me a curious look.
“Has that girl been rude to you?” Cassi had a no-nonsense attitude that reminded me of my grandmother’s. Big-boned and well-muscled, Cassi was probably daunting to some.
“Not at all. She’s a sweet girl, just young.”
“Well, she doesn’t have a shut-off button when it comes to speaking out of turn. That’s why I asked.”
“I’m the owner of Fur Bridge Farm, located out in the valley? I’m hosting an educational event at the farm and am distributing informational postcards to various businesses in Windermere. I want to ask if it would be all right to leave some for your customers.”
She glanced at the cards and nodded. “Sure, that’d be fine. If you’re having it catered, we could supply coffee and tea for you if you want. I also make dainty pastries.” She reached back and took one of these delightful little gems from the glass case behind her and handed it to me. “Go ahead, eat it. I make the best pastries in Windermere. I’ll give you a good price, too. Not like those fancy bakeries on High Street, who charge you eight dollars for a cupcake. No sirree. Just so you know, I studied culinary arts with a minor in pastry creation at Josephson’s College over in Radford.”
Familiar with the college and encouraged by her enthusiasm, I asked, “Would you have a list of what you offer? A menu of sorts?”
Her smile wide, Cassi rummaged under the counter and handed me a thin binder. “Let’s sit at a table and talk this over.”
We discussed what she would make, how much it would cost, and if she could deliver to the farm. Happy with her answers to my questions, and her promise to be early for setup, I placed an order and paid a deposit.
Left Fur Dead Page 11
