by Margi Preus
“How do they expect to grow potatoes in the middle of a forest?”
“Oh, if they decide to plant potatoes, the forest has to go.”
“Has to go?” Francie asked.
“They just remove it,” Sandy said. “Fifteen hundred acres at a time. Apparently the sandy soil is what they want.”
“Whoa,” Francie said.
“Yeah,” Sandy agreed. “Seems like everyone around here wants something other than forest from this forest.”
Francie stared for a long while at the truck, thinking about what Sandy had said. Then she walked to her aunts’ car, jingling the keys and supposing that if you were going to grow potatoes, you’d need a road to wherever it was you were going to plant them.
8
Buck Thorne
The inside of Paradise Realty was a strange mix of carpeting, air conditioning, and rustic log furniture upholstered with bear motif fabrics. A fake stone fireplace loomed at one end of the reception area, with a large and real elk head presiding above the mantel.
The receptionist’s nameplate identified her as Darcee.
“I’m looking for a real estate agent to, um, to tell me if I could . . .” Francie had no idea how to word this, but she told herself to pull it together and finished strong. “I have some property I’d like to sell on Enchantment Lake.”
“Ooh, Enchantment! Buck’ll be interested in that,” Darcee said. She couldn’t help staring at Francie’s hair.
“I don’t color it; it just grows that way,” Francie answered Darcee’s unasked question.
“Oh, huh!” Darcee said.
A young man rushed in through a back door, wearing a pair of swim trunks and flip-flops. He dashed through the office, flinging open cupboard doors, rummaging through drawers, and slamming them shut.
Buck? Francie silently asked Darcee, mouthing the name.
Darcee shook her head and mouthed Junior. Then she swiveled her chair around to face the sunburned man whose hair, Francie noticed, was wet.
“Looking for loose change again?” Darcee asked astringently.
Francie turned away and tried to interest herself in a slick architect’s drawing spread out on a desk. She had to look at it upside down, but it appeared to be a big development that included buildings, pools, tennis courts, and here and there a few little circular green things that were probably supposed to indicate trees. She concentrated on reading the big, block letters that were upside down, too, and made out “FIR Forest Development Enterprises.” Right, Francie thought. I’ll bet there’s not one fir tree left by the time they’re done. Like “Oak Ridge” with no oaks or “Birch Grove” without birch trees. Seems like everybody wants something other than forest from the forest, she remembered Sandy saying.
Darcee spun in her swivel chair, picked up the phone, and after the briefest of conversations, said to Francie, “Buck will meet you out at Enchantment.”
Buck was a big guy, well over 200 pounds, wearing a western-style shirt with pearl snaps, brown polyester bootcut western-style pants, a belt with an enormous silver buckle, and cowboy boots. The boots were the oddest part of the outfit. As she watched Buck climb the stairs, Astrid wondered aloud if he didn’t go “ass over teakettle” when he rode in aluminum boats.
“Now,” Astrid said, “we’re going to hide in the closet in the back room where we’ll be able to hear.”
“Hide? Why?” Francie asked.
“If Buck knows we’re in on this idea, he might get suspicious,” Jeannette said as they bustled off to the back room.
Buck came in, belly first. A toothpick danced around the side of his mouth while he surveyed the inside of the cabin. One mystery solved: this was definitely not the guy they were trying to set her up with. She sincerely hoped.
“I hear you’re a big detective in New York” was the first thing out of his mouth.
She’d gotten used to hearing that statement, so rather than just being embarrassed about it, she watched his reaction to the idea.
He smirked an “I’m-not-afraid-of-you-little-missy” smirk. And yet, before the smirk fully settled in, a brief look of some complexity crossed his face. What did that look indicate? Perhaps if she really were a detective she would be able to interpret it, as TV detectives seemed able to do. As she pondered this, his face returned to its “little-missy” look.
“My aunts have gone to the neighbors for coffee, so we can talk frankly,” she told him. “They would like to give this property to me, which is very generous of them, but I would like to sell it because I need the money.” (What was she supposed to need the money for again?) “I need the money now, but is there any way my aunts would be able to stay on?”
“Oh, sure,” Buck said. He offered to buy the property right away and allow the ladies to stay until they could no longer manage. Life estate, he called it. The price seemed reasonable. Somehow that made her even more suspicious.
“Awfully kind of you.” Francie choked on the words. She had begun to understand her aunts’ suspicions about Buck.
A loud crash followed by a series of small “thunks” issued forth from the back room. It sounded like a platter being dropped from a top shelf. Francie remembered that Astrid used to hide cakes and cookies when she and her brother were little so they wouldn’t eat them all. Then she’d forget where they were. Francie pictured ancient bars scattered everywhere.
Buck’s eyes narrowed. “Are you sure your aunts aren’t here?” he said.
“Terrible mouse problem,” Francie said. “Will I have to include that in the disclosure statement?” She wondered where she’d pulled the “disclosure statement” idea from.
“That’s a mighty big mouse that can knock over a . . .”
“Squirrels?” Francie posited.
Buck shook his head and took a step toward Francie. She resisted the urge to step back and stood her ground.
“Raccoons,” he hissed in her ear. “You don’t want raccoons.”
“Oh, gosh!” Francie exclaimed. “In the crawl space, maybe?”
“Yes, that’s probably it.”
“I’ll get that taken care of right away,” she said as she urged him toward the door.
“Your aunts are special people, you know,” he said. “Kind of the matri-larks of the lake.
“Matriarchs?” Francie suggested.
“Yep,” he said. “Can’t imagine this shore without them.”
Francie wondered if he was saying all this for her aunts’ benefit because he knew very well they were hiding nearby. She suggested a look around at the property.
Stepping outside, Buck asked Francie what her aunts intended to do with their undeveloped property, the one on the other side of the Fredericksons’.
“I believe they intend to leave that to my brother.”
“Uh-huh,” Buck said. “And where is your brother these days?”
“I don’t really know,” Francie said. “Africa? Or maybe South America. Siberia? I can’t keep track.”
“Huh!” was Buck’s response. “You likely to be speaking with him in the near future?”
“I doubt it,” she said truthfully.
“How would a person get in touch with him?” Buck asked.
Francie shrugged. “Don’t really know.”
“So,” Buck said, “shall I write up a purchase agreement for this property?”
Francie bit her lip, suddenly very nervous about all of this—about everything. She knew she was supposed to say yes to get the ball rolling. That’s what her aunts wanted. But she was also afraid. Were her aunts putting themselves in danger on purpose? And what if somehow Francie accidentally really sold the place? She realized she couldn’t bear the thought. “Let me think about it,” she said. “I’m not sure what to do, but I’ll make up my mind before I go back to New York.”
Buck stuck a long grass stem in his mouth, looked at her sideways, and said, “Back to detective-ing?”
9
Strawberry Picking
“Well, Astr
id, what do you think?” Jeannette asked as the three of them watched Buck’s boat retreating across the lake.
“He’s the one,” Astrid said, her eyes glittering. The boat’s wake rushed onto the shore, as if applauding.
“He’s the one what?” Francie asked.
“He’s the one who’s been knocking off cabin owners around here. I suspect we’re next,” she said matter-of-factly. “Unless, of course, we do something about it first.” She turned to Francie and smiled sweetly. “Let’s go strawberry picking!”
Francie did not see how picking strawberries was going to stop Buck from doing anything, and she said so.
Astrid laughed her tiny, tinkling-bell giggle that always made Francie smile and said, “Of course not! But I definitely want to get enough strawberries for a pie.”
“A pie!” Jeannette protested. “We’ll never get that many strawberries!”
Francie didn’t think so, either. The wild strawberries were so very, very tiny that you needed hundreds and hundreds of them to make a pie. But they were so very, very sweet and delicious, Francie’s mouth started to water just thinking about them, so she said, “Let’s see if we can!”
Their secret strawberry spot was on a sunny knoll overlooking the forest behind the cabin. From here it seemed as if the forest stretched forever. North and north into the great boreal forests of Canada. On days like this, when the wind blew from there, the smell of endless pines and lakes and granite filled the air. She felt herself snuffling the scent like a dog does, filling her lungs with it. It was a smell that called up some primal part of her, her wild, natural self. Her real self, she thought suddenly.
“Have you heard from your brother?” Jeannette was asking her.
“No,” Francie said. “Not since . . . I can’t remember, really. It was Christmas—”
“Oh! Christmas!” Astrid said.
“—a few years ago,” Francie finished. The sight of a cluster of tiny red berries under the leaves suddenly made her feel close to tears.
“What happened between you two? You used to be so close,” Astrid said.
“Close!” Francie exclaimed. “We fought like cats and dogs.”
“That’s what siblings who are close do,” Astrid said. “Siblings who are not close don’t have any reason to fight. What keeps the two of you apart?”
Francie dropped the few strawberries she’d found into her pail. They hit the bottom with the faintest plink. “I guess I don’t really know,” she said finally. “Somehow it’s just become habit. It’s just the way it is. We don’t communicate. We’re just so different,” Francie said. “We don’t have much in common.”
Astrid snorted. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard!” she said. “You are like two peas in a pod.”
“Ooh!” Jeannette squeaked. “Look at this spot!” She plunked herself down on the ground and went after the strawberries with a vengeance.
“How are we alike?” Francie protested. “He’s a mostly penniless, mountain-climbing adventurer, and I’m a struggling actor who never leaves New York City.”
“Yes, you do leave!” Astrid said. “You’re here. And anyway, I’m not talking about what you do. I’m talking about who you are.”
Francie grew very still, acutely feeling the breeze on her face. My real self, she thought again. What did that really mean? she wondered.
“You and your brother share a common fierce fearlessness, a kind of recklessness in the face of danger,” Astrid went on. “You’re both impulsive, high-minded, and nonmaterialistic. You are motivated by compassion.”
“That’s all true about him, maybe, but not me.”
“Ha!” Astrid said.
“How can you say I’m fearless? When have I had to face danger? How can you say I’m motivated by compassion? I can’t think of one compassionate thing I’ve done, unless you count donating a quarter for a newspaper from homeless people.”
“Well, we know what we know,” Jeannette sniffed. “Astrid, have you gotten any more berries?”
“Oh,” Astrid said, “I’ve long ago given up looking for berries. Now I’m hunting for diamonds!”
That night, Francie happily and tiredly climbed into bed in the boathouse. The previous night with the wind chime and the strange noise and the footsteps all seemed as if it happened long ago or not at all. Her aunts assured her that nothing could possibly happen to them until Francie actually sold the cabin to Buck, because that wouldn’t make any sense at all. Francie wasn’t so sure about that, but she was happy to curl up alone with her thoughts and feelings.
So many feelings! Her anger and frustration had dissipated, and instead she was filled with gratitude. She was happy that she had this time with her beloved aunts. Her grandfather would say they had tricked her into coming. He would be at least disapproving and more likely furious. But what if they hadn’t “tricked” her? Would she have come if they had just invited her? She was ashamed to admit that she probably wouldn’t have; she was too busy with schoolwork and too broke, and there was always that next audition. How long might it have been before she’d come back here? It might have taken their actual deaths.
She thought about the feeling of the warm sun on her back when they’d been berry picking that afternoon. The lazy drone of a fly. The chickadees “chicka-dee-dee”-ing in the trees. Chatting amiably with her aunts, who seemed to know things about her that she didn’t know. That feeling that she’d almost—almost—grasped who she really was. Was she fearless? Was she motivated by compassion? There was nothing to indicate that. It would be like her aunts to suggest that she was in case it might “take.”
She was grateful to them. She didn’t have a mother and a father to say kind things to her, and her grandfather didn’t say kind things. Granddad, she thought. Had he found out where she’d gone? What was going on back in that world, that other world that seemed so distant now?
Well, she wouldn’t worry about it. Tonight, she felt loved, and those feelings made a big warm circle around her. Still, it seemed that within the warm circle was a dark hole, endlessly deep. It was into this hole that she felt herself falling. Of course, that was mostly the reason she’d never come back. She was afraid to feel the pain of losing her father as keenly as she did here, at the lake, where everything reminded her of him. That warm sun on her back today made her ache a little bit inside. The lazy drone of the fly made her feel more acutely the drone of old pain. Those tender little birds, the chickadees—they were the fearless ones, so tiny, yet she’d seen them chasing blue jays, several times bigger than they were, away from their nests. Her father had tamed those little birds, putting birdseed on his hat and standing so still that they came and sat on his head and eventually his shoulders and even his hands. She carried an image in her mind of him this way, covered in chickadees. And now, seeing or hearing these birds caused her both little pricks of pain and somehow, mixed in, a kind of deep delight. A delight she was almost afraid to acknowledge.
She reached for the book on the bedside table and read from a poem by Wendell Berry:
When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
In fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
She set the book down and listened, without thinking of anything else, to the raucous calls of loons on the lake. They cooed and hollered, yodeled, laughed crazily, sang with wild abandon. She could picture them, practically standing on the water with their big wings outstretched and flapping, a big Friday night dance. More coming in for landings, with long, slow approaches and the graceless splash as they touched down, the other loons gathering around to join the party.
Party. That party at the Fredericksons’—should she go? She pictured the partygoers gathering, preening, and squawking and laughing like loons, and Mrs.
Frederickson would be in the midst of it all, making entrances like—oh, for the love of Mike!—Frederica Ricard! Star of screen and stage. As seen in film, television, on Broadway. Savery Frederickson was Frederica Ricard, Broadway star. Former Broadway star.
And she, Francesca Frye, was invited to her house for a party the very next night! Things might be working out very well, after all. Very well, indeed!
Francie blew out the lamp and laid her head on the deliciously soft pillow, closed her eyes, and fell asleep smiling.
10
Sleuthing
At the one coffee shop in town, Francie ordered a “cappachino,” as it was spelled on the menu, and sketched out the roadless side of the lake on a napkin, putting an X at every cabin where there was a suspicious death. Her list read:
Falling Tree Limb (Kevin Smattering)
Drowning (Mr. Hansen)
Snakebite (Mr. Simonsen)
Gunshot/Suicide? (Warren)
Poisoned Well (Ginger’s dad)
Heart Attack? (Sandy’s dad)
She resisted also writing:
Car Accident? (My dad)
Then she pulled out her laptop. In the time it took to drink her cappuccino, Francie found some interesting information. Of the causes of death, the snakebite was the weirdest one—until she found out that Mr. Simonsen had been a herpetologist. Wasn’t that someone who worked with snakes? Yes, according to Wikipedia.
How did people ever find out anything before Google?
But how might a well be poisoned? How might a falling tree branch not be an accident? That was harder to find.
On Buck Thorne’s home page, she learned that he liked to fish for walleyes at night on Enchantment Lake. This didn’t exactly hang him for Mr. Hansen’s drowning, as there were probably hundreds of such fishing fanatics. But—what was this? A photo of Buck wearing blaze orange, holding up the head of a dead deer. “Buck’s 15-point buck,” the caption read. Although all guys in blaze orange jackets and hats looked alike to her, these particular guys looked familiar. Very familiar. Hadn’t she just seen these same hunters in the photo Sandy showed her? She’d have to remember to have Sandy ask his uncle about it.
