by Emily James
Bucket List
Maple Syrup Mysteries
Emily James
Stronghold Books
Copyright © 2017 by Emily James
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author. It’s okay to quote a small section for a review or in a school paper. To put this in plain language, this means you can’t copy my work and profit from it as if it were your own. When you copy someone’s work, it’s stealing. No one likes a thief, so don’t do it. Pirates are not nearly as cool in real life as they are in fiction.
For permission requests, write to the author at the address below.
Emily James
[email protected]
www.authoremilyjames.com
This is a work of fiction. I made it up. You are not in my book. I probably don’t even know you. If you’re confused about the difference between real life and fiction, you might want to call a counselor rather than a lawyer because names, characters, places, and incidents in this book are a product of my twisted imagination. Real locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, and institutions is completely coincidental.
Editor: Christopher Saylor at www.saylorediting.wordpress.com/services/
Cover Design: Deranged Doctor Design at www.derangeddoctordesign.com
Published December 2017 by Stronghold Books
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-988480-16-9
Print ISBN: 978-1-988480-17-6
Contents
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Also by Emily James
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Bonus Recipe: Maple Syrup Truffles
Letter from the Author
About the Author
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Also by Emily James
Maple Syrup Mysteries
Sapped: A Maple Syrup Mysteries Prequel
A Sticky Inheritance
Bushwhacked
Almost Sleighed
Murder on Tap
Deadly Arms
Capital Obsession
Tapped Out
Bucket List
End of the Line (coming February 2018)
For my dear friend Katie. It takes a lot of courage to do things your own way.
Worse than telling a lie is spending the rest of your life staying true to a lie.
Robert Brault
1
I wouldn’t have thought I was the type of person to be excited about a wooden door, but I almost felt like dancing in the frost-touched leaves when the door to the new historically-accurate sugar shack stayed open on its own.
Considering I’d almost died trapped inside the original sugar shack when it burned down, making sure that the door on the new one didn’t slide shut randomly had been a priority for me.
Russ slid it shut, then opened it again one more time.
Watching it made me feel like I could take a full breath for the first time after having the wind knocked out of me. I could finally set the fear that came with the memories of that day free.
“I made sure the contractor leveled the ground,” Russ said. “Even if the mechanism on the door gives out, gravity won’t be pulling it closed anymore.”
He waddled through the doorway, his barrel-shaped body rocking side to side more now than ever. His breathing wheezed. I doubted Russ had ever been a thin man, but he’d put on forty pounds since I’d met him a year ago.
He dropped into the nearest chair, and it groaned under him even though it was one of the few new items in the place. I’d spent the last two months sourcing period pieces to replace ones we’d lost in the fire. We’d finally be able to put the sugar shack back into our tours—which meant we’d be getting bookings from school groups again soon.
Russ leaned over his knees, but his wheezy breathing didn’t ease. The excitement drained out of me and left a trail of tension behind it.
I knelt down beside him. “Are you okay?”
He shook his head. “Just tired from the walk here.”
The walk here had taken us less than five minutes. As much as I didn’t want to spoil the joy of finally re-opening the historical sugar shack, maybe it was time I talked to Russ about his health.
The problem was I had no idea how to open a conversation like that. It seemed nosy to even think about it given how very private Russ tended to be. “Do you think maybe you should see a doctor?”
Russ grunted. “I’ve already seen one. He didn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know. Lose weight. Take my medications regular.”
Medications plural. The last I’d heard, Russ only took high blood pressure medication. “He put you on something new?”
“A few of the numbers on my blood test were high. But I’m nearly seventy. What does he expect?” He pointed across the room. “I had Dave set the tools up a little different from how they were before. He’s looking forward to running his first tour. He says meeting more people will help him create characters, whatever that means.”
Trying to distract me with Dave’s growing role at Sugarwood and his eccentricities as a writer weren’t going to work. “What new medications did he prescribe you?”
He got back to his feet with a groan. “You don’t need to worry about me.”
Clearly I did because it seemed he wasn’t worrying enough about himself. Maybe if he’d been only my business partner I could have agreed with him, but he wasn’t. He’d become like family. My Uncle Stan had been my only uncle, and I didn’t have any aunts. Russ had stepped into that role for me. The thought of losing him too made my chest hurt.
I followed him out of the sugar shack. “Just promise me you’re taking your meds at least.”
His gaze shifted to the side like he was trying to spot something he could distract me with.
My phone rang. If I didn’t know if wasn’t sentient, I would have suspected it of conspiring against me with Russ.
I swiped my finger across the screen. “This is Nikki.”
This conversation isn’t over, I mouthed to Russ.
The person on the other end of the line didn’t respond immediately. I knew they were still there, though. I could hear them breathing and sniffling. For a second, I thought it might be a prank call and I considered hanging up.
“Is this Nicole Fitzhenry-Dawes?” a vaguely familiar man’s voice said. “The one who was looking for a vintage 1800s maple syrup bucket?”
The timing was ideal. That bucket was the last piece we’d been missing. Not surprisingly, wooden items didn’t age as well as metal ones. I’d found many of the metal tools within the first few weeks. The large pots used to evaporate the sap had taken me longer. Buckets and wooden sap spires had been elusive.
I
’d finally turned to the curator-owner of the local chainsaw and logging museum for help. It seemed I’d been right to think he’d have sources that I didn’t.
“That’s me. Were you able to find one?”
“Yes, but…you’re also a lawyer, right? You said you used to defend people back in DC.”
That didn’t sound pertinent to my bucket, but I had told him that when he asked what brought me to the area. “That’s right.”
A sharp exhale. “I need to hire you. I think I need to hire you. The police are out at my place. I was hoping you could come.”
I wanted to exclaim what?! But I held it in.
Granted, you couldn’t tell if someone was a potential law-breaker by looking at them, but the curator of the logging museum—Clement Dodd—wouldn’t have even made my top ten list of people I’d suspect of committing a crime.
He was a big man and bearded like a lumberjack, but I had a suspicion he grew the beard because he ran a chainsaw and logging museum and he knew that sort of thing would make his establishment more memorable. It was the part he played. He’d also worn round glasses that looked too small for his face, and when I’d come into the museum, he’d been reading a book on the War of 1812.
The museum was his “early retirement,” he’d told me. Prior to moving back to Fair Haven, he’d curated larger museums and then taught college history classes for a few years. Even though I’d only come to ask for help locating a sap bucket, he’d taken me around the museum. He’d been prone to staring off into space like he forgot what he was saying, but his knowledge of each item had shamed me because I didn’t know half as much about my business when I’d been running tours last winter.
Hopefully, whatever had brought the police out to his museum turned out to be a misunderstanding. Given his line of work, the most likely cause was that some piece in his museum turned out to be stolen property. That could be a tricky situation, but if his records were as meticulous as I suspected they were, it should be easy enough to demonstrate that he’d purchased the item instead of stealing it and to argue that he didn’t know it was stolen.
“Since you’re not sure if you need to hire me,” I said, “how about you tell me what’s going on first?”
“May I tell you while you’re on your way?”
His voice was almost softer than mine. Soft voices were always harder to read than the average voice. They tended to hide fear a little better, in my experience. But I thought I might have caught a slight tremor.
It wouldn’t cost me anything more than a little gas to head in his direction. I could do that for him. He’d been so helpful in narrowing down exactly what type of sap bucket I was looking for and helping track one down.
“Sure.”
The chainsaw and logging museum was on the far opposite side of Fair Haven from Sugarwood, but I could swing around the outskirts of town, avoiding most of the stop signs and traffic lights.
I hurried back down the path toward my house where my car was parked. “It shouldn’t take me more than ten to fifteen minutes. You don’t have to answer any questions the police have until I get there as long as you tell them your lawyer is coming, but if you weren’t involved in whatever they’re investigating, then it’s a good idea to give them the information they ask for.”
There was enough of a hesitation that my palms started to sweat. Maybe I’d read him wrong, and he was involved in something criminal. But I was sure I’d told him in our conversation before that I didn’t want to defend people who were guilty anymore.
“What if I’m not sure?” he asked.
His voice had gone even softer, and I strained to hear him above the rustling of the last dry leaves still clinging to the trees overhead.
This wasn’t a time for misunderstandings. “You’re not sure you have anything useful to tell them?”
“I’m not sure whether I killed my employee or not.”
2
The words oh, crap didn’t seem nearly strong enough.
I picked up my pace to a near jog. It’d been one thing when I thought he might have accidentally purchased stolen goods. It was another thing entirely when the police were looking at him as a person of interest in a murder.
And how could he not know if he’d done it?
Though it was more likely that he did know and simply didn’t want me to refuse to help him because he’d done it. Either way, I’d help him out now and then pass him along to Anderson Taylor, another defense attorney in the area who I’d formed a friendship with a few months back. I didn’t defend guilty clients. Even if I was willing to, I wasn’t a good choice. Stage fright would have been too mild a way of describing what happened to me when I got in front of a jury.
I slid into my car and my phone synched to Bluetooth. “Did you tell the police that you aren’t sure?”
“No one’s asked me yet. I called you as soon as the police got here. They’re taking my wife’s statement now.”
So he wasn’t worried about his wife’s involvement or about them asking her questions.
I turned out of Sugarwood’s driveway and headed in the direction of the museum. The route only had two turns, so I didn’t even need my GPS. “Calling a lawyer before they’ve even spoken to you is going to make you seem guilty even if you’re not.”
“I couldn’t take the chance. My wife…she found me with his blood on my clothes, standing next to his body.”
Not good. That not only screamed guilty but liar as well if he claimed he didn’t know whether he’d killed his employee or not. I couldn’t turn this case over to Anderson soon enough. If I wasn’t on the phone with Clement, I might have called him right away.
As it was, my best option was to do damage control and make this easier for Anderson once he took over the case. “I need you to tell me—honestly—what happened. I need to be prepared when we talk to the police.”
“That’s what I’ve been telling you. I don’t know what happened.”
Unlike my last client, there wasn’t any hostility or snarkiness in Clement’s voice. It sounded more like hopelessness, like someone who’d given up.
I had a feeling I wasn’t going to be able to sort through this in one short phone call. And it was sounding more and more like the best plan was to stonewall the police and not answer any of their questions at all. “When the police come to talk to you, tell them you don’t want to answer any questions until your lawyer is present and that I’m already on my way.”
We disconnected and I instructed my phone to call Anderson. The call went to voice mail. I left a brief message.
I decided to bypass the turn I usually took onto a gravel road. It was the shorter path and more direct, but the speed limit on the paved road was faster. I should get there just as quickly as I normally did, but I wasn’t quite as comfortable driving my new car yet as I had been with my old one. The steering and brakes were both more sensitive. I’d never live it down if I landed my new car in the ditch less than a month after buying it. Tony, my mechanic, would make some joke about adding training wheels if I did.
By the time I got to the museum parking lot, it was full of official vehicles and Mark’s truck. In the last case I’d worked, I’d had the advantage of calling on Mark’s medical wisdom to look at the autopsy results. We’d technically be on opposite sides this time.
At least for the short time I’d be working the case.
I tamped down on the flutters in my stomach that felt a bit like fireflies in a jar. My stomach clearly didn’t realize that I wasn’t staying on this case. Because I wasn’t. Not even the lure of finally investigating something new after months of working entirely on Sugarwood business could make me take on a guilty client.
Clement sat outside the front of the museum on a chair carved out of a tree stump.
Troy Summoner, the youngest officer on the Fair Haven police force, stood next to him like a gargoyle guarding a castle, his arms crossed and his face stern.
Then again, Troy’s face always looked a little
on the stern side. He was like Keanu Reeves in that his expression rarely changed. His happy face was nearly indistinguishable from his unhappy face. Great for a police officer, but it probably wreaked havoc in his personal life. I could barely stand it when Mark wore sunglasses and I wasn’t able to see and interpret the expression in his eyes.
I could tell when Troy spotted me because he lowered his arms and nodded at me. “I didn’t know you were going to be his lawyer, Ms. Dawes.”
I let the Dawes part slide. Most people in Fair Haven found Fitzhenry-Dawes too much of a mouth-full. It would be so much easier when Mark and I married and I could change my last name to a simple Cavanaugh. I understood why my parents gave me the last name they did, but they hadn’t considered how hard it would be for people to say—or the added challenge it would create for me in filling out forms for that matter.
“I am,” I said to Troy. “Who’s in charge today?”
“Chief McTavish. I almost wish Sergeant Higgins and Officer Scott would stay away longer. I’ve been called into almost everything the past few days. I haven’t gotten this much experience since former Chief Wilson.”
Erik Higgins and Elise had surprised us all last month by declaring that they’d decided to get married in a small ceremony with only family and close friends. They’d taken a weekend away immediately after, and then a couple of days ago had headed off on a longer trip as a family. The situation with Elise’s ex-husband had made them take a close look at their relationship and their future.
