Sleuthing at Sweet Springs (The Sleuth Sisters Mysteries Book 4)

by Maggie Pill

  “I’m Retta Stilson, from the Smart Detective Agency.” I offered a business card. “Is Mr. Landon here?”

  “My husband isn’t home from work yet.” Her head tilted slightly as she looked me over. “What’s this about?”

  “We’re hoping to draw on his expertise about water rights.”

  A tiny frown came and went on her high forehead. “En said someone asked him about that the other day at work.”

  “My sister. At the time we were seeking general information. Now we have more specific questions.”

  “I see.” She thought for a moment then glanced at the clock. “He called half an hour ago to see what I wanted him to bring home for dinner. He should be along any minute.” Stepping aside, she opened the door wider. “I’m Diane Landon. You’re welcome to come in and wait.”

  “Thank you.”

  Leading the way to a living room with a cathedral ceiling and lots of brass, Mrs. Landon indicated I should sit down. I chose a cream-colored settee in a smooth microfiber fabric, and she took the chair closest to it, adjusting the gray tunic dress she wore over pumpkin-colored leggings.

  “I’m sorry to have come at your dinner hour.”

  She waved away my apology. “Our dinners are late because En has been working every night until at least six. This is the first chance Mr. Wozniak has had to come north since En signed on, so they’ve spent a lot of time together.” She raised perfectly groomed brows. “I guess there’s lots to discuss about WOZ Industries and water quality in Lake Huron.”

  “I’m sure the new job is demanding,” I said, adding with a smile, “I know Stanley pretty well.”

  She murmured something non-committal, and I went on. “May I ask how you came to Michigan from—Florida, wasn’t it?”

  “Zephyrhills.”

  “Right. Where the bottled water comes from.”

  She smiled. “Yeah, water certainly put that town on the map.”

  “Your husband worked at a bottling plant there?”

  “We both did. It’s how we met.” She smiled. “Of course I was on the line, and he was up in the management stratosphere.”

  A picture came to mind: Enright Landon in an office overlooking the factory floor, glancing down and spotting the lovely Diane below. If she’d given him her Mona Lisa smile, it was no surprise he’d somehow closed the distance between them. It looked like things had worked out for both of them.

  “It must be quite a change for your husband to go from water quality oversight to working for a stone quarry.”

  “I suppose.” She shrugged off the idea of interest in WOZ and her husband’s place there. “En wanted to try something new, and we heard Michigan has a nice climate.”

  Would she still believe that after a year in Allport? Though I loved snow and winter sports, our winters are long. Until we got involved in criminal investigation, I’d spent a couple of months each winter at my second home in Florida.

  Sounds of entry came from somewhere out of sight and a second later a man spoke. “Wait a second!” I guessed his comment was to a dog, since I heard the click of claws on the tile floor. A man appeared and set his briefcase, coat, and a large Applebee’s bag on a side table. A Bassett hound bounded into the room and greeted Diane enthusiastically.

  “Jolie!” she said joyfully. “Daddy brought you home to Mommy!”

  “The vet’s office texted to say she was ready, and I thought I’d pick her up on the way to save you a trip.” Seeing me in his living room, Landon froze, unsure how to react. Since Diane and the dog were busy, I rose and introduced myself.

  “Margaretta Stilson, Mr. Landon. Most people call me Retta.”

  “Pleased to meet you.” Barbara’s description of Landon as the stereotypical scientist was spot on. He’d taken off the glasses she mentioned, but I could still see the two red marks where they’d rested on either side of his nose. He seemed unable to look directly at me, and his eyes darted around the room as if seeking some talisman to provide courage.

  The smell of food wafted toward me, something spicy, I thought. After a brief, embarrassed pause Diane asked, “Would you like to have supper with us?”

  “I’ve already eaten,” I lied, “but I don’t want to keep you from your meal.”

  “I’ll set things out while you ask En your questions,” Diane volunteered, taking up the food bag. The dog followed eagerly, its oversized ears dragging against the surface of the rug. “Come on, Jolie, Mommy will find a treat for you.”

  Her departure made her husband even more nervous. Perched on the edge of the one hard chair in the room, he looked like a kid brought to the principal’s office. “What is it you want to know, Ms. Stilson?”

  “My sister says you were kind enough to explain how a lake becomes a source for bottled water. Now we’re wondering if a specific lake called Sweet Springs might be suitable for such a project.”

  Landon studied the wall behind my left shoulder. “I don’t know the place.”

  I gave him the general location and told him what Faye and Barbara had discovered about its qualities. Slightly more comfortable with a subject within his expertise, he listened carefully, even glancing at me once or twice. “We’ve learned it’s a Zone A source,” I finished, “and we think someone might be planning to exploit it.”

  Something flickered in Landon’s face. “Exploit is the word.”

  Surprised, I asked, “You don’t approve?”

  “To be honest, Ms. Stilson, the work I was doing in Florida made me sick. Putting a pure natural resource into plastic bottles and selling it to clueless, spoiled consumers is the worst sort of waste.” Landon no longer seemed shy, and it was clear he wasn’t objective on the subject.

  I resolved right then to cut down on buying bottled water, at least a little.

  “You’ve never been out to Sweet Springs, Mr. Landon?”

  He frowned like a robot who’d had been asked if it liked daisies. “To tell you the truth, since we moved here I haven’t seen much except the quarry and my office.”

  “Has anyone at WOZ mentioned Sweet Springs to you?”

  “Not that I recall.” He smoothed his beard absently. “I’m not very good at socializing.” He smiled ever so slightly. “Diane says my head is always somewhere else.”

  If he was telling the truth, Enright Landon wasn’t likely to be Gail Sherman’s confederate. But looking at his blank expression, I couldn’t help but wonder if anyone was as stereotypically nerdish as this. I tried to see past the beard and judge if he was playing a role, but it was difficult, since he looked mostly at the floor.

  “You believe bottled water is a bad idea?”

  His manner turned pedantic. “Of course there are legitimate uses for it, such as in disaster areas. But for everyday purposes? The bottles clog landfills, and energy is wasted in processing something that comes out of most people’s taps.” He shook his head in anger. “I couldn’t be part of it anymore.”

  “So you moved to Michigan.”

  He glanced at me for half a second. “The job here came along at precisely the right time.”

  “With WOZ.” I shifted my feet. “How’s that working out?”

  “Mr. Wozniak has an excellent grasp of business, but he needs someone like me to handle the ever-expanding governmental regulations and environmental concerns at the quarry.” That sounded like it had come directly from the job description.

  “And you and Stanley get along all right?”

  “Mr. Wozniak says I’m the perfect employee.” Landon sounded proud. “I guess I don’t have much of an ego.”

  “I keep telling Enright he’s too nice.” Stepping into the doorway with a bit of chicken in her hand, Diane spoke to the dog. “Jump, baby! Jump!”

  Jolie obeyed, but Diane held the meat just out of her reach. Ears flapping, the dog tried again, causing a musical, three-tone laugh from Diane. “Jump, baby!”

  When she’d had enough entertainment, Diane let the dog have the meat. “She likes it when we pla
y with her.”

  “They do love attention,” I replied. “My Newf loves to play.”

  “A Newfoundland! How big?”

  I rattled off Styx’s height and weight, and Diane oohed with appreciation. “I’ll bet walking a dog that size is a workout.”

  “True. Sometimes he walks me and other times he runs me.”

  “Where do you take him?” she asked. “I don’t like walking in the development where it’s all concrete and cars. The lakeshore is nice, but I’d like to find places with trees where Jolie can explore a little.”

  “I know lots of places like that.”

  Diane asked shyly, “Could you show us sometime? I don’t know anyone here, and En’s always at work. I’m alone a lot.”

  Loving a dog is always a sign of a kind heart. Diane had experienced life outside Allport, Michigan, which would be refreshing. And she obviously needed a friend.

  “I’d be glad to pick you and Jolie up tomorrow around ten, if you’re free. I can show you a couple of good places to walk, and then we can let Jolie explore my favorite nature path with Styx.”

  “That would be great.”

  I rose. “Now I’ll get out of here so you two can have your dinner. Thanks for your help, Enright, and Diane, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  ***

  Rick was waiting when I got to the Southside Club. He rose to take my coat, telling me I looked beautiful and audibly sniffing my perfume as he leaned over to push in my chair. I ordered a glass of wine, while he asked for a refill on his gin and tonic. I also ordered deep-fried mushrooms to serve as my supper. Someone nearby had some, and the nutty, oily smell reminded me I was hungry.

  “Did all go well at your business meeting?” Rick asked.

  “I think so.” I knew better than to tell who I’d met with, so I left it at that.

  “Is your detective agency pretty active?”

  I shrugged. “We stay busy.”

  “Lots of little old ladies who’ve lost their cats?”

  Uncomfortable, I lowered my eyes to the tabletop. “We’ve solved a couple of murders, found a person who was missing for years, stopped drug dealers from killing an innocent man, and prevented a terrorist attack on Mackinac Island.”

  “Really.” Now his tone irritated me. “The police didn’t have anything to do with it?”

  “I didn’t say that. We work with the police, and I think they respect our skills as much as we respect theirs.”

  “That’s cool.” Rick had picked up on something in my tone, and he switched topics. “What do people do around here in the wintertime, when all the tourists go home?”

  “I like to snowmobile,” I replied.

  He made a mock shiver. “Don’t you get cold?”

  “Not if you dress for it, and it’s really beautiful out in the woods.” An image of Lars piloting my spare sled came to mind. Despite the fact that he’d lived in a warm climate most of his life, he’d taken to snow and riding the trails like he was born to it. When we weren’t being shot at, Lars and I had a great time on the trails together.

  The ice in Rick’s drink clinked as he took a sip. “I’ll have to come back in January and let you introduce me to the sport.”

  “I’d be glad to,” I responded, “but what if your house sells? You won’t have a place to stay.”

  “Maybe I’ll have a friend I can bunk with by then.” The message was clear, and I lowered my eyes demurely. This thing—if it was going to become a thing—would proceed on my timetable, not Rick’s.

  Once again aware that a shift was required, he asked, “So what’s with your sister and the local cop?”

  “Rory? They’re enough alike that they make a good pair.”

  “Meaning he’s not very warm and fuzzy either?”

  He had Barbara Ann pegged. “That about sums it up.”

  “I suppose they trade information on crimes and stuff.”

  “When it’s appropriate.” I had to giggle. “Barbara Ann never does anything that isn’t appropriate.”

  That was when the fight broke out. I didn’t see it coming, but we learned later what led up to it. Colin Belknap is a regular at the Southside. He usually doesn’t bother anyone, just drinks himself into a stupor every night. Since he lost his driver’s license and his wife long ago, he stumbles the few blocks back to his home several nights a week after midnight, no threat to anyone but himself. Clem Hiller, also a big drinker, sat next to Colin at the bar that night. Clem’s name is actually Ronald, but he resembles a character created by Red Skelton decades ago, Clem Kadiddlehopper, so hardly anyone calls him Ron.

  The argument had to do with stock car racing and a new rule put into place to protect drivers. Their disagreement led to a shove and then to punches. A well-placed blow from Colin sent Clem stumbling backward, where he smacked into our table, skidded across it like he was on an ice rink, and landed with a grunt of surprise on the floor on the other side. In passing, his steel-toed boot caught Rick on the chin, splitting it open like a squeezed grape.

  “Oh, my god!” Rick shouted as blood dripped onto the table. “Oh, my god!”

  The barmaid bellowed like an angry elk at the two brawlers, and the fight, such as it was, was over. Picking himself up from the floor, Clem leaned toward Rick, peering through the haze in his head. “That looks bad, man. You better put pressure on it.”

  Colin came over and stood beside Clem. “Here, buddy.” He offered a dingy handkerchief, but I had already grabbed some napkins from the bar.

  “Are you all right, Rick?”

  “No, I’m not all right. I’m bleeding.” His tone was nasty, but I knew he wasn’t mad at me. Nobody expects to be sweet-talking one minute and dripping hemoglobin the next.

  Needless to say, our romantic evening was over. After accompanying Rick to the ER and waiting while he got three stitches, I drove him home. The officers who responded to the bartender’s call had recognized me, and they couldn’t have been nicer. After they put Colin in the cruiser and sent Clem home with a sober friend, they offered to drop Rick’s car off at his house. When we got there the keys were in the mailbox, as promised.

  I saw Rick inside and created an ice pack out of a zipper bag and some freezer-burnt green beans I found in the fridge. Once that was done, I left him sprawled on his couch. He hardly noticed when I closed the door. All the romance had gone out of him, and Rick was just a guy with a big old boo-boo.

  I drove back toward town, but the to-do at the bar, the police siren, and the whole emergency room experience had left my ears ringing and my eyes seeing spots. I doubted I’d be able to get to sleep when I got home, so I drove around for a while to relax a littel. Passing the development where the Landons lived, I turned in on a whim. Night made everything look different, and it was fun to speculate on why the lights were on in one house but not in another.

  The sidewalks were empty, which made sense on a cool night in a place like Huron Delight. People had already walked their dogs, put out the trash, and done the yard work. The hours after ten were for being inside, watching TV or surfing the net.

  I didn’t intentionally turned down the Landons’ street—or maybe I did and didn’t recognize my own curiosity. I slowed when I came to their house, noting a single light in an upstairs room, a flickering blue that was probably a TV.

  As I passed, I noticed there was someone out, a young man with what appeared to be a scraggly beard. It was hard to tell, because his face was buried in the deep hood of his jacket. His outfit was pretty much black with black, jeans, jacket, shoes, the works. He was walking in a hurried, hunched manner, and when he saw me he stopped. After a second he dug in his pockets and came up with cigarettes and a lighter. I’d come almost to a stop, but I realized I couldn’t just sit there staring. As I passed, he turned away, apparently to block the wind as he lit his cigarette. I got the impression of youth, some homeowner’s teenaged son, perhaps, who’d sneaked out at night to smoke. I went around the block and came back to try to get a better look, bu
t he was gone.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Barb

  When I first retired to Allport, my walks had been solitary and always early in the day. Though I still liked a brisk walk in the cool (sometimes cold) of morning, Rory and I had begun meeting after his shift ended on Wednesdays and Fridays at a small park just north of town, where we walked the lakeshore together. We’d fallen into a pattern of pushing it on the way out to get our metabolism up then taking it easy on the way back so we could talk. Afterward we sometimes spent the evening together; other times we returned to our separate homes.

  I told Rory Faye’s theory about the events on Sweet Springs. “It’s troubling,” I told him as we traced the water’s edge, “I hate to upset the Marsh family, but if there’s a possibility that old man didn’t die by accident, I want to know about it.”

  One of the most lovable things about Rory was that he trusted my judgment, possibly because of my years of experience as an assistant District Attorney. If I said something needed looking into, he took it seriously. “I’ll ask Doc Cortman about it,” he offered.

  “Thank you.”

  He put an arm around my shoulders. “Anything for a friend.”

  ***

  The next day Rory called to report his findings. “The medical examiner can only say for sure that Mr. Marsh died from the fall.”

  I sighed. “I was afraid of that.”

  “However,” Rory sounded pleased with himself, “the sheriff’s men found evidence that someone was at Marsh’s place that morning, after the rain but before your arrival.”

  “Evidence?”

  “There was a muddy footprint on the bottom step of the front porch. According to your statements, none of you went to the door, and the print is smaller than Marsh’s.”

  “That means someone might have been with him—”

  “Might is the operative term. Someone might also have come to the door, knocked, and when there was no answer, left.”