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

by Maggie Pill

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Faye

  I was almost ready to leave for the Meadows when I heard that gut-wrenching sound so familiar to pet owners. Buddy was throwing up in the hallway. He didn’t do it often, but I had to clean it up before Barb got home and gave me that look she gets.

  As I put away the bucket and sponge, my phone dinged, and I saw that I’d missed her call. When I read her message, I moved a little faster to get to the nursing home. At the last minute I saw Buddy sitting sadly in a doorway, obviously sorry he’d made a mess. “Want to go for a ride in the car, Bud?” I asked. His thumping tail was all the answer I needed. Buddy seems to feel better when he’s on the move.

  When I arrived, Glenda gave me an update on Harriet. “She’s in a pretty good mood today. Says her breakfast was served just the way she likes it.”

  “Great. I’ll see her later.” I headed for Clara’s room, but found only her roommate. I asked her where Clara was but she only shrugged. It jarred me to see the alarm from Clara’s ankle lying on her bedside stand. I went to find Glenda, who frowned when I asked where she might be.

  “I think everyone’s out of the dining hall.” Leading the way, she peered in to confirm it. “Visiting another patient, maybe.”

  “It’s important that I speak to her.” We split up, but when we returned to the nurses’ desk, neither of us had located Clara. “Let’s ask Sybil,” Glenda said.

  Sybil’s office was next to the outer doors, and she monitored the comings and goings at the Meadows as best she could while answering the phone, directing calls to the correct staff member, and completing general paperwork.

  “She left with someone this morning,” Sybil told us. “They were going to her niece’s visitation.”

  “Who?” I asked. Sybil flinched, and I realized I sounded like a Nazi interrogator. “I mean, who took Clara to the funeral home?”

  Scrabbling through the papers on her desk, Sybil consulted the sign-out sheet and looked up at me. “Signature’s illegible.”

  Which it was.

  Her round face took on an expression of concern. “Is something wrong?”

  “I hope not.”

  The description Sybil gave—a stooped, older woman with large sunglasses and a headscarf wearing a slightly worn, blue trench coat—was almost useless. I tried to tell myself it couldn’t have been Diane Landon, but when I called Barb, she reinforced my fears. “This time of year it’s a pretty easy disguise—coat collar up, hat, scarf, and sensible shoes. It’s Diane, all right.”

  Speaking quickly, she told me Stan Wozniak had learned that Diane Landon had visited her husband each of the times the credit card had been used to take cash from ATMs. “Twice each day,” Barb said. “Supposedly to bring him his lunch around eleven, and then later in the afternoon.” She sounded disgusted as she added, “The security guards apparently got a kick out of stuffy old Enright having a wife who missed him so much she kept stopping by during work hours.”

  “She took the credit card out of En’s wallet at lunchtime then put it back later in the day.”

  “It was probably as easy as ‘I need shopping money, dear,’ and taking his wallet to supposedly get cash. When she came back it would be, ‘I didn’t spend everything you gave me, so I’ll put it back.’ If the guy was busy, he probably paid no attention.”

  “Enright sounds like the perfect man for a scheming woman to hide behind.”

  “Stan says she often visits him at WOZ, too. She could have contacted Cold-Clear from there to make it look like the company was interested in a water deal. A proposal from an established enterprise would give the project authenticity.”

  I rubbed a hand across my forehead. “I can’t believe this. Retta keeps saying what a nice woman Diane is.”

  “Retta is easily won over by looks and charm, and Diane has been cultivating a friendship with her to find out what we know.” Barb didn’t sound judgmental, just tired.

  “If Diane is Gail’s silent partner, she’s a dangerous woman.”

  Barb made a sound of agreement. “Here’s what I found out from a cursory internet search. Diane Landon was a foster child from an early age. She moved from home to home for years but never stayed for long. People took in a pretty girl with a sweet smile but found out later she was prone to stealing, temper tantrums, and sleeping with neighborhood boys who had fast cars or a little spending money. She was released from the system at eighteen, arrested a couple of times for prostitution, and ended up in trouble for taking a john’s wallet.”

  “Let me guess—the judge felt sorry for her and put her into a work program.”

  “Right. They got her a job at the bottling plant in Zephyrhills, and the rest we know.” I heard a slurp as Barb finished whatever she was drinking.

  Fear had struck as Barb revealed Diane’s background, but I tried not to over-react. “Let me make a call. I’ll get back to you.”

  A few minutes later, I called Barb from outside the Meadows so no one could overhear. She’d resumed driving, and the echo-y sound told me she was using the hands-free feature. “I called the funeral home,” I told her. “Clara wasn’t at Gail’s visitation. If Diane took her, where could they be?”

  “She’s going to force her to sign over her land.”

  I made a negative sound. “She can’t believe she can still get away with her scheme.”

  “Why not? No one’s found proof of murder in the case of Caleb Marsh or Gail Sherman. Even if there was proof, we can’t show that Diane did it.”

  “But she’s going to make a great deal of money.”

  “Which isn’t a crime. She’ll pretend to be sad when she hears how aggressive Gail was about acquiring the land, but she’ll insist she was simply a silent financial partner.”

  “How could she force Clara to sell her the land, especially now that she hasn’t got Gail to help her?”

  “According to Michigan law she could write up a deed herself. If Clara signed it, Diane’s claim would be good.”

  “How does someone write up her own deed?”

  “She’d follow the format of the old deed to get the exact property description. She’d simply change the names: Clara would be the Grantor and Diane the Grantee.”

  “And once Clara signs it, the sale will be legal.” I heard fear in my own voice. “Barb, Diane hasn’t left anyone alive who could stand in the way of this deal. With Gail dead, there’s no one who will question the supposed sale. Diane can tell any story she likes if Clara isn’t around to contradict her.”

  Barb paused, and I pictured her pressing down harder on the accelerator. “We need to find Clara.”

  I was already trotting toward my car. “Call Rory and the sheriff. Tell them what’s happened.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Head out to Sweet Springs,” I replied. “If Diane needs the original deed, that’s where they’ll be.

  “Faye—”

  “Barb, as soon as Diane gets what she wants, Clara’s going to have some sort of accident.”

  “What are you going to do to stop it?”

  “I’ll slow Diane down until the cops arrive, and they can take it from there.”

  ***

  A silver Chevy Tahoe sat in Clara’s drive. The plate was from Michigan, but there was a Florida Gators sticker in the back window. I stopped my Escape on the lane, behind some trees so it wasn’t visible from the house. Buddy objected with a low growl when I left him behind, but I hissed a command for silence. He obeyed, though his eyes were wary.

  On tiptoe, I peered cautiously through a side window. Clara sat at her kitchen table with a box of papers on her lap. She was in profile, and the scene might have looked peaceful except for the taut line of her back and the fact that Diane Landon paced angrily behind her.

  “Where is it?” she demanded.

  “I don’t know.” Clara sounded tearful. “My late husband did all the filing. I’ve had no cause to look at the deed for years.” She sounded frightened, and my
heart broke for her.

  “Stupid old—” Diane stopped beside Clara and slapped her hard across the face. Taking a cast-iron skillet from its hook she threatened, “Five more minutes. If you haven’t found it by then, I’ll smack you with this and find the damned thing myself while you bleed out on the floor!”

  “I’m trying!” Clara seemed terrified.

  My mind buzzed, and I tried to calm the panic that rose in my chest. How could I get Clara away from that woman? If Diane saw me, she might kill strike Clara with the skillet before I could stop her.

  “Here it is.” Clara took some papers backed with a blue sheet from the box and handed it over.

  Diane turned away from me for a moment, scanning the deed. Taking advantage of her distraction, I waved a hand to get Clara’s attention. Though she seemed for a moment to glance in my direction, she made no sign she’d seen me. Probably too terrified to notice anything but the threat standing over her.

  Turning away from the window, I continued around the house. Could I get in the back door and come up behind Diane?

  No. It was locked. The windows in the old house were much too high off the ground for me to climb in, even if one of them happened to be unlatched. I turned, set my back against the rough-sawn siding, and tried to think.

  From my new vantage point I faced the chicken coop, and, looking at the small enclosure, an idea formed. It depended on some luck, a little speed, and my dog. I knew I could count on him, and I thought I could be fast enough. That left the luck part.

  Staying low, I approached Diane’s car and looked inside. At least that much luck was with me. She’d tossed her keys onto the front seat when she got out. Opening the door with painstaking caution, I took the keys and moved away in a crouch. Hurrying back to my own car, I took Buddy out, whispering to him to stay quiet in my arms. He knew something was up, and being a very smart dog, cooperated. We went around the back of Clara’s house to the chicken pen, where I opened the gate as wide as possible. I tossed Diane’s car keys to the far side, hitting the spot I’d chosen with satisfying accuracy. Setting Buddy on the ground I whispered, “Sic ’em, boy! Go get ’em!”

  Short legs pumping, the dog scooted into the pen. I scampered for the back of the house—well, as fast as an overweight fifty-something can scamper.

  Buddy didn’t understand the danger Clara was in, didn’t comprehend my motives, but he got that he was allowed—even encouraged—to chase those chickens. In seconds the area behind me sounded like all twelve birds were being slaughtered at once. I knew my dog well enough to recognize that while he loved chasing the chickens, he had no intention of hurting them. Buddy was providing the distraction I needed to rescue Clara. Since they didn’t know our purpose, the hens and their rooster reacted with typical poultry panic.

  Crouching behind the woodpile, I waited for Diane to come out to see what the ruckus was about. Sure enough, she stepped out the front door and onto the porch. She couldn’t see the pen from there, and the squawks and snarls continued. A large hen ran full-throttle past Diane’s feet, turned, and with no common sense whatsoever, ran back the way she’d come.

  Diane called to Clara, “You can’t outrun me, so don’t even try.” Descending the three steps, she peered around the corner. Buddy happily chased here and there, and the chickens, not-so-happily, stayed in front of him.

  “Stop that, dog!” Diane shouted. “Shoo! Get out of here!”

  That must have been when she saw what I’d tossed onto the ground inside. “What the—”

  I crawled closer, leaving Dale’s neat woodpile for the shelter of Clara’s wheelbarrow, overturned on the grass beside the garden. I smelled the remains of the barrow’s last load, chicken manure. Ignoring it, I timed my attack carefully. It wouldn’t take Diane long to step into the pen and retrieve her keys.

  Stopping to look around every few steps, Diane saw only Buddy and his reluctant playmates. With a last look around and a grunt of irritation, she entered the pen, hopping to sidestep piles of manure as best she could. When she stooped to pick up the keys I rushed in, kicked her once in the rear, and retreated. Diane sprawled in the dirt, sputtering a curse. When she turned, I was already closing the gate on her.

  She called me things I’d never heard anyone say out loud before. I don’t swear myself, but being an avid reader, I do know all the words.

  I fastened the gate closed by tying it with twine, putting several knots in and jerking each as tight as I could before adding another.

  As I worked, Diane clawed at me through the chicken wire, snarling like an angry bear. “You! Stop that! Let me out of here!”

  Not bothering to answer, I left her and hurried to the house, where Clara was coming down the steps. “Good job, Faye!” she called. Her face was red from the blow she’d taken, which made me want to catch the rooster and put him into the cage with Ms. Landon. It would be interesting to see how Diane fared against a creature both willing and able to fight back.

  Since that wasn’t possible I said, “Clara, my car is out by your mailbox. Get in it and wait for me.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to get you away from here, but I have to get my dog first.”

  Buddy had tired of his game, and when I called, he turned and ran toward me. “We have to go, Bud, but you were great.”

  Hearing a snarl, I looked toward the pen. Diane was working on the knots, kicking at the gate every few seconds in frustration. Chicken wire is tough, and I tie pretty good knots. She was going to have to settle down and work to get out of there.

  Clara was putting on her seat belt when Buddy and I reached the car. Scooting him into the back seat, I got in, turned the car around, and got us headed in the direction of Allport.

  “Are you all right, Clara?”

  “I think so. I was so pleased when I saw you in the window.”

  “I didn’t know if you did.” Slightly relieved that we were heading in the right direction I said, “I’m sorry I had to upset your chickens. They probably won’t lay again for days.”

  “They’re tough girls, like you and me.” She frowned. “I just hope that woman doesn’t notice there’s a little trapdoor next to the coop. In nice weather I open it up and let the girls come and go as they please. She can get out that way, as long as she doesn’t mind crawling on her belly.”

  Certain Diane would do anything to get out of there and get at us, I pressed harder on the accelerator. “My sister called the police. They should be on the way.”

  “How did you know where to find me?”

  “I didn’t, really, but when you weren’t at the Meadows and you weren’t at Gail’s memorial, I guessed you were in danger.”

  “You really are good at your job, and I’m very grateful for that.” Clara touched the spot where Diane had hit her. “I stalled as long as I could, playing the dotty old lady.”

  “You knew where the deed was all along?”

  She raised one white brow at me. “Of course, dear. It doesn’t pay to be sloppy with important documents.”

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Barb

  Driving too fast for US-23, I called Rory and told him where Faye was headed. He was dialing Sheriff Brill on his other line even as he tried to reassure me. “We’re on the way, Barb.”

  “I’m getting close. I’ll meet you out there as soon as I can.”

  When I ended the call, my phone rang almost immediately. The caller ID informed me it was Retta.

  “I’m back in Michigan, and wait till I tell you what I heard.”

  “Later, Retta. Faye’s out at Clara’s, and she might be in trouble.” Quickly I told her what had happened.

  “Why did she go off by herself?” she demanded. “Doesn’t she know we’re dealing with a killer?”

  “You know Faye.” I bit my lip. “When someone’s in trouble, she’s got to help.”

  “Even if it’s dangerous,” Retta agreed. “The girl doesn’t use her head sometimes.”

 
“I know.”

  “I’m getting into my car now,” she told me. “I’ll be on the road to Sweet Springs in ten seconds.”

  “I’ll see you out there.”

  Chapter Forty-nine

  Faye

  I drove faster by far than was usual for me, but not recklessly. The road back to Allport was twisty, constructed to skirt farm properties back in the day when farmers had a say in such things. As we traveled I recalled Barb, Dale, Retta, and I stopping along here to admire the view. I hadn’t met Clara Knight then, and I’d had no idea she and I would be speeding along this road less than two weeks later, hoping we’d escaped a killer.

  We hadn’t. Suddenly there was a vehicle behind us—too close. A second after I noticed it, we were rammed. My car lurched to the side, bouncing off the guardrail with a screech of metal. Clara grabbed for the handle above the door. I gripped the steering wheel and pressed the gas pedal hard, pulling away.

  It worked for a few seconds, but the bigger vehicle caught up with us and smashed into the back of my car again. I felt my spine react as the wave of the impact traveled up it, whipping my neck. Clara made a soft “Oh!” of protest.

  Diane Landon’s face showed in my rear-view mirror, and her Tahoe loomed over my car like a hawk chasing down a sparrow. The road curved ahead, tracing the drop-off that overlooked the hay field. If I didn’t get around the curve before Diane came alongside, she could force my car over the guardrail and send it tumbling down the hillside.

  My smaller engine was no match for the monster she drove, so I couldn’t outrace her. I had to outwit her.

  Clara’s face was white, but she made no sound as I did what I could to foil Diane’s attempts to wreck us. When she lunged our way, I hit the brake. When she slowed to correct her steering, I sped up again. I didn’t know how long I could keep it up, but we remained on the road—terrified, perhaps doomed, but alive.

  After falling behind for a few seconds, Diane pulled out again and came alongside my car. The scenario she would invent flashed through my mind. She and Clara had worked out a property deal. I’d come along and offered to drive Clara back to the Meadows. Somehow on the way we had a terrible accident. All she had to do was get rid of her damaged car somehow, and she was inventive enough to manage that. Who could prove she was lying once Clara and I were dead?