“Okay. Good.” Erin held out a book. “This is what that lady in the picture reminded me of.”
I put the photo I’d been holding face down on the counter and took the slim volume. It was a book on birds of prey, open to a section about merlins. My eyebrows knitted as I skimmed the text and noted the depiction of a small, hook-beaked face with dark eyes looking out at me.
“I don’t get it.”
Erin said, “She told me all about those little birds. Is that who you found, Mom? Is that a picture of a dead person?”
Meghan frowned and picked up the photo again. Her eyes roved over it, drinking in details she couldn’t bear to look at ten minutes earlier. Erin edged closer, but Meghan automatically held it so her daughter wouldn’t get another look at the “dead person.”
“Geesh, you don’t have to be so weird about it. With Sophie Mae around, one of these days I’ll be the one to find a body.”
I pulled her to my side and put my hand over her grinning mouth. “Hush, you little imp.”
She shook her head. “Mmmph.”
“Bug, where do you remember her from?” Meghan asked.
I removed my hand from Erin’s mouth but not my grip on her shoulder, and she said, “Didn’t you give her massages? Afternoons after I got home from school?”
A new light sparked in Meghan’s eyes. “Oh, my God. I think you might be right. That was what? Four years ago, at least. Maybe five. And she only came to me a couple times.”
I could barely contain my glee. I might have a clue for Barr after all!
My housemate went on. “She didn’t look like this, though. Her hair was longer, and lighter. She used to be heavier, too.”
“But who is she?” Doing my best to tamp down my impatience.
“Well, if Erin’s right, she was some kind of ornithologist. I sure don’t remember.” She put the picture back on the counter and came over to us. Ruffling her daughter’s hair, she said, “How on earth did you remember her from that one glimpse you had of the picture?”
Erin shrugged under my palms. “She talked to me about those birds. The little hunters.”
I squeezed her shoulders. “You’ve been a big help, Bug. Really big.”
“Okay. Good.” She twisted in my grasp. “Will you let go of me now? I need to meet Zoe so we can work on her 4-H project, and I’m late.”
I released my grip, and she was out the door. I turned back to her mother. “So she was an ornithologist—a bird lady—who liked to get massages. But what’s her name?”
The smile dropped from Meghan’s face. She looked at me helplessly. “I don’t have the vaguest clue.”
Eight
I called Barr while Meghan went into her office to go through her files hoping to recognize a name that would go with the picture. He didn’t answer—probably in the middle of interviewing that potential detective—so I left the information about the ornithology connection on his voicemail. “Sorry, no name yet, though. I’m still planning to go out to the farm and talk to the members. Call me when you get a chance.”
Frustrated, I cleaned up the kitchen and did the breakfast dishes. How could I find out who the bird lady was? Search online for “Washington State ornithologist”? Well, it couldn’t hurt.
“Hey, Sophie Mae! How’s it going?”
I turned to find Cyan Waters standing in the doorway at the top of the stairs that led down to the basement. Several months previously I’d given her a key to the back door, which greatly simplified the way we coordinated our schedules. She wore blue shorts and a T-shirt that said Smile—It’s Free. Kalie hovered on the step behind her.
“Hey, yourself. Is it eight already?” I shot a glance at the clock. Sure enough, straight up eight.
“Yep. Whatcha got for us today?”
“Lip balms and foot scrub. Hi, Kalie.”
The thin, quiet brunette behind Cyan sketched a shy wave. “Hi.”
“How many?” Cyan asked, bouncing on the balls of her feet.
“Half a gross of lemon lip balms and half a gross of cinnamon. Sixty jars of peppermint foot scrub. And do me a favor? Put the pickup sign out front so UPS Joe knows to stop. I put all the outgoing boxes by the back door. Oh, and here’s his usual bribe.” I dropped three oatmeal cookies in a bag and held it out to her. UPS Joe liked sweet treats, and I liked not having to haul boxes out to the front of the house.
“Okey dokey.” She grabbed the bag with a grin and turned to go back downstairs. Kalie had already disappeared from view.
“I’ll be down in a sec to get you started.”
She turned back. “That’s okay. I mean, unless you’ve got something else you’re working on, we can take care of the lip balms and scrub. No problem.”
I hesitated, doing battle with my inner control freak. She didn’t really need supervision for everyday production. Heck, once she’d run Winding Road for a whole week by herself.
“Thanks, Cyan. And I love your hair. When did you do that?”
She grinned. “Yesterday. Thanks!”
“That was the color of my wedding gown, you know.”
“No kidding? Cool!” And with a toss of her aubergine locks she clattered down the stairs.
She was my right-hand woman when it came to Winding Road. Efficient, effective, and a hard worker, she could do pretty much everything except the books. And did. She’d even suggested I hire Kalie, who, though she was timid, worked hard and did a good job.
I finished mopping up after the pancakes I’d missed out on and went upstairs to take a shower.
_____
“Any luck?” I asked my housemate.
My online search had netted me a big fat nothing. The Washington State Ornithological Society had photos but no member list. None of the birders looked like our dead woman. There was no guarantee she would have joined the society anyway, but at least it was an avenue Barr or Sergeant Zahn could follow up if I didn’t have any luck determining the identity of the compost, er, bird lady.
Meghan looked up from where she hunched over her desk. “I skimmed my files from four and five years ago, hoping the name alone would spark a memory, but it didn’t.”
“Do you think Erin could be wrong?”
She shrugged. “I’d wonder if I didn’t remember the woman at all. But that kid has practically got a photographic memory, and I do recall that face. Sort of. Now I’m going through each file one by one to see if I can remember any particular physical complaints.”
“That’s good,” I said. “But let’s put that on hold. I have another idea.”
She sat back and waited.
“I want to show everyone two photos.”
She raised her eyebrows in question.
“You said the bird lady looked a lot different four-five years ago, right?”
“Uh, huh.”
“And you haven’t run into her since then.”
She grimaced.
“Alive, I mean.”
“No. Not to the best of my knowledge.”
“So maybe she lived in the area, left, and then came back. Maybe Jake or Bette knew her then, too. Maybe even Ruth. However, like you, they didn’t recognize her because she looks different. What we need is another photo that shows what she looked like then.”
She nodded. “Okay. But where do you propose getting the new photo?”
“From Bette Anders.” Our friend Bette, the potter, made a decent living with her clay artistry, having built a good name and loyal clientele. “She was at the farm when you found the body, and Barr showed her the autopsy photo last night. So we wouldn’t inadvertently compromise the investigation if we asked for her help,” I said.
Meghan had changed into a coral-toned calico dress that set off her eyes, and now she leaned back in her chair and smoothed the skirt. “I still don’t get it.”
“You know those clay masks she sculpts? She told me she uses facial manipulation software to work out ideas, since the masks are based on photos of real people. See, I want to scan this pic
ture—” I waved the one in my hand. “—so we have a digital copy. Then take it to Bette and have her use her whippy software to change the face to reflect the way your bird lady looked four years ago.”
She looked skeptical. “That sounds like a lot of trouble.”
“Meghan, I really, really want to find out who she was. I’m willing to try anything.”
Her head tipped to one side. “All right. Go for it. I don’t have a client for a few hours, so I’ll continue to plod through these.” She waved at the stack of folders on one side of her desk. “That way we’ll be coming at the problem from two fronts.”
For someone who was dead set against my getting involved, my housemate was pretty willing to get involved her own self. Interesting.
“I like your thinking except for one problem,” I said.
“What?”
“I don’t know what she used to look like. You do. You have to come with me to give Bette some direction.”
“Hmm.” The idea didn’t please her, but then she seemed to make a decision. “Well, I don’t even know what I’m looking for here. Nothing seems to be jogging my memory.” She closed the file that was open on her desk. “When do you want to go?”
“She’s an early riser. I bet she’s hard at work now. I’ll give her a call.”
“Are you sure you should interrupt her?”
“I wouldn’t bother her if it weren’t for a good cause,” I said. “And I saw her face at the farm yesterday. She was horrified. I bet she’ll be happy to help.”
At least I hoped so.
_____
The phone rang five times before Bette picked up. I apologized for calling so early.
“No problem,” she said. “You know me. I’ve been up for hours.”
“Well, I’m about to interrupt your morning even more, if you’ll let me.”
“Egg delivery?” Bette was one of Erin’s regular customers.
“No. I mean, sure, I can bring over a dozen if you want them, but I’m in need of a favor. You know that software you told me about a while back? Where you can manipulate facial features?”
“… yeah.”
“I was hoping you might perform some of your magic on a photo for me.”
“Um, sure. When were you thinking—”
“How about right now? Meghan and I can be there in five minutes.”
“Uh, okay …”
“Great! See you in a few.”
She was saying goodbye as I hung up. Dang it, Kelly was right. This investigating stuff was kind of exciting. I didn’t dare hope this little scheme would work though.
Oh, poo, I thought as I went downstairs. I did too hope it would work. After quickly checking in on the girls—who had already finished pouring the lemon lip balms and had moved on to melting beeswax for the cinnamon ones—I scanned the picture into the computer in my workroom. Then I copied it to a flash drive, shut off the monitor, and went back up to the kitchen.
“Meghan!” I slipped the drive into my pocket. “Are you ready?”
_____
Bette lived alone in the middle of the next block on our street. Well, alone except for Alexander, her German shepherd. He sat on the front porch, regal and still as a stone as we entered through the gate and closed it behind us. It wasn’t until we reached the bottom step that his jaws stretched in a wide yawn, ending in a toothy grin. Rising, his brushy tail swept back and forth a few times before he trotted down to greet Brodie. Old friends, they nosed each other. Then Alexander ducked down on his forepaws, his behind in the air, an invitation to play. Brodie let out a yip and ran at him, ready to give it a go despite his creaky old joints.
Moments later Bette appeared on the other side of the screen door, wiping her hands on a rag. “Hey, you two. Come on in.”
We left Brodie in the fenced yard with Alexander. Inside, I held out the dozen eggs I’d remembered to grab from the fridge at the last minute. She took them with a smile. “Thanks! Let me get my wallet.” Her deep voice resonated in the tiny entryway.
I waved her offer of money away. “Consider it a favor for a favor. I’ll settle up with Erin.”
“Hard to argue with that.”
We followed her down the short hallway to what in most homes would have been the living room. Bette wasn’t most people, though, and had transformed the big square space into a studio. She’d expanded the windows in the two exterior walls to let in as much natural light as possible. Another wall was floor to ceiling shelves crowded with masks and pots and free-form sculptures in various stages of creation. Four tables in the main room each held a different project, an electric potter’s wheel sat in one corner, and large, plastic-wrapped blocks of clay and buckets of the slimy mixture of clay and water called slip marched down another wall.
The space around the windows was covered with finished masks. Most were caricatures, some funny and some edging on harsh. A few were quite realistic, though, almost looking like they’d respond if you spoke to them. The place vibrated with her talent and creativity.
The doorway to the kitchen had been enlarged so the two rooms flowed into each other, and I could see the kitchen table piled with bottles and jars, along with sponges and brushes for applying paints and glazes. Bette had installed an industrial sink at one end, opposite the regular sink she presumably used for such mundane tasks as washing vegetables and dishes.
Despite the brightly lit rooms, every time I entered Bette’s house I had the impression I’d somehow gone underground. It smelled like I imagined the center of the earth would, like clay and dirt with a metallic undertone of the minerals in so many of the glazes she used. This morning the aromas of toast and coffee also rode the air, fitting oddly into the rest of the atmosphere. A basket of multi-colored tomatoes from the last CSA share hunkered near the stove.
In the several years I’d known her—ever since moving in with Meghan and Erin—I’d never seen Bette wear any makeup or any clothing that wasn’t smudged with a bit of clay spatter. Most of the time “smudge” didn’t even begin to cover it. Today she wore faded denim jeans cinched at the waist with an oversized leather belt and a yellow tank top, all liberally smeared with white clay and splotches of something darker.
The chaos she managed to live with would have driven me crazy, but it seemed to fuel her creativity, so who was I to care? We weren’t best friends, but she was nice as could be and made a mean batch of bread-and-butter pickles to boot. Over the years we’d socialized on a semi-regular basis, but since we’d both joined the CSA I saw her more often. We’d had several conversations about the best way to grow various flowers and vegetables. Her backyard dahlia garden alone could have supplied enough blooms for two florists.
“Now, what’s this about a picture?” she asked, leading us into the kitchen and opening the refrigerator. She put the eggs on the top shelf and turned back to us.
A whippy Mac laptop connected to a 21-inch monitor sat on an old trestle table in the corner. I liked the juxtaposition of the ultra-modern technology perched on a piece of furniture that looked to be over a hundred years old. I took out the flash drive and gave it to her. She sat down in a battered ladder-back chair and plugged it in.
“I should warn you,” I said. “You’ve seen this picture before.”
She looked the question at me. I could see a whisper of understanding enter her eyes before I answered.
“Yep. It’s the woman Barr showed you last night. From the farm.”
Nine
Bette frowned and looked at Meghan, who lifted her palms to the ceiling. “We’re trying to find out who she is. I think I’ve met her, but she looked different then. Sophie Mae thinks if we make the photo look more like what I remember, someone else may be able to tell us her name.”
“Oh.” The one word held a surprising amount of resistance. “I don’t know if I like the idea of getting mixed up with that.”
Meghan and I exchanged glances. So much for being happy to help. But in the back of my mind I’d known this reaction
was possible. It was why I hadn’t told Bette the whole story on the phone. Not everyone was gung ho about crime solving. I dragged another chair over. Straddling it backwards, I settled my jean-clad behind on the seat and leaned forward until she looked me in the eye.
Trying to channel Brodie’s best begging look, the one he used almost exclusively for bacon, I said, “Please? Barr probably has access to the same kind of software at the state crime lab. But that would take a lot more time—and time is of the essence in a murder investigation.” At least that’s what they said on TV.
Her expression didn’t alter a whit.
“See, the police department is kind of short handed right now, so we’re trying to help out.”
Nothing.
“Bette, we’re already right here,” Meghan prompted. “Can’t you at least try?”
Our friend looked up at her and licked her lips. Then she let out a whoosh of air. “Yeah, I guess.”
So much for my Brodie look. “Thank you,” I said.
Bette hunched over the laptop, manipulating the touchpad. The screen sprang to life, and she clicked on an icon on the desktop. A face filled the screen, apparently the last file she had been working on. It was the photo of a young man. She had adjusted the planes of his face, exaggerating some elements and downplaying others to create a face that was his and not his at the same time. No wonder her masks were so popular.
In fact, Barr’s birthday was coming up in another month or so. I’d been wracking my brain trying to find the perfect gift, and here the idea was being handed to me on a plate. Nice.
A few moments later she had loaded my scanned photo, and the bird lady’s face replaced the young man’s.
“God,” Bette whispered. She cleared her throat, looking a little green. “What do you want to change?”
Meghan dragged another chair over to sit on Bette’s other side. She looked a little green around the gills, too. “Can you add a little weight to her face?”
She pointed the cursor, clicked and dragged.
“I was thinking more along her jaw line,” my housemate said. “The bone structure should stay the same.”
Deadly Row to Hoe Page 5
