by Mary Logue
She needed to wrap up this phone call. “I know you’ll do the best you can. I’ll call you back later today.” Without waiting for an answer she disconnected.
“Yeah?” She looked up at Stewy. He motioned her into his office.
Unlike him to be so secretive about anything, she mused. Following him, she was struck by how broad his back was. Lot of good meat loaf and pie went into maintaining that physique, she was sure. Mrs. Swanson was an acclaimed baker. Even at his age, she wouldn’t want to run into his sheer mass on a football field—or down a dark alley.
He held open the door to his office for her and then closed it behind them. “Claire, just got a call from the newspaper.”
She nodded.
“Harold Peabody. You know him?”
“I know who he is.”
“He just found a note on his counter. A threatening note. He thinks it’s related to the stolen pesticides.”
Claire hoped this editor wouldn’t leave his marks all over the note. “Is it from our guy?”
“I think so.” The sheriff looked at her. “You better go talk to him. He wants to run it in the paper tomorrow.”
The first thing Harold Peabody did after he called the sheriff was to make a copy of the note and put the copy safely away inside a volume of the Oxford English Dictionary on the page that included the definition for murder. He had bought the set in 1970 at a used bookstore for a hundred dollars. The dictionary was published in the 1950s, but he didn’t figure words went out of style.
He spent the rest of his time waiting for the deputy, clearing off his desk. The condition of his desk was an apt metaphor for the state of his mind: mildly organized chaos.
When Deputy Claire Watkins showed up, he ushered her to the back room and held out a chair for her. The chair, too, had been recently cleared of a stack of papers.
Then he sat down opposite her in his rolling chair and looked this deputy over. She was an attractive woman. Harold found that she resembled her name—there was something clear and open about the way she looked at him. She had the start of good lines in her face, and terrific eyes. She was growing outwardly into who she was inwardly—what one did in one’s forties. For better or worse.
“You’re the new investigator,” Harold commented. “I don’t think the sheriff’s department ever had one before.”
“No, this is a new position.”
“Good idea.” He had folded a piece of paper in two and placed it around the note so he could hold it without disturbing the surface. “Here it is.”
She pulled on a pair of latex gloves. First she read the note; then she turned it over and examined the backside of it carefully. She looked in the envelope, then put it in a plastic bag, and the note in another plastic bag. She placed the plastic-covered note on the desk in front of her so she could see it easily. When she was finished, she looked up at him. “Any idea what the numbers mean?”
“I think so. I think it’s a date. The date an entire family was murdered on their farm. The Schulers. Otto and Bertha Schuler and their five kids. Slaughtered on their farm on the tenth of July, 1952. The case was never solved.”
“But what about the first seven?”
“The number of people killed.”
Claire’s hand rose to her mouth and she closed her eyes for a moment. Harold could tell she was visualizing the scene. She knew murder scenes; she knew farms. She was putting them together in her mind.
“What happened?” she asked.
“Someone came and shot the whole family. A neighbor, who happened to be a deputy sheriff, went over to return something and he found them. But they could never figure out who did it or why. Had the whole county stirred up for months.”
“I can imagine.” Claire shook her head and then asked, “What do you think?”
He wouldn’t bite on such an open-ended question. “About what?”
“About the note. About the man who’s doing this.”
“Sure it’s a man?”
“About ninety-five percent sure.”
“That’s quite a bit. I happen to agree with you.”
Claire didn’t say anything more. She waited for him to continue. Good interviewing technique. Harold was pleased with this woman deputy. She knew her stuff. She took her time. Especially in this new age of technology, you needed to know how to take your own time.
Harold gathered his thoughts. He had thought of little else since he had read the note. “What do I think about him? I’ll tell you what I’ve figured out from his note. He’s slightly obsessive-compulsive. That’s shown by the numbers at the top of the note. He’s polite. He was raised well. And I’m sure that he’s an older man. He’d have to be if he’s been around for at least the last fifty years.” He paused.
Claire had been following his words closely. She gave one brief nod and said, “Right.”
Harold continued. “For other reasons, he’s got to be an older man. He addressed me as Mr. Harold Peabody. Anyone under forty wouldn’t do that. Titles have just about disappeared from daily life. Also, he asked that I put it in the paper—please. Again a nicety that shows he’s generally a civil man. But something’s got him horridly riled up. He’s religious. He reads his Bible. Might be the only book he reads. He has a mission. He thinks that God is backing him on this one. He might do anything.”
“Wow,” Claire said.
He was both pleased and surprised at her exclamation. It was to the point, but he wanted her to react more to all his work. He pressed his hands down on his desk and said, “That’s what I think.”
“You could be a profiler.”
At first Harold didn’t know what she was talking about. The first thing that popped into his mind were those old black cameo paper cutouts that were done of someone’s profile. Then he remembered that he had seen a TV show called Profiler. A woman solved crimes by studying the criminals’ behavior. He chuckled.
“I’m serious. Criminal profilers look at exactly the things you analyzed. I studied it a bit at the police academy. Let me ask you a few more questions. Do you think he’s a farmer?”
Harold scratched his thinning pate. “Could be. Probably if he’s lived in this area for fifty years. Seems like everyone used to be a farmer. If he’s not, he’d know quite a bit about it. Enough to be able to know how to use those pesticides.”
“Do you think he’s dangerous?”
“I’m afraid I do. As I’ve said, he’s riled up. He’s been on simmer about this happening for fifty years, and it looks like he’s about to blow.”
“What do you think he’ll do next?”
Harold leaned forward. Now they were getting to the heart of the matter. “Talk about the man all you want, but what you must do is outguess him, know where he’s going to be, know what he’s going to do before he does it.” He listed the acts thus far. “First he stole the pesticide. Then he destroyed the flowers. Next he killed the birds.”
He paused. Claire waited.
“I’m afraid it’s escalating,” Harold said. “I’m afraid he’ll move on to something bigger. It could be cows; it could be horses.” Then he forced himself to say what he was really afraid of. “It could be people.”
“Yup.” Claire tapped her pencil on the front of his desk. “That’s what I’ve been thinking, too. Imagining the things he might do makes me sick. We are all so vulnerable. This is a place where people leave their keys in their car in case someone needs to borrow it. Doors are unlocked. People are used to being friendly.”
“It’s worse than that,” Harold told her. “This man is one of us. He knows our ways. He knows where to get us.”
“Want to venture a guess who it might be?”
Harold had been afraid she would ask him that. He had a couple thoughts, but wasn’t sure he was ready to tell her. “Let me think on it. This is serious business. I hate to run my mouth off about people and get them in trouble. It was obviously someone affected by the Schuler murders.”
“Do you think it’s the kil
ler?”
Harold puffed out his lips. “More than likely. If he’s still alive, he’d be an old man like me.”
“Well, if you have any more ideas, let me know, the sooner the better. This guy is on a timetable.”
“Where will you be tomorrow?”
“With my daughter. Watching the fireworks. But you can always reach me on my cell phone. If the bluffs don’t interfere.” Claire gave him her number. “Also, any information you can give me on the Schuler murders would be appreciated. I’ll go to the cold cases and pick up the file on that.”
“I’ll put together articles from the time it happened.”
“Thanks, Mr. Peabody.”
“Harold.”
She stood. “After I’ve talked to the sheriff, I’ll let you know what you can put in the paper.”
Harold came around his desk to walk her to the door. This was the only false step she had made in their meeting.
“That won’t be necessary.” The deputy turned to look at him. He continued: “It’s running. The note is running. Consider it a courtesy that I let you know about it before you read it in the paper.”
Meg heard about the chickens from her friend Katlyn, who lived near the Danielses. Katlyn said that everyone said that maybe Rich’s pheasants would be next to be killed. Meg said that Rich had a huge security fence and that no one could get in to hurt his pheasants. When she hung up the phone, she was surprised that she had lied. It was not like her.
Meg walked over to the refrigerator, opened the freezer, and pulled out a lime Popsicle. Then she went onto the porch and sat on the floor under the fan. The thermometer out back said ninety degrees, but the guy on the radio today had been talking about something called a heat index and he said it would feel like one hundred. Hot enough to make her have to eat her Popsicle fast before it dripped down onto her hand.
She wondered what it was like for kids who had sisters and brothers. She found it hard sometimes not to have anyone to talk to about all the things that worried her. It was a big responsibility to be an only child. And it only made it worse when her dad died. Now her mother was totally her concern.
She decided to call Rich. He would understand. Knowing Rich, he might even be able to help.
He answered the phone. “Haggard’s Pheasants.”
She said, “Knock, knock.”
“Who’s there?”
“Pop.”
“Pop who?”
“Popsicle.”
There was silence for a moment; then he asked, “Did you make that one up, Megsly?”
“Yup. Just for you.”
“I’m honored.”
“Mom’s not home yet.”
“Another long day?”
“Yeah, she called and said she’d be home soon. She said I could come home and let myself in and wait for her.” Meg was done with her Popsicle. She stretched out flat on the cool stone floor of the porch. She stared up at the overhead fan, which was a blur above her head.
“Good.”
“I heard about the chickens.”
“News travels fast around here.”
“What are you doing to protect your pheasants?”
“Staying put.”
“But what about tomorrow—the Fourth of July? What about our barbecue and the fireworks?”
“No one would do anything on a holiday.”
“Bad guys take days off?” she asked. “Are you kidding me?”
“I am kidding you. But I’m serious when I say that I’m not too worried about my birds. I don’t think this guy is after me. I don’t think he’s after all the poultry in the county. I think he’s got something else in mind.”
“What?”
“I’m not sure, but whatever it is, your mom will figure it out.”
Meg thought for a moment. “My mom is really smart, but she doesn’t know everything. She makes mistakes, too.”
“Of course she does. But I think this guy wants to be stopped.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s leaving clues.”
Meg liked the idea of the clues. It made it more like a Nancy Drew mystery, something that could be solved and then everything would fall into place.
“You know that I’m going to my grandparents this summer.”
“Yeah, when?”
“Not sure, but, I just want to be sure that you’ll keep an eye on Mom. I didn’t want her to know that I’m worried, but I am.”
Rich didn’t say anything for a moment; then he cleared his throat. “I will keep an eye on her. You know you can count on me. But I know she wants you to have a good time on your trip and not to worry about her.”
“I’ll try.” Meg was glad she had said it. But once was enough. You didn’t need to repeat things with Rich. He got them the first time. “I think it’s going to be hot tomorrow. It’s hot today.”
“It’s supposed to be hot on the Fourth of July. With plenty of mosquitoes and maybe even a thunderstorm thrown in.”
“No thunderstorms. Just fireworks. That’s enough.”
CHAPTER 8
Often Earl Lowman dreamed of lakes—deep, clear, sweet-sprung lakes. But when he woke, as he did on this hot July day, he was still in Tucson, Arizona—108 degrees at midday—where the one river that had once flowed through the town, the Santa Cruz, had dried up long ago, and the water table was dropping inches a year, causing the ground below his house to sink.
He turned his head on his pillow and read his alarm clock—5:07 A.M.—noting that it would go off in eight minutes. If he wanted to take a walk, he had to get up. Once the sun rose at six, it rapidly got too hot to be outside. He threw the sheet off his legs.
But the dream of the lake held him in bed for another few minutes. He thought of wading up to his waist in Lake Pepin; he remembered jumping off the old oak tree that bent over the Rush River and plunging into the spring-fed waters. He would love to swim again in fresh water.
Most afternoons Earl wandered down to the community pool and swam a few laps, but it was not the same. The water was chlorinated and way too warm. No one else even bothered to swim in the pool. They stood in the water and gabbed. The heads of other old people bobbed around in the pool like idling ducks on a dirty pond. Earl Lowman wondered what had happened to his life.
After thirty years as a deputy sheriff for Pepin County, he had retired down in Tucson with his wife, Florence. Three months after they had moved into their new town home, Florence had died. Stroke. That was ten years ago. His one daughter was living in Seattle and his son still lived in Durand, Wisconsin. Earl and his son, Andy, hadn’t spoken in ten years—since Florence’s death. She was the one who had stayed in touch with Andy. Earl had no reason to go back to Wisconsin, but he missed it.
He pulled on a pair of gym shorts that weren’t too dirty and dug out an old T-shirt. Wandering into the kitchen, he hit the button on the coffeemaker. He set it up the night before so all he had to do was start it brewing in the morning. He pulled open the front door and found the Arizona Daily Star on his doorstep. After pouring himself a cup of coffee and adding artificial sweetener to it, he set the paper and the coffee on the table on the back patio and went in to make breakfast.
He ate the same thing every day. It made life easy. He took out a frozen waffle and put it in the toaster. He poured some maple syrup into a jug and heated it in the microwave. When the syrup and the waffle were ready, he put them on a plate and took them out to the table on the patio.
He ate because he knew he should, not because he was hungry. He didn’t seem to be hungry for anything anymore. Fresh sweet corn and ripe tomatoes sounded good to him, but were hard to get in Tucson. Tomatoes didn’t grow well down in the Southwest. All the tomatoes he got at the store were from Mexico, and who knew what they put on them down there.
Earl looked at the date of his paper—July the fourth. He had seen in the community bulletin that there would be a potluck at the center tonight. Maybe he’d go. Maybe he wouldn’t. There were a lot of older wom
en who gave him the eye, but he wasn’t having any of that anymore. He felt too old.
After Florence died, he had dated a nice woman who lived two blocks away. She had even stayed over one night, but they hadn’t really done anything except kiss. But she moved back to Atlanta to be closer to her daughter. He understood. Family became important when you got older.
He stabbed at his waffle a couple of times, then let it be. Maybe he wouldn’t walk today. It was a holiday, after all. He felt tired. Maybe he’d just crawl back in bed and sleep and then start the day all over again.
Carrying his dishes into the kitchen, he felt exhausted by all he didn’t have to do. No lawn to mow, no gutters to clean, no one to worry about.
He sat down at the dining room table and buried his head in his hands. He was a lonely old man and he had no one to blame but himself.
Maybe he should call one of his kids. Maybe he’d catch Andy if he tried now. He wouldn’t be out in the fields yet.
Before he could change his mind, Earl picked up the phone and dialed his son’s number. Marie, his wife, answered. “Lowman’s.”
“Hey, Marie. It’s Earl.”
There was silence on the other end of the line. Then her voice came across strong, worry lacing it. “Earl. My goodness, but it’s been a long time since we heard from you. Are you okay? Is everything all right?”
“I’m fine. Just thought of calling, holiday and all.” Might as well get right to the point. “Is Andy there?”
Again there was a pause. Earl knew what was happening. Andy was sitting right there drinking his coffee and shaking his head at Marie, telling his wife to say he was gone. “I’m sorry, Earl. You just missed him.” She stopped for a moment, then asked in a cheery voice, “Are you doing anything for the Fourth?”
“Not much to do down here. What about you?”
“Oh, just having hot dogs. Then we’ll take the kids down to see the fireworks. Down to Fort St. Antoine. They’ve got the best, as far as I’m concerned.”
“That should be fun.”
“Yeah, we enjoy it.” She cleared her throat. “Warm down there?”
