by Maggie Pill
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Two
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Three
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Four
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Five
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Six
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Seven
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Eight
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Nine
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Ten
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Forty
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Forty-Three
About the Author
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Forty-Four
Copyright
Murder in the Boonies
A Sleuth Sisters Mystery
By Maggie Pill
Gwendolyn Press
Copyright © 2015 by Maggie Pill
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 publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Publisher’s note: this is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
Cover Art by Yocladesigns
E-book design by Greenerside Digital
Maggie Pill/Gwendolyn Press
Port Huron, MI 48060
www.maggiepill.com
Murder In The Boonies/maggie Pill -- 1st Ed.
ISBN 978-0-9903804-9-8
CHAPTER ONE
Faye
When my kids were growing up, I taught them to be hard-working, loyal, and kind to small children and animals. I never stopped to think that those things can lead to heartache—and in a few instances can get you killed.
It started with a phone call. Before I could say a word, my sister started talking, her voice ringing with indignation, “Our renters are gone, and they gave me no notice whatsoever!”
“What do you mean, Retta? McAdams moved out?”
“I got a letter in today’s mail, saying they were leaving on Monday. They didn’t send me notice until the day they left.”
“Maybe the letter got delayed somehow.”
“The letter’s date is the same as the postmark.” She gave a ladylike snort. (Everything Retta does is ladylike.) “I’ll never show it to Barbara Ann. It’s so full of errors she’d have apoplexy. Can you imagine just sending a letter to say you’re moving away and leaving the same day?” She paused for breath. “I’m shocked, Faye. I never imagined those people would do something like this!”
Retta has the dubious honor of managing our family farm. After our parents died, first Dad, then Mom a year later, none of us wanted to live there. Barb was out in Tacoma, and Retta and Don had just built a nice home on the river. I had to stay in town since my husband Dale needs to be close to medical and rehab services.
I loved the old place, and selling it to strangers didn’t seem right, so I’d argued we should rent it out. Retta, who loves to be in charge of things, agreed to manage the property. She leased the fields to a local farmer and the house and outbuildings to a series of tenants. Ten miles out of Allport with a house that isn’t exactly a palace, the farm’s renters hadn’t stayed long until McAdams—I thought his first name was Ben—moved in. McAdams had come to Allport a single man just out of the military, rented the house and outbuildings from Retta, and brought in chickens and a few cattle. Later he’d found a girlfriend, a woman with three little girls, and since then the menagerie had grown to include other interesting creatures like reindeer and peafowl.
“I thought they were happy out there with their critters.”
“I did too,” Retta replied. “Rose is always really good about sending the rent money on time. But I’ve been busy planning summer events for the Chamber and VBS at church. With that and helping you two at the agency, I haven’t been out there in a while.”
Retta is part of the Smart Detective Agency only through sheer will on her part. Our older sister Barb and I started the business with the idea that we would solve crimes and help people. Retta noses her way into our business whenever possible, as she has since we were teenagers and she was the little sister we didn’t want along on our adventures.
I admit she is often useful. The widow of a state policeman killed in the line of duty, Retta has contacts Barb and I don’t. She also has a sharp intellect and plenty of courage. On the down-side, she’s impulsive and bossy, which irks Barb all the time and me sometimes. Barb keeps reminding me—and Retta, too—that she’s an auxiliary employee, not a partner. That doesn’t stop Retta from acting as if she runs the place.
Still upset about our renters’ disappearance, Retta went on with her news. “I talked to Chet Masters, the guy who farms our fields. He said not only are they gone, but they left their animals behind.”
“What?”
“I know! Half a dozen reindeer, a flock of peacocks, some chickens, and three or four cows. There could be more. I never paid much attention.”
“And they didn’t make arrangements for them?”
“None. Masters peeked in the windows, and he says there’s a lot of stuff still in the house, too.” Retta’s voice rose as her irritation spiked again. “How inconsiderate can people be? I’ll have to find someone to clean the place out before I can run ads and get new tenants in.”
“Don’t rent it if it’s too much work.” The regular deposits in my bank account were nice, but the agency had started picking up steam. “Since Dale and I moved in with Barb, we can manage without the money.”
Retta made a coughing sound, as if I’d suggested she do the Dance of the Seven Veils to spice up the opening of Vacation Bible School. “A hou
se falls apart ten times faster when it’s empty, Faye. We need to find renters this summer, fall at the latest. Nobody wants to move in the middle of a Michigan winter.”
After a little more grousing about ungrateful people, Retta ended the call, already planning how she would fit re-renting the house into her busy schedule. I might have suggested she give up a tanning session or two and save herself skin damage down the road, but I learned long ago such comments bring little sniffs of disapproval. Ladylike sniffs, since they come from Retta.
Forgetting the call for the moment, I returned to the robbery case Barb and I were working on. Searching online sites, I checked pawn and secondhand shops in hopes of finding goods our client was missing. It was tedious work, but one hit could break a case.
When Barb came in and I told her about our disappearing renters, she showed little interest. We both trusted Retta to see that the property was maintained, the taxes and insurance paid, and our shares of after-expense money deposited in our bank accounts. For Retta, our renters’ flight was exasperating. For Barb it was just a curious anecdote. For me, any mention of the farm brought a vague sense of longing for the past.
Barb spent her professional career as an assistant D.A. on the West Coast, and for her, the farm is just a pleasant childhood memory. Retta stayed in Allport, but from somewhere around the age of ten, she resented living in the country. She complained about being so far from her friends and the bright lights of the city, if Allport’s modest size and average number of street lights can be considered that way. Neither of my sisters has the emotional attachment to the farm I have.
For me, the farm is home, the place where I was a happy, carefree kid. While I’m wise enough to recognize I really can’t go home again, I still feel nostalgic out there. It had pleased me to think that Ben McAdams was giving three young girls some of the same memories we had, along with protection from the craziness of the modern world. Walks through woods where the only sounds are birds and whispering trees. Chores that aren’t loathsome because animals give affection in return for care. The smell of apple blossoms in the spring, cut hay in the summer, and dry leaves in the fall. Every season and every acre, whether wooded, planted, or pastured, has its own delights. At least, that’s how I remember it.
Barb dismissed the topic with a shrug. “She’ll get renters. Houses that big are hard to find.”
A picture of Mom’s house rose in my mind, room after room circling an open space with a narrow stairway at the center. Upstairs, three slanty-roofed bedrooms lined up on the left, one behind another so the occupant of the last (Retta, in our case) had to pass through my room then Barb’s to get to the stairs. To the right of the stairway was a large open space, useless except for storage. Rainy days had been perfect for staying inside and, going through albums filled with sepia-toned photographs, trunks of old clothes, and other bits of memorabilia every family accumulates.
Outside had been Dad’s territory, the barns, the sheds, the fenced pens, and at the edge of the woods, a long, low bunkhouse, used in past generations by workers hired during busy times like planting or harvest. These days it was filled with furniture nobody wanted, all of it slowly being eaten away by mice, squirrels, and time.
A thought came to me. “I wonder if Bill might want to move in.”
“Bill?” Barb’s voice revealed doubt. “Why would he leave Chicago?”
Because he has to, I thought, but I wasn’t ready to talk about that yet. Barb has seldom dealt with failure, and I don’t think she has any idea what each successive loss does to a person. My son was facing his third failed business, and soon he and his wife would have to move again. Though Barb obviously thought it was a crazy idea, I wondered if the prospect of moving to Allport might be something they would consider.
Probably not, I told myself firmly. Bill is a scientist, and Carla is a city girl. No doubt they’d view living in an old house out in the country with the same enthusiasm as being sentenced to ten years in a gulag.
I sighed. The farm would be rented out to strangers again, and that was probably best.
CHAPTER TWO
Retta
I was still angry with Ben McAdams when I hung up from talking to Faye, but I reminded myself that anger causes wrinkles. At the hallway mirror, I rubbed the spot between my eyes to force the frown away.
The letter lay on the kitchen table, and I read through it again:
Dear Mrs. Stilson,
We are all moving to Detroit on Tuesday. Thank you for being a nice landlady.
Sincerly,
Ben McAdams
Though he had been my renter for three years, I didn’t know a lot about Ben. He always said as little as possible, seldom met my eyes, and slunk away at the earliest opportunity. Once Rose and the girls moved in with him, I don’t think Ben ever spoke to me again.
I could see why Rose was attracted to him: dark good looks, a masculine, even macho outlook, and what my novels call a “brooding aspect.” Living with such men isn’t as romantic as one might imagine, I suspect. Though I liked Rose, I pegged her as the type of woman who’s unaware she’s allowed a personality and a viewpoint.
I think a lot about women and their views, mostly because my sisters and I see life so differently. Barbara Ann is a pragmatist whose method of dealing with people is to hold most of them at arm’s length. She has almost no social life, though in the last year she and the local police chief have become an item. Barbara’s really smart when it’s something she cares about, but mostly she cares about rules, even dumb ones like when to use who and whom.
Barbara shuts people out; Faye lets everybody in. While Barbara is financially comfortable in her early retirement, Faye had no nest egg and no safety net when she lost her job as an office manager. I think the detective agency is Barbara’s way of providing for Faye’s old age. Some people think it was an odd choice, but it suits them.
While I don’t need a lot of people around me, I don’t push them away like Barbara does. Once upon a time I was a perfectly content mother and wife. Then my husband was killed in the line of duty. Don’s death was a huge tragedy, but I overcame it with the support of my family and a determination to change things for the better. I spoke all over the state of Michigan about the need to better protect our police officers and even co-wrote a book about it with the help of a young journalist. As a result, I’m pretty well known in Michigan. I have lots of friends, male and female, a healthy bank balance, and an appreciation for nice things and nice people. I’d say my world view is pretty good for a small-town girl who’s never been outside the USA.
Returning to the problem of the farm, I took up the phone. Faye had given me the number for a guy named Gabe who, though he’d been a threat in their first case, turned out to be a decent enough person. Not the type you’d trust with national secrets, but fairly honest, fairly ambitious, and kind of sweet.
“This is Gabe.” His voice was thin, and I pictured the skinny guy I’d met on the ski trail last winter.
“Hello. It’s Margaretta Stilson, of the Smart Detective Agency.” I hate even saying that name, but Barbara has so far insisted it will remain. As she pointedly reminds me, the agency is hers and Faye’s, not mine.
Gabe’s voice brightened considerably when he heard it was me. “Hey, Mrs. Stilson.”
I explained that my tenants had moved, leaving their animals behind. “My sister Faye said you might be willing to go out there mornings for a few days and see to them.” I named a generous price, since Faye said Gabe was always in need of cash, being a convicted felon.
“I could use the money,” he said, “but I don’t know much about animals.”
I admitted I didn’t either, at least when it came to peafowl and reindeer. Ask me about dogs, and I’ll talk all day. “I’m going out there this afternoon. If you meet me, we can look things over and decide if it’s something you can do.”
“Okay. Where is it?”
From what I knew of Gabe, I guessed he didn’t have GPS. “You’re
going to leave Allport going north, take Taylor Road west for a mile, then turn north again on Pratt until you come to Henning. About a half mile down, there’s a long driveway that runs between two wheat fields.”
There was a pause. “Can you start again from Taylor Road?” When I didn’t answer right away he explained, “Once I been someplace I can find it again easy, but I have trouble with north and west and stuff like that.”
Suggesting he write it down, I waited while he dug up a pen and paper. Then I began again, speaking slowly, using landmarks as guides and instructing him to turn right or left rather than using compass points. Once I finished, Gabe read them back to me, and I made a few clarifications. We agreed to meet out there at two.
CHAPTER THREE
Faye
The idea of my two boys living on the farm wouldn’t leave my head, no matter how many times I told myself it was just a dream. At lunch I talked with Dale about it, and he surprised me by suggesting I approach Cramer. “You’ll just go over and over it in your head until you find out,” he said. “If Cramer says no, you’ll have to give it up. If he says yes, you can take the next step and ask Bill.”
After an injury on a timbering job, Dale is incapacitated in some ways. Despite that, he has a down-to-earth way of looking at a problem and putting his finger on the simplest way to go at it.
Cramer’s a computer tech who works pretty much on his own, so I called right away. After I explained my idea, he thought about it for several seconds. “Actually, Mom, that might work for me. I’ve always loved Grandpa’s place, and where I live now doesn’t have many good memories. It would be nice to live somewhere else, and cheaper too.”
I tried to be objective “You might not think that come winter. The driveway is a half mile long.”
“Yeah,” he said, “but Bill has the Honda and I’ve got my truck. We should be okay if we get a plow blade for one of them.”
