Murder in the Boonies: A Sleuth Sisters Mystery (The Sleuth Sisters Book 3)

by Maggie Pill

  At about ten-thirty, I crept downstairs to look in on the girls. Daisy was asleep with one arm over Buddy’s back, her cheeks rosy against her pale skin. Iris, too, had drifted off, her head tilted toward Daisy. Pansy looked up as I stopped in the doorway. Pillows propped behind her head, she was watching CSI, an old one with Grissom leading the team. From her expression I knew her parents wouldn’t approve her viewing choice.

  “I used to like that one,” I told her softly. “It’s gross sometimes, though.”

  “I’ll watch something else,” she said, but I noticed she didn’t change the channel. “Is being a detective in real life like it is on TV?”

  “Not exactly. It’s a lot more paperwork and a lot less gunplay.”

  She chewed at her lip. “Did you ever catch a murderer?”

  “Yes.” I heard the pride in my voice. “Twice now we’ve helped put killers in prison.”

  “Oh. Well, goodnight.”

  “Goodnight, Pansy.” Did I imagine it, or had I seen fear in her eyes when I spoke of catching killers?

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Faye

  It felt good to wake up in my childhood home. Dale and I slept in what had been my parents’ room, and I recalled waking up there as a kid when I was sick. Mom had kept an old cot in the closet, and if she was worried about one of us, we’d be tucked into one corner of their room. Beside the bed would be a TV table with medicine to suit whatever the ailment was, cough syrup, perhaps, or aspirin tablets cut in two. I felt safe in that room, as if the last forty years hadn’t happened. Dale hadn’t been permanently disabled, Cramer hadn’t married an awful woman, and Bill hadn’t failed at business so many times he might never recover. Until I opened my eyes I was six again, like sweet little Daisy. Mom and Dad were spooned nearby, ready to protect me from all the ills of the world.

  Of course that wasn’t true. I rose, shivering in the chilly May morning. Dale slept on peacefully, and I closed the door so as not to disturb him as I went about my chores.

  Fighting the feeling I was snooping, I searched Rose Isley’s cupboards and found coffee, sugar, and an ancient, drip-type pot in four parts. There was a teakettle on the stove, so I heated water in it as I spooned coffee into the strainer section of the pot. Setting it into the carafe, I put the water tank on top, filled it when the teakettle steamed, added the lid, and waited. Soon the drip, drip, drip that gives such pots their name sounded, and the aroma of coffee filled the kitchen.

  I took the first cup for myself, stirred in sugar, and with the mug in one hand, slipped on the canvas shoes I’d left near the door. I was eager to get out and see my horses, reassuring them and satisfying myself they were acclimating to their new quarters.

  Closing the door quietly, I headed toward the barn, sipping at my brew and taking in the glories of a May morning. Though it was cool, I could tell already the day would warm. The leaves had really popped over the last few days, and soon the woods would be opaque, hiding the activities of hundreds of deer and small animals.

  Air smells new in the spring, like life starting up again. I have to admit, though, that the closer I got to the barnyard, the nastier the smell got. I wondered how often the animal pens required cleaning. It would be constant work to keep them in good shape.

  The horses greeted me with soft sounds of welcome. Anni-Frid came to the gate, nodding as if to say, “Good morning.” Agnetha was a bit less trusting, but when I leaned on the gate and spoke to her she came over, obviously wondering if I’d brought a treat. I had an apple for each of them, and I set one on my palm, holding it out to her. She took it, munching daintily. I gave Anni-Frid hers, and she did the same. I haven’t met that many horses, but I’ve never met one that doesn’t like apples.

  When I turned to leave the barn, a man stood silhouetted in the doorway. We both started in surprise, but I recovered quicker than he did, perhaps because I had the moral high ground.

  “Who are you?”

  He hesitated, and I thought he was deciding how to answer. “Sorry if I scared you,” he said smoothly. “I guess you’re the new tenant?”

  “I’m not a tenant; I’m one of the owners. And you are?”

  He stepped inside, and I got a better look at him. “I’m Colt Farrell, a friend of Ben McAdams.” I recalled Barb telling me about his visit to the office. “You alone out here, ma’am?”

  “My husband’s in the house,” I said. “He’ll be right out.” I was remembering a recent situation when a man had trapped me in a barn, intending to kill me.

  Farrell didn’t seem to have any such thing in mind. “I loaned Ben my chainsaw last month. I didn’t think anyone would mind if I took it back.”

  It seemed logical enough, but something in his manner struck me wrong. Unaware if Dale was even awake much less up, I chose to be non-threatening. “I didn’t see a chainsaw here. Maybe it’s in the tool shed.”

  “I’ll look there.” He turned to go then turned back. “You can come with me if you like, to see I don’t take anything else.”

  “That’s not necessary,” I said tactfully, “but I’ll help you look.”

  We went through every building, the back porch, and even the root cellar, but we found no chainsaw. Farrell seemed disappointed. “I hope he didn’t take it with him. That wouldn’t be right.”

  “No.” I looked around the yard. “Where’s your car, Mr. Farrell?”

  Another pause before he answered. “Over there.” A deep blue truck was pulled off the driveway and into the trees, where I hadn’t noticed it. “I like to park in the shade. Keeps the interior from fading.”

  That struck me as unnecessary at 7:30 in the morning, but I merely nodded. “If I find a chainsaw, I’ll let you know.”

  “I’d appreciate that.” He backed away, obviously reluctant to give up.

  I watched as he went to his truck, got in, and started it up. Farrell waved farewell, and I did my best imitation of a friendly wave in return. As I turned toward the house, Dale came onto the porch. “Who was that?”

  “A friend of Ben’s, he says,” I replied. “But I think he’s more snoop than friend.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Barb

  Sheriff Rob Brill arrived at my office promptly at ten, with Rory not far behind. The sheriff and I had met a few times, and he seemed a decent man. He also seemed willing to respect me and the agency, which went a long way toward establishing cooperation.

  “I spoke with Judge Dean,” Brill told Rory and me. “He doesn’t see a problem with you keeping the Isley girls here until we find out where their mother is.”

  “Thank you. This can’t be easy for them.” Rory and I filled him in on what we knew about Rose Isley’s disappearance and Ben McAdams’ insistence on hiding it from the world.

  Brill pulled at his right earlobe. “I think you’re right. Keeping Rose’s absence a secret gave him access to her money. But where did she go?”

  “That worries me,” Rory said. “Do you think she’d leave her girls, Barb?”

  “I’ve never met her, but Retta says she wouldn’t, not for this long.”

  “Mom wouldn’t just leave us.”

  We looked up to see Pansy standing in the doorway. I’d left the girls with my phone, my tablet, and my laptop, hoping they wouldn’t notice what was going on in the office until we were ready to speak with them. Pansy must have guessed their future was being discussed. She looked so young and yet so old, and my heart went out to her. I was beginning to believe her mother was dead, and I feared Ben McAdams was responsible.

  Rising, I went to her. “Come in, Pansy.”

  She sat in the chair I pulled up for her, next to Rory and across from Sheriff Brill. After introducing them, I sat back and let Brill take charge. He told her the judge’s decision then turned to me. “Ms. Evans, can I ask you to step out of the room for a few minutes?”

  “Of course,” I answered.

  Rory rose with me. “I’ll go along and say hello to the other girls.”

 
We left together, aware Sheriff Brill intended to ask Pansy if she was comfortable staying with us. No doubt he’d ask the other two as well, privately so they could voice any concerns they had about the situation.

  I led the way to the guest room, knocked on the door, and asked, “Are you decent? You have company.”

  A voice called out for us to come in. We found Iris lying on her stomach on the bed, typing on my iPad with one finger. I’d introduced her to Amazon Prime, and she was delighted with all the choices.

  Daisy sat on a looped rug beside the bed playing with Buddy, and he seemed like a puppy in her presence. As he ran circles around her, making huffy noises and displaying silliness quite unlike his usual grumpy behavior, I was reminded he wasn’t very old. They say every kid needs a dog. It might be just as true that every dog needs a kid.

  “Where’s Pansy?” Iris asked.

  “The sheriff had to speak with her alone for a few minutes.”

  Iris’ response startled me. “No! She can’t!” Springing up from the bed, she pushed past Rory and ran down the hallway. He followed while I went to Daisy, whose mouth opened wide, warning tears were imminent.

  “It’s okay, Sweetie,” I told her. “Everything is okay.”

  It didn’t work. Starting with a low moan of grief, Daisy’s voice rose to a full-blown wail. Though I have little experience with children, I know there are times when only a reassuring hug will help. I took Daisy into my arms, and she leaned into my shoulder, sobbing. As we sat there together, rocking gently, understandable words emerged. “Don’t put Pansy in jail! She didn’t want Ben to get dead.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Retta

  Knowing Faye intended to spend the day cleaning and clearing the bunkhouse for Cramer, I decided to go out and help. Dale tries to be useful, but he usually just follows Faye around and gets in her way. When I show up, he generally finds somewhere else to be. With him out from underfoot, Faye and I would get the place spiffed up in no time.

  I took Styx along, figuring he could spend the day digging holes to his heart’s content. At home I fill in his excavations, but on the farm it doesn’t matter. It’s so cute to see him go at it with both feet and come up with dirt all over his big old face. Of course it’s not so much fun when he rides home in the car all dirty, but it’s worth it to see him happy.

  We arrived around nine-thirty, and Faye told me about her uninvited visitor. “That’s just rude!” I said. “He should ask before snooping around, even if he is retrieving his own property.”

  “Barb checked him out.” Faye was already poking around in the bunkhouse, deciding what Cramer might be able to use. “He owns an electronics store in the strip mall on 10th, and he’s an elder at the church Ben and Rose attended.”

  “That’s not a ringing endorsement.” I shivered. “Churches with made-up names make me nervous.”

  Faye paused to look at me, one brow raised. “The name of every church was made-up at some point, Retta, even ours.”

  I let that one go. “Okay, he was looking for his chainsaw. I guess we accept that unless we can prove otherwise. Now let’s get to work.”

  We spent hours moving, sorting, and cleaning. Originally a dormitory, the bunkhouse had become a storage place when the need for extra beds disappeared. Things that should have been thrown away or donated were taken out there to rot or seize up from temperature and humidity changes. Faye and I made two piles on the grass, one for trash and one for the Salvation Army. Luckily, one thing we found in the bunkhouse was a dolly, so between us we managed to get even big items like ancient cook-stoves, broken dryers, and battered chests of drawers outside.

  Dale tackled the bathroom, which was more like a locker room than a bath. There were three toilet stalls and three sinks on one end, and a shower tree at the other. He worked to get the shower, one sink, and one of the toilets fixed and scrubbed clean.

  Faye thought Cramer might want the large, ornate table that had been our mother’s pride and joy. The top needed refinishing, but the result would be much nicer than the junk they sell at big box stores. There were only three chairs left of the set, but she said that was plenty for a man who needed to think a while before taking up with another woman.

  We were hauling a box of odds and ends outside when I noticed Styx sniffing at the lawnmower again, pawing at the dirt around it. “He sure likes that thing.”

  Faye paused to wipe her forehead with her sleeve. “Buddy went over there, too. Something must be—” She paused as realization hit. “—buried there.”

  Images spilled into my mind: Ben McAdams and Rose Isley quarreling. Ben striking out. Rose falling. Had she hit her head on something? Had he beaten her to death in a fit of rage? I feared we were about to find out.

  “Not something. Someone!” I whispered.

  Faye went toward the barnyard gate, where a shovel sat propped against a fencepost. “See if you can move that mower.”

  The rider wasn’t much different from my own, just a lot older and rustier. I found the shifter, put it into neutral, and rolled the thing off to one side. The patch of ground Styx was so interested in was strewn with hay, which was odd now that I thought about it. Parking an old mower on a pile of hay is practically inviting a fire when you start it up again.

  Using the shovel, Faye scraped the hay aside. The ground had been disturbed fairly recently. Marks showed where the dirt had been patted into place. “Oh, Lord!” Her face stiff with dread, Faye began digging.

  Going to my car, I got a pair of gloves I keep there and returned. Taking the shovel away from Faye I told her, “My turn.” She backed away, panting a little from exertion.

  About a foot down, the shovel struck something, and my stomach did a flip-flop. It wasn’t hard, like rock, but it definitely wasn’t soil. It was something that didn’t belong there.

  Kneeling, I dug with my gloved hands until a scrap of color appeared in the brown dirt. It was an afghan, hand-made in blues and greens. As I gently scraped the dirt away, the outline beneath it appeared. A nose, a chin, a forehead. A person.

  Somehow it seemed more respectful to peel the blanket back from the side, taking the final layer of dirt with it. Faye knelt beside me, grasping the cover near the bottom, and we pulled it away together. First a pair of jeans appeared, then a plaid shirt.

  The face we revealed wasn’t Rose Isley’s, as I’d expected. It was Ben McAdams.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Faye

  Barb’s call came moments after Retta and I made our grisly discovery. “Faye,” she said, speaking softly so she wasn’t overheard on her end, “the girls did something to Ben. We’re not sure what yet, but we’re pretty sure he’s dead.”

  When I told her what Styx had led us to, Rory got on the phone and ordered us to wait for the sheriff to arrive. I could have told him I knew that much about crime scene investigation, but I merely agreed.

  They were there in twenty minutes, first the sheriff, then an ambulance (much too late), and finally Rory in a city police car. Barb had stayed with the girls, and I imagined her irritation at being relegated to baby-sitter. Rory had called a child psychologist the department used in such instances and asked her to go to the house. None of us knew for sure yet what those three innocent-looking children had done, but they’d need counselling, no matter what.

  The EMT spoke to Sheriff Brill in quiet tones. “Okay,” Brill replied. “Do what you have to do to get him out of there.”

  Brill came over to where Rory, Dale, Retta, and I stood. “Broken neck, it looks like. There’ll be an autopsy, but the guys think it’s what killed him.”

  “It can’t be the girls’ fault,” I said, aware of my desperate need to believe they’d done no wrong. “They couldn’t break a grown man’s neck.”

  “We’ll look into it.” Brill’s tone was non-committal. “Doc says there’s a suitcase under the body. Somebody tried to make it look like McAdams left the area.” He glanced at the spot where Ben lay. “Those girls need official
supervision.”

  Retta went into what I call her act, though I have no doubt she’d argue with the terminology. When Baby Sister wants something from a man, things happen. Her hair seems to get shinier, her eyes start to glow. The way she stands becomes provocative, though I swear she makes no discernable movement. All I know is suddenly Retta isn’t a widow of almost fifty with two grown children. She’s a sexy, sweet young thing, and most men turn downright goofy. I’ve never understood how she does it.

  “Sheriff, wouldn’t it be easier on everyone if the girls stay with us? Faye and I raised children, so we understand their needs. Barbara is a retired district attorney, a registered private investigator, and she has served as a Milldon County deputy.” She turned to Rory. “Isn’t that right, Chief?”

  Rory is somehow immune to Retta’s charms, and I detected a glint of humor in his eyes. “Ms. Evans is very competent.”

  Brill tried to remain professional, but judging from his expression, Retta would get what she wanted if he had anything to say about it. “I need to talk to the judge, but I think he’ll listen to me.”

  Retta gave him what she’d call a grateful smile. Some might call it a simper. Whatever the term, it usually works.

  When we got back to the house, Barb brought the two older girls into the office, leaving Daisy with Buddy and Dale in the kitchen. It was good that Buddy liked Daisy, because he wouldn’t have been pleased to see Styx making himself at home in his domain.

  There was some shuffling as we arranged chairs for eight people and space for a very large, very determined dog. Finally we were settled, Styx resting his head on Retta’s knee. Barb had several fresh tissues in hand, possibly for her postnasal drip, but more likely preparation for removing dog drool from her office furnishings. The only reason Styx was allowed was that his presence made the girls less nervous.

  Brill nodded at the psychologist, Julie Walters, who said gently, “Girls, we need you to tell us everything that happened, starting with the day your mom—left.”