by Maggie Pill
“Well, I have a situation up here. A guy up on Mackinac Island called, and he has a horse that needs a place right away. He thought he’d get one more summer out of her, but it don’t look like that’s going to happen. She can’t pull, and he says her breathing ain’t right.”
“Oh, the poor thing!”
Dunham didn’t waste time echoing my dismay. “He wants me to take her, but my wife and I are trying to work our way out of the business. We’re getting old, and she wants to go to Florida in the winters. I’m not taking any more horses, and we’re trying to relocate the ones we’ve got now.”
As the purpose of Dunham’s call hit, I felt alternating waves of joy and anxiety. “You want us to take this horse for you?”
“Well, you’d be dealing with the owner. I just told him I’d contact you and see if you’re still interested.”
Clearing my throat, I said it. “Yes, we are. We have the space, and I spoke with a local veterinarian about care. She’ll donate her time if we pay for medicines and supplies.”
“Sounds like you’re going at it the right way,” Dunham said. “There’s another problem, though. The owner’s gearing up for the tourist season, and he’s crazy busy. He says he’ll split the expense if you can go there and take the horse off his hands.”
Though I hadn’t thought about going to Mackinac Island myself to get a horse, I had considered transport for them. The farmer who leases our fields, Chet Masters, owns a horse trailer, and he offered me the use of it a few days earlier in exchange for letting his daughter’s Arabian stay with my two on the farm.
“She had to have a horse,” Chet told me. “Then two years later she discovered boys. She doesn’t want her pet sold, but she doesn’t spend near the time riding she used to. The poor old thing is all alone over here. If you’ll keep her with yours, you can use my trailer as you need to. I’ll help out with feed too.”
“I think I can arrange to pick up the horse.” I told Mr. Dunham.
Walt gave me a phone number, and after two attempts, I reached a harassed-sounding man who admitted to being the owner of a twelve-year-old horse named Dolly. “She’s not deathly sick or anything,” he said, “but there’s something wrong with her lungs. Honestly, ma’am, I don’t have time to nurse her, and the tourists don’t like seeing sick animals. I don’t want the ASPCA or whoever up here hassling me, so the sooner she’s gone, the better.”
“I’m willing,” I said, “but how do I get her across the straits?”
“There’s a retired vet in Cheboygan who’ll bring her across and help load her into your trailer. I can call him and set it up.”
He made it sound as if he was doing me a favor rather than vice versa, but I didn’t care. There was a horse who needed me. My heart felt full. We had our first retired horse, and I intended to make her last days on earth peaceful and filled with love.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
Barb
Bill and Carla were coming out the drive when Rory and I turned in and met them halfway. They stopped and got out to greet us, and I told them Rory and I planned to walk to the cabin.
“Why would he be out there?” Bill asked.
“He knows it’s out there and stocked with food,” I replied. “He knows the police want to talk to him, and he might think they won’t find him out there.”
“We’re supposed to meet our lawyer early tomorrow morning,” Bill said. “We planned to spend the night with friends in Traverse City, but we can change it around if you need us.”
“We’re just going to check to see if anyone’s back there. It’s unlikely he’s there, so you two go ahead and do as you planned.”
Carla got into the car, but Bill hesitated. “Have you heard from Mom? She’s apparently lined up our first retired draft horse.”
“She found a horse?”
“I think it found her,” Bill said with a chuckle. “She said she might go today when Cramer gets off work, but it’ll be tomorrow at the latest. Apparently the animal’s pretty sick, and the owner doesn’t want the tourists to see it and assume it isn’t being tended.”
I wondered briefly how Faye and her sons would deal with the probability the horses they took in didn’t have long to live.
With one foot inside the car, Bill repeated his offer. “Maybe we should call and reschedule things.”
“No, really,” I told him. “If by some chance Sharky’s out there, we’ll call the sheriff in.”
Bill seemed torn until Rory repeated what I’d said, almost word for word. Nodding as if he finally understood, Bill got into the car and put it into gear. I glanced at Rory, who gave me a sheepish grin. Men hearing things from other men makes all the difference.
We watched Bill and Carla until they turned onto the road, their vehicle ticking like Captain Hook’s crocodile, then proceeded to the barnyard gate.
Rory and I walked up the hill together, entered the woods, and followed the path. As we approached the cabin, we stopped talking and watched where our feet fell. If by some chance Sharky was hiding out there, we didn’t want to broadcast our coming.
The cabin was quiet but not peaceful. We’d padlocked the door, but someone had torn it from its hinges. It hung crookedly to one side, pocked with sharp indentations, and I pictured Sharky beating it in with something, a tire iron, maybe. I felt a hitch of dread between my shoulders.
Rory stopped me with an outstretched hand. “Go back to the house,” he said softly. “As soon as you’re out of hearing, call Sheriff Brill and tell him to send at least four men. Wait for them and guide them out here. I’ll make sure he stays put.”
I opened my mouth to argue, but Rory turned slightly to show me the gun holstered at the back of his jeans. Trust a cop to be prepared. Squeezing his arm, I turned and hurried off.
When I was far enough away, I took my phone from my pocket and made the call. By the time I cleared the woods, I had Brill’s assurance he’d be there as soon as possible.
For half an hour I stood at the barnyard gate with nothing to do but listen to the silence. Pacing back and forth along the fence, I awaited the cavalry, disturbing the reindeer who followed my course, sniffing to see if I had anything to eat in my pockets.
The sheriff’s arrival took longer than I thought I could stand. At one end of my path I peered down the driveway to see if they were coming. At the other end, I craned my neck to see if there was anyone up by the barn. I listened for gunshots. I plotted what I would do if Sharky came running down the hill. By the time I finally heard a car turn in from the road and saw the sheriff’s brown cruiser coming toward me, I was nearly a wreck.
“Where is he?” Brill asked as he got out. A second cruiser pulled up behind him, lights flashing, and two young men in uniform got out. A few seconds later, a third car joined the others.
“It’s about a half mile back.” I pointed toward the woods.
Unsnapping his holster, Brill gestured in the direction I’d indicated. “Lead the way.”
With the sheriff and his deputies close behind, I retraced my path. We said little and spoke only in low tones, tensed and ready.
Our stealthy approach was unnecessary. We arrived at the cabin to find Rory standing in the doorway, his face grim. “He’s in there,” he told us, “but it’s too late. He’s dead.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Faye
When another call came from an unknown number, I again debated letting it ring. I had a lot to get done, but Retta had begun taking over the planning. Barb gets irritated when she does that, but I don’t mind. Retta’s very organized, and if a person’s willing to give up a little autonomy, she gets things done.
It was the office phone, though, so I felt compelled to answer. “Smart Detective Agency.”
“It’s Pastor Cronk at River Church.”
“Hello, Pastor. Faye Burner here. What can we do for you?”
“I’m hoping it’s the other way around. Ms. Evans asked who Ben McAdams counted as friends, and I should have been more fo
rthcoming.” He chuckled. “Your sister’s a formidable woman.”
I had to smile in response. “I think you’ve found the perfect word.”
“She ruffled my feathers a little, I’ll admit. I’m afraid she colors all of our congregation with the same brush.”
“Barb doesn’t tolerate inequality very well.” Remembering my loyalties I added, “I don’t much appreciate it either.”
“I won’t lecture you on Scripture,” Cronk said, “but after you left I prayed about my response. I answered your sister’s animosity with my own, which was a prideful mistake. I know things I should have told you.”
“What things?”
He sighed. “After Ben and Rose moved in together, I went out there quite often, feeling it was my duty to see them married. The world no longer requires it, but in our congregation, folks are encouraged to get their lives right with God.”
“Rose refused to marry Ben.”
“She did. In time I understood why. Ben was a good man in many ways, but he had blind spots. One of them was a friend of his, Richard Stark.”
“You met Sharky?”
“Only once, but I saw immediately that Rose didn’t like him. She tensed up whenever he came near her or one of her daughters.”
“And what was your impression?”
Cronk’s hesitation told me more than an answer would have. Finally he said, “I think he has a disturbed soul. I invited him to come to services at the church, but he seemed to think that was a joke.”
“Did Stark know any other men in your congregation?”
“Again, my conscience troubles me, but I feel I must be completely honest. I once heard Ben mention Floyd Stone to Mr. Stark. It was obvious they both knew him, because they joked about his size.”
“How well do you know Stone?”
He cleared his throat before answering. “He’s pretty quiet. Mostly he throws in an ‘Amen!’ when Colt speaks about women in the church.”
“Ten steps behind the menfolk, I guess.”
“Mrs. Burner, ours is a Bible-teaching church. We read and study the Scriptures and try to do as they instruct. I don’t want to imply that I disagree with Mr. Farrell completely, it’s just that—Well, to be honest, I’d find it hard to do what I do without the women of the church. If they can’t lead, we’ll have no choir, no Sunday school, and no one to do mission work. All of those groups are run by dedicated women.”
“So women can lead as long as it’s in service to the church.”
“Exactly. I’m very grateful for their help, so you can see it’s difficult for me to walk the line between the two sides. I know what the Bible says, but I suppose there were women in the background during our Lord’s ministry, seeing that things got done.”
Women in the background. I sighed. I wasn’t likely to convince Cronk that a woman’s brain was of as much value as his own or Colt Farrell’s. “Is there anything else you recall that might help us?”
“Nothing more. I’d help if I could.”
“We appreciate that, Pastor. Please call if you remember anything more.”
I called Barb to pass on Cronk’s information, but she didn’t answer. Knowing Rory was with her, I phoned him. He sounded tense, and I guessed they were in the middle of something. “Sorry to bother you, but I knew you’d want to hear this.” I related Cronk’s information, ending with, “You might talk to him yourself. I probably didn’t ask the right things.”
“You did fine, Faye,” Rory replied. “You’re the type people open up to.”
I chuckled. “Yeah, every cashier in every discount store in the world opens up to me: ‘I haven’t had a break in seven hours,’ ‘My son just called to tell me his girlfriend is pregnant’ ‘My back is killing me.’” I got back to my purpose. “Will you pass the information on to Barb?”
“I will,” he said, “but she’s with Sheriff Brill right now. We found Sharky’s body in your cabin, they’re discussing how she guessed where to look.”
“Sharky’s body?” I asked, horrified. “What happened to him?”
“It looks like suicide.”
“Looks like?”
I could almost see his shrug. “He was shot through the head, but I try not to jump to conclusions.”
“What does Barb think?”
“We haven’t had a chance to talk about it. Brill thinks Stark killed himself when the plot to assassinate Madame Bahn fell apart.”
His phrasing caught my attention. “What do you think?”
Rory sighed. “I’d be a lot more relaxed if we’d found the grenade launcher in the cabin with Stark’s body.”
“Maybe he hid it.”
“They’ve got men with metal detectors looking all over the farm. If it’s here, they’ll find it.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
Retta
The girls and I helped with cleanup after Madame Bahn’s speech, stacking chairs and picking up litter. On the way home we stopped at the grocery store for a few items. I got a kick out of seeing them choose what to buy. Iris read every label before deciding, Pansy wanted to try it all, and Daisy liked anything that came in a brightly-colored package. It was almost 3:00 when we reached home. As we unloaded my cloth shopping bags, Faye called to say she intended to head to Mackinac Island to pick up a horse.
“Who’s going with you?”
“Cramer said he’d leave work early. Bill and Carla are away until tomorrow night, but there’s a guy who’ll help Cramer and me get the horse across the Straits and into Chet’s trailer.”
“You and Cramer are going to bring a two thousand pound animal all that way by yourselves?”
“Sure.” She tried to sound brave, but I knew she must be scared half to death. Cramer knew even less than Faye did about horses. What kind of helper would he be?
“Faye Darlene,” I told her, “here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to call that man back and tell him you’ll come for the horse tomorrow. Have Cramer take the whole day off. I’ll follow you up there in case something goes wrong.”
“What about the girls?”
“They can come along. I’ll bet they’ve never been there, so while you’re making arrangements, I can show them the sights.”
Faye didn’t argue. It’s one of the things I like most about her.
An hour later, Barbara Ann called with a different kind of news. “Sharky is dead?” I repeated when she told me.
“Apparently he killed himself. From what people say, he was pretty unstable.”
“When the plan to kill Madame Bahn failed, he gave up?”
“Faye seems to think that’s likely.”
Of course she’d called Faye first.
“What do you think about Faye taking on another horse?”
“I think if she doesn’t do what she’s always wanted to do at her age, she’s likely never going to get to do it.”
“So the fact she plans to bring a sick horse all this way with just Cramer for help makes sense to you?”
“Cramer’s more capable than you think,” Barbara replied. “He’s just not one to jump up and take control.”
“That’s putting it mildly.” I outlined my idea for a trip. “Someone should be there in case the truck breaks down or something.”
“Why? Because Faye doesn’t have a cell phone and doesn’t know how to call for help?”
“You don’t have to be sarcastic, Barbara. I’m going for moral support.” An idea struck. “You should come along. We can show the girls the island, maybe have tea on the porch of the Grand Hotel. Wouldn’t that be a treat for them?”
“I can’t remember the last time I was on Mackinac Island.”
“It’s very educational,” I said, guessing that would sway her. “All that history. And Pansy will love the horses.”
“I suppose we could make a day of it. The girls certainly deserve some fun, and so do we after this last week.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
Barb
Retta probably thought
she was really clever to have talked me into a trip to Mackinac Island, but I meant what I said about all of us deserving a break. Faye, Retta, and I had been through a lot in the last few days. The Isley girls’ lives would never be the same. A day on the island is like a little escape from the world. It couldn’t restore their former happiness, but it couldn’t hurt.
What I needed at the moment was a Correction Event. I felt the urge to set something right, and I’d happened on an error very close to home that would be simple and satisfying to fix. At the corner of my block, a local artist had put up a sign to indicate she had handmade goods for sale. I’d heard she was quite talented, but sadly, she wasn’t grammatically aware. Her sign advertised ART’S & CRAFT’S, as if her arts and crafts owned something.
I’d seen the sign on my morning walk, noting its white background. The mistakes could be easily corrected with two small squares of white duct tape. I’d stop, ostensibly with some minor irritation like a pebble in my shoe. If no one was looking, I’d slap the tape over the offending apostrophes and be on my way.
There’s a saying that in theory, a practice should be easy, but in practice it seldom is. I should have waited until the next morning, but with the trip to Mackinac scheduled, I knew I wouldn’t have time to get my walk in. The day after the trip was a possibility, but I was eager to see those apostrophes gone. I should have waited. The chances of discovery are much less at 6:00 a.m.
At first it was as easy as I’d imagined. I took off my shoe, leaning on the sign as if for support. The squares of duct tape were inside my shirt, and I quickly peeled one then the other off, covering the offending apostrophes. To a casual observer it appeared I had to move my hand to keep my balance, and that was perfect.
What wasn’t perfect was the voice I heard when I put my shoe back on. “What did you just do?”
Retta had stopped her car in the middle of the street, and her expression betrayed surprise and a glint of humor. I berated myself. If I’d done this on my walk, she’d never have caught me. Retta seldom leaves her bed before 8:00 a.m.
I shushed her, approaching the car so we could speak in low tones. “Nothing,” I said, but she didn’t believe me for a second.
