I exchanged amused looks with the Cabot boys. “This has turned out well,” I said. “Piper gets to update her bathrooms and the rally has a new starting point. I’ll correct the posters and send them off to the printer today.”
“I only hope no one taking part in the road rally is superstitious,” Dean warned. “The farm is supposed to be haunted.”
“What?” This was news to me.
“Everyone knows that.” Andrew shrugged. “At least everyone our age does.”
I found this a bit insulting. Granted, Piper was closing in on fifty, but I was only thirty. Only six years separated me from the youngest Cabot brother.
“I’ve never heard anything so absurd.” Piper sounded as if she had taken offense as well. “Why would the place be haunted? As far as I know, nothing interesting has ever happened to a Sanderling, on or off the property. And Gordon leads a life as dull as his plumbing business. He uses the barn out there to store surplus pipes and sinks.”
Since Gordon ran the largest plumbing supply company in west Michigan, this seemed a logical use of the property. Certainly, none of this lent itself to rumors of a haunting. Of course, I wasn’t completely up to date on rumors in our village. Although I was born and raised in Oriole Point, my parents moved to Chicago when I was eighteen, while I headed off to New York University. After graduation, I remained in New York City, thrilled to be working for the Gourmet Living Network. Things became far too thrilling when one of the chefs on a cooking show I produced decided to murder a fellow chef, who also happened to be her husband. The resulting publicity and trial convinced me to return to my hometown two years ago and open up The Berry Basket. I had never regretted it. Not only was my business a success, I was surrounded by friends, my parents were only a two-hour drive away, and I was engaged to Ryan Zellar, maybe the best-looking country boy in the state.
“The only weird thing I remember hearing about the Sanderling farm is that UFOs were spotted there in 1975,” I said.
“What next?” Piper gave an exasperated sigh. “Leprechauns dancing in their pasture?”
“Everyone who’s ever gone there after dark has been totally creeped out,” Andrew added.
“I don’t know why anyone would be at the Sanderling farm after dark unless they were a Sanderling.” Piper narrowed her eyes at Andrew. “Or trespassing.”
“If it isn’t haunted, then it’s unlucky,” Dean persisted. “Even our mom talks about the Sanderling farm being a bad-luck place.”
“Why? Because their winery business went bust?” I asked. “If so, that’s pretty lame. People go out of business all the time.”
“There’s a bad vibe out there,” Andrew said. “You can feel it. Dean’s right. Pick another spot to start the rally. Otherwise you could jinx the whole thing.”
Piper snatched her Birkin from the counter. “If you ask me, it’s the Grunkemeyers who jinxed my plans by painting that silly cow on the barn. But Gordon has saved the day by letting us use his property. I won’t have any ghostly gossip putting a damper on things.”
“Maybe we can use the Sanderling farm again for next year’s road rally. The theme can be ghosts and ghouls.” I made a scary face. “Zombies, too.”
“Given how much work we have to do today for the rally, we’re moving as slow as zombies.” Piper flung open my shop door. “Let’s go, Marlee.”
“She’s right, guys. Before I change the poster artwork, we need to check out the haunted Sanderling farm. But if we’re not back by noon, call the police.” As I trailed after Piper, I turned to give them a wink. “Or a ghost hunter.”
* * *
Piper was not happy I insisted we take my car rather than her white Hummer. But she always drove well under the speed limit. I couldn’t bear the thought of crawling at thirty miles an hour while every other driver in the county zoomed past us. And as someone who tried to be ecologically friendly, I felt guilty whenever I found myself a passenger in her Hummer. None of us could figure out why Piper had such an affection for the gas-guzzling monster, especially since she and Lionel also owned a new Lexus, a Porsche, and two BMWs. But who had the time to figure out why Piper loved her Hummer? At the moment, I was trying to understand why there was a hulking Great Dane in my backseat.
In fact, I was so surprised when Piper had brought the dog out of her Hummer that I’d simply opened up my rear car door for him without a single comment.
“He’s mine,” Piper said, taking note of my stunned expression. “His name is Charlemagne.”
I kept looking at the dog in the rearview mirror as we now drove up Lyall Street. Like many things in the village, it was named after Piper’s family “I never pegged you for a dog lover,” I said finally. “Especially one the size of a small horse. When did this happen?”
“Lionel’s always wanted a dog, but they’re so messy and loud. Not that I don’t find some dogs quite adorable—especially the small ones—but they require too much attention. And you know how busy I am running the Visitor Center. However, after that nasty murder business last month, Lionel insisted we needed extra protection. Aside from our home security system, of course. We’ve only had Charlemagne a week. I do admit it was an adjustment at first.”
I suspected it was far more of an adjustment for her household staff.
“His previous owners called him ‘Charlie,’” she continued, “but Lionel and I thought a dog of such imposing dimensions deserved a grander name.”
“He is big.” The sound of his panting literally thundered in my ears. And every time I looked at my rearview mirror, a large pair of curious dark eyes stared back at me.
“I must admit I’ve grown fond him,” Piper went on. “Lionel adores him. He even lets Charlemagne sleep in our bedroom, although thankfully not on our bed. Not that all three of us could fit in the bed. Despite his size, he’s only a year old.”
I glanced over my shoulder. His body took up the entire backseat. “Is he still growing?”
She frowned. “I hope not. Anyway, I have your aunt to thank for him.”
A devoted animal lover, Aunt Vicki ran Humane Hearts, a sprawling animal shelter on over twenty acres of farmland in Oriole County. I had fostered a number of animals for her these past two years but managed to avoid adopting any of them. Like Piper, I thought I was too busy to properly take care of a pet. That changed with the arrival of a talkative African grey parrot dubbed Minnie, who was too delightful to resist. Within five minutes of meeting the clever bird, I had adopted her.
“You lucked out. Aunt Vicki doesn’t get a lot of purebreds surrendered to the shelter.”
“Vicki Jacob has connections, my dear. She had Charlemagne transferred from a Great Dane rescue organization in Indiana. Your aunt delivered him right to our doorstep.”
That didn’t surprise me. Last year, Aunt Vicki was responsible for rescuing a panther and two lions from some nutty survivalist in the Upper Peninsula. The gorgeous wildcats now resided at a wildlife park in California. I had no idea what had happened to the survivalist.
I snuck another peek at Charlemagne. Having been in my car a few minutes, I guess he decided it was safe to relax. When he threw himself down on the backseat to stretch out, I swear the car shuddered. “I’m not sure we’ll need him as our bodyguard today. I don’t expect the Sanderling farm to be particularly dangerous. Unless one of us steps on a post auger.”
“I’d love to know who told Carol Grunkemeyer she was an artist.” Piper shook her head. “You should see that cow on their barn. It’s huge. And orange! I swear, it looks like a drunken giant got hold of a paintbrush. One with no artistic talent, by the way.”
“I’m sure it’s not that bad.”
“Why else do you think those tourists wanted to take a picture of it? What an awful thing to have up there for anyone to see driving by. And in a year when BAS is celebrating their centenary. Visitors may think the cow was painted by one of their students. I should ask Lionel if he can find some town ordinance about graffiti. He may be able to fo
rce her to paint over it.”
“Let it alone, Piper. Besides, the barn is on their property. It’s not like Carol painted on the walls of city hall. And I think it’s sweet. The Grunkemeyers loved their cow so much, they wanted to immortalize her after she died.”
“A shame they didn’t have her stuffed.” She smoothed down her chin-length blond bob, an unnecessary gesture since her hair was always sprayed and styled to perfection. “At least we’ll have nothing like that to worry about at the Sanderling farm. If memory serves, there’s a long driveway to the farmhouse and a graveled lot beside it. Should be more than enough to hold all the starting cars for the road rally.”
“How many have registered so far?”
“Twenty-nine cars have signed up, but I’m capping participation at thirty-five.”
“Why cap it?” I asked. “The more people who register, the bigger the winning pot.”
“Too many cars driving helter-skelter along country roads in search of clues can lead to disaster. By the way, I looked over your artwork for the poster. The colors are a bit too saturated. Tone it down before sending it to the printer. Although it’s far superior to some of our past road rally posters. Last year, Cindy at the cheese shop volunteered to design a poster and it had to be redone five times.” Taking a deep breath, Piper launched into a litany of past road rally mishaps.
I was content to let her take over the conversation. Now that we had left the village limit—and the tourist speed traps our local police had set up—I stepped on the gas, confident I could make good time along Blue Star Highway. The Sanderling farm was about eight miles from downtown Oriole Point, most of it along two-lane country roads. I was briefly tempted to stop by Zellar Orchards and spend a few minutes with Ryan. But it was Fourth of July week and I didn’t want to be away from the store any longer than necessary.
Enjoying the summer breeze, I hung my elbow out the window. If Piper hadn’t been sitting beside me, I would have plugged in my iPod so I could sing along with Adele, Beyoncé, Taylor Swift, and Rihanna on my Diva playlist. Instead, I listened with half an ear to Piper while enjoying the country scenery: farms surrounded by grassy pastures, cows milling near wooden fences, undulating rows of apple trees, fields of cornstalks, and blueberry bushes that stretched to the horizon. Interspersed with the bucolic charm were several barns converted into antique stores or quilt shops, roadside fruit and vegetable stands, and a one-room schoolhouse now serving as an art gallery.
I braked at the next crossroad, waving at the teenage girl who rode past on a shiny black horse. I recognized her as Courtney O’Neill, the daughter of a nearby blueberry grower. Gordon Sanderling’s property was only half a mile away.
When I turned up the long graveled drive belonging to the Sanderling farm, Piper was just finishing her tale about the Raspberry Road Rally of 2009, when two of the cars took a wrong turn and drove right into Turtlehead Creek.
“No one will end up in the creek this year,” I reassured her as I parked the car near the pebbled path that led to the farmhouse. “That new subdivision blocks access for miles.”
Charlemagne let out several deafening barks when Piper and I got out of the car. With leash in hand, Piper went to open the back door. While she did, I looked around.
Gordon’s acres appeared well maintained. The pasture that supported dairy cows three generations ago had been neatly mown, and the farmhouse looked like it had a fresh coat of gray paint. Numerous tire tracks in the gravel and dirt around the barn indicated recent activity. A third of the property still retained the last of the grapevines not destroyed by the fungus that had spelled doom for the winery. And a thick wall of trees stood about a hundred yards away on the east end of the property; dandelions dotted the field between the house and wooded area. If this was what passed for a haunted farm these days, kids must be easily frightened.
“Wait, come back!” Piper shouted. “Charlemagne, stop!” I turned in time to see the Great Dane bound past me. Still barking—this time in joy at being let loose—the overgrown puppy raced across the grass and headed for the trees.
“I’d go after him if I were you,” I advised Piper. “And when you get him home, I’d add a dog trainer to your staff.”
She stomped over to me. “Look at that dog. He’s moving faster than a cheetah. I’ll never be able to catch him, especially wearing these.” Piper pointed at her five-inch wedged sandals.
“What do you suggest?”
Piper shot me a sheepish look. “You’re the only one here wearing running shoes.”
I turned to see Charlemagne disappear into the trees. “Why should he come to me? I only met him twenty minutes ago.”
She pulled a doggy bone from her blazer pocket. “He’ll come to anyone offering a doggy treat. But hurry. I don’t want him getting lost on the property.”
I took the leash and dog treat from her. “Fine. But while I’m gone, check out the parking area. You might also want to look for hidden post augers.” Setting off toward the wooded area, I yelled back, “And next time, wear sensible shoes!”
When I reached the trees, there was no sign of Charlie, except for his excited barking.
“Charlie, come here!” While Piper preferred the aristocratic moniker of Charlemagne, the dog had been called Charlie for a year and would probably respond quicker to that. I headed in the direction of the barks, taking care to step over the roots and uneven ground. A branch caught my shirt and snagged it. Thankfully, I was dressed casual: jeans and a Berry Basket T-shirt.
“Charlie!” I whistled several times. “Come here, boy!”
This elicited another series of barks, along with the angry chattering of a squirrel who stared down at me from the branches of a tree. I wondered just how large this forest was. At first glance I had taken it for a small stand of pine, but it now seemed much denser and included white hemlock, oak, and ash trees, with ferns scattered along the grassy floor. I’d spent enough time hiking in the state forests to recognize the scat of deer, which was evident. I was also having a difficult time stepping over rocks, vines, and an increasingly thick groundcover. I’d already tripped and fallen twice, both times praying I hadn’t landed on a clump of poison ivy.
“Charlie, come over here! I’ve got treats. C’mon, boy.” Not only was I frustrated to have lost sight of the huge dog, I began to worry I might get lost. The nearby state forest could well be connected to the Sanderling property. If so, I’d be tracking that dog for miles.
When I no longer heard barking, I stopped. How fast could Great Danes run? Now that I wasn’t batting away low-lying branches and stepping on crackling twigs, an unexpected silence greeted me. Only the sound of a rose-breasted grosbeak met my ears. I’d been a fool to come charging into this place alone, especially with my skewed sense of direction. I was grateful it was late morning, although the tall trees allowed in little of the sun. Accustomed to the wide blue vista of Lake Michigan outside my windows, I felt uneasy in this dimly lit forest. Now I knew why the Brothers Grimm set so many of their tales in the woods.
A wild blackberry bush ten feet away rustled. I froze. Was that a deer? Or was Dean right? Was this place haunted? I wished the Cabot boys hadn’t mentioned the rumors about the Sanderling farm. I worried about who—or what—might be in here with me.
With a jubilant bark, Charlie burst out of the bushes toward me. I let out a sigh of relief as he pranced back and forth, tantalizingly out of reach. Trying to calm down my racing heart, I held out the doggy treat. With a happy yelp, he took the treat from my hand. He only needed two bites to finish it off. Murmuring endearments, I scratched behind his ears as I tried to slip the leash over his head with my other hand. Thinking this was a great new game, Charlie snatched the leash and ran off.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” I raced after him. “Charlie!”
The leash clenched between his teeth prevented Charlie from barking, so I needed to keep close behind him. But he not only was the size of a small horse, he could run as fast as one, too.
Five minutes later, he disappeared. This was ridiculous. Needing to catch my breath, I stopped and fished my cell phone from the messenger bag slung across my chest. I didn’t care if Piper was wearing designer stilts. Charlemagne was her dog, and she was going to come in here and track down her monster puppy.
Before I could call her, loud barks broke out to my left. This time I was the one to burst through the bushes. He wasn’t getting away again. But Charlie stopped barking as soon as he saw me. I knew now why he had been quiet for the past few minutes. He’d been digging away in the dirt, which he resumed upon my arrival. I looked for his leash and spotted it a few yards away, half buried by the dirt he flung to all sides. I picked up the leash before Charlie could get to it first. As soon as I did, I also spied what appeared to be an animal bone. Most likely a deer.
But when I turned to see what Charlie was digging up now, my heart sank. It was another bone, but not one belonging to a deer. In fact, it was far more than a bone.
It was a human skull.
Chapter 2
The Sanderling farm probably hadn’t seen this much activity since the summer of 1975 when flying saucers were rumored to be spotted over their pasture. Things grew so hectic after I found the skull, I would have welcomed a UFO. It might have been able to transport me back to my shop in Oriole Point. Instead, I found myself knee deep in police officers . . . again. After the Bowman murder last month, I had had my fill of police and their probing, suspicious questions. Now it looked like I was about to be in for another round of interrogation. Not that I blamed them. If I were the police I’d want to question me, too. I only wish I had answers.
As soon as the industrious pup had unearthed the skull, I called Piper on my cell. Still determined to prevent her white pants and expensive sandals from being damaged, the infernal woman had never even tried to find me. Instead, she waited by the car until the state police arrived and sent them off into the woods in what she hoped was my general direction. By the time they discovered us, Charlie had dug up what looked to be an entire skeleton. I tried to put the leash on him, but every time I got close, he barked and scampered away. In the end, I had no choice but to let him dig as I sat on a nearby fallen log, praying no more bodies surfaced. The only thing to be grateful for were the wild blackberry bushes surrounding me. I ate about five fistfuls of the fruit while trying to avoid the sight of a human skeleton being unearthed.
Blackberry Burial Page 2
