Calling out greetings to people I knew, I threw candy to both sides of the street, setting off a scramble as kids raced to see who could snatch the most. We were still at the beginning of the parade route and a tunnel of trees shaded us as we marched downhill to Lyall Street. While tourists made up the bulk of the crowd along the downtown streets, these blocks were residential and I recognized virtually everyone who watched us from the sidelines. Most had brought out lawn chairs and sat on their front curb to enjoy the festivities. A few sipped lemonade and beer, their pet dog lying nearby. Talk about a front-row seat.
Because the road led downhill, I had a bird’s-eye view of the beginning of the parade up ahead. As always, the Oriole Point High School marching band kicked off the fun; their drum majorettes high stepping with even more brio than Dean on his stilts. Hot on their heels rode a vintage car carrying Piper and her husband, Lionel. Granted, he was our mayor and had every right to be leading off the parade, his devoted wife by his side, but the two of them had led the parade years before he took office and would no doubt continue to do so long after he stepped down. Every year, they borrowed a different vintage car from the Oriole Antique Car Club. Their parade car this year was a 1929 fire engine red BMW roadster. The choice of vehicle raised a few eyebrows; there were lots of American vintage cars they could have chosen. But Piper’s fondness for BMWs won out.
Aside from the Lyall-Pierce German car, most parade floats were patriotic and homespun. Zellar Orchards was represented by a large open tractor filled with bales of hay and a half-dozen Zellars dressed as bucolic versions of Paul Revere and Molly Pitcher. Because Ryan refused to dress up, he chose once again to drive the tractor. A shame. I would have loved to see him outfitted in tight breeches and a tricorn hat.
Right behind me were the cast members of Grease, all of them in costume. Oriole Point boasted a first-class theater on Barlow Avenue, begun years ago by native son Daniel Garrett, who went off to New York City to direct plays off-Broadway. He returned each summer to unveil three entertaining productions, with the musical Grease starting things off this year. I smiled each time I caught sight of Danny Zuko, Sandy, Rizzo, Kenickie, and Frenchy waving from a pink T-bird convertible. While technically not a patriotic float, the Pink Ladies and Greasers of the 1950s seemed as American as Thomas Paine. And a lot more entertaining.
“Marlee! Marlee!” Natasha shouted. Beside her was Old Man Bowman. Both of them waved American flags while relaxing in camp chairs on the curb.
I tossed a few candies her way. Old Man Bowman caught them before they hit the ground. Although seventy years old, his reflexes were impressive.
Both had dressed for the occasion. Natasha wore a sleeveless red mini dress and a wide hat decorated with red, white, and blue stars. Her patriotism wasn’t feigned. She had been studying for her citizenship test for the better part of a year. As for Old Man Bowman, he had traded his usual khaki cargo shorts for a white pair to go along with his annual American flag T-shirt. He also went the extra patriotic mile by threading red, white, and blue yarn in his white hair, which he always wore in a thin braid down his back. They won the award for Oriole Point’s Oddest Couple. None of us were certain if this was a May-December romance, or simply two free spirits linked through Natasha’s marriage to Old Man Bowman’s nephew. And while both of them had no affection for the late Cole Bowman, I still couldn’t figure out exactly what had transpired between them since Cole’s death. To be honest, I didn’t really want to know.
By the time we reached Lyall Street, Gillian and I had refilled our candy baskets, and little Skye seemed in the throes of sugar overload. With a worried expression, Gillian handed him off to his mother as soon as she caught sight of her along the parade route.
“I’m grateful he still has his baby teeth,” Gillian said to me. “Otherwise, my sister would be billing me for future visits to the dentist.”
“I’m more worried about his stomach,” I said, pulling the red wagon behind me. “He’s probably eaten a pound of candy and there’s still the big barbecue in a few hours.”
Gillian laughed. “I’ve seen Skye eat everything from a fistful of beach sand to an entire bag of taco chips. He’ll be fine.”
As enthusiastic as the crowd was on the way here, everything got louder and more congested once we hit Lyall Street. Like many resort villages along Lake Michigan, the streets leading to the beach and harbor comprised the business district. The Oriole River flowed right through the center of town, making its way past the shops, marina, and our white stone lighthouse before it emptied into the lake. Lyall Street ran right along the river, serving as our small-town version of Fifth Avenue. While our commercial district was only a few blocks long, it boasted a rich variety of unique shops and restaurants, along with a breathtaking view of Lake Michigan. Visitors loved to stroll past the shops and cafés, along River Park and the marina, and right out onto the beach. I was born and raised here and I never tired of it.
At the moment, all I could see were flags and parade viewers three deep along the sidewalk. I hoped Dean had remained upright on his stilts, especially since several parade participants were roller blading. I waved at Aunt Vicki, who was also in the parade, accompanied by some of her rescue animals. She and the volunteers of Humane Hearts were marching to help promote the good work of her shelter. They had set up a tent in River Park for this weekend where people could meet and greet a few of the animals available for adoption.
Although I was having fun, I looked forward to reaching the end of the parade route. I’d been up since three o’clock this morning to help Theo with the baking. Theo only worked Monday through Friday, which meant he put in extra hours on Friday mornings in order to bake enough pastries to see us through the weekend. Because demand was even higher due to the holiday, I came in before dawn to lend him a hand. He was as industrious as usual but barely said ten words to me during the hours we worked together. Even for laconic Theo, this seemed odd behavior. However, the long silences were less important than our goal of producing an absurd number of pastries in a short amount of time. And there wasn’t much for us to talk about since I hadn’t heard anything further from Captain Holt. I reminded myself that this mystery concerned the police, and maybe Theo. I had a business to run and a parade to enjoy.
Two blocks from the end of the parade route, it became even more enjoyable. The cast of Grease jumped out of their convertible and began to dance. A minute later, Gillian and I found ourselves bopping along the street with Danny Zuko and Kenickie. Suddenly I felt like Olivia Newton-John doing the hand jive with John Travolta. The crowd clapped and hooted as we swung our way down Lyall Street, my candy basket left behind to be pillaged by children.
Laughing as the actor spun me about, I felt thrilled to be acting out my teenage fantasy of dancing on Broadway. Surrounded by people having the time of their lives, it felt like nothing could go wrong on this glorious summer day. But as I kicked up my heels, I caught sight of Captain Holt and Detective Trejo watching me from the curb. Since they were both in uniform, I had a sinking feeling the day was about to take a less festive turn.
* * *
“Are you sure you don’t want a hot dog?” I smeared my own with liberal amounts of mustard and relish.
Trejo looked at me and my hot dog with obvious disapproval. “No thanks. And you should know they’re one of the unhealthiest things you can eat.”
I waited until I had enjoyed my first big bite before answering. “It’s the Fourth of July. Everyone eats hot dogs. Like everyone eats pumpkin pie at Thanksgiving. Or sugar cookies during Christmas.”
“I don’t,” he said curtly.
Somehow that didn’t surprise me. Trejo seemed like a man wary of simple pleasures. This didn’t seem to be the case for Captain Holt, now enjoying his own hot dog beside me. As soon as I arrived at the end of the parade route, both men had approached me to announce they had news concerning the body in the woods. Since I was starving, I first led them to one of the food trucks lined up alon
g River Park.
Leo’s Lakeside Eats was my favorite of the temporary venues open for business during our downtown festivals. Nothing fancy: hot dogs, hamburgers, gyros, and the best chili outside of Detroit. We sat at one of the small makeshift tables set up near the food trucks. Because an art fair was in full swing at the park, people milled about everywhere. The noise level was high.
Clasping his hands, Trejo placed them on the white table. The surface must have been sticky since he immediately pulled his hands away. “Can we talk about the Katsaros case now?”
“Is that what it’s called?” I took a long sip of my root beer.
Holt nodded. “The name Theo Foster gave us checked out. Twenty years ago, Sienna Katsaros from Lawton, Oklahoma, was a student at the Blackberry Art School. Three days before the session ended, she disappeared. The school notified the police, who began looking for her. Two articles of her clothing washed ashore on one of the Oriole Point beaches twenty-four hours later. A search-and-rescue team went out on the lake, but no body was recovered. The authorities believed she had drowned, and the probable death was ruled an accident.”
“I remember the case,” Trejo added. “I was in high school. A lot of attention was paid to the disappearance. It was the only time a BAS student had died during a school session. Of course, anyone who lives here knows there are drowning deaths every summer. People often go swimming in the lake after they’ve had too much too drink. And out-of-towners don’t realize how treacherous a riptide can be. Sienna Katsaros may have been a victim of both.”
“Did people assume the girl had been drinking?” I asked.
“Newspaper accounts and police records state she had a reputation for drinking at the school.” Holt shrugged. “Then again, she was eighteen and away from home for the summer. She can’t have been the first BAS student who partied at night once classes were over.”
“Her exact whereabouts that day and night seem sketchy,” Trejo said. “The summer session was winding down. A few kids had already gone home. Technically, her age group had to be in their cabins by midnight, but she could have headed off to the beach instead.”
“How in the world did she get to the woods at the Sanderling farm? It’s miles away. The farm has no connection to the art school.”
“It has one,” Holt told me. “Gordon Sanderling was a student at BAS that summer.”
I nearly choked on my hot dog. Of all the people I would have pegged to be interested in art, Gordon Sanderling would be last on the list.
“Are you certain the remains are those of Sienna Katsaros?” I asked.
“Yes,” Trejo stated emphatically. “Because the body wasn’t recovered, the Katsaros family insisted on continuing the search. Local law enforcement stayed on the case, and the family also hired private investigators. But after five years, the case had grown cold. Even the family agreed the official cause of death was likely correct. However, the police had dental records of the girl on file. We used them to confirm the identity of the remains that you found.”
“Theo was right.” Finished with my hot dog, I sat back and wiped my fingers on a napkin. “That means he’s telling the truth when he says he made the charm bracelet for her.”
“It also made him a prime suspect for a time.”
“But why would he admit knowing who the body was if he had killed her? It doesn’t make sense.” I stopped. “Wait. You said he was a suspect ‘for a time.’ Does that mean he no longer is?”
“We’ve looked into the backgrounds of several people these past few days, including Mr. Foster,” Holt said. “As he told us, he went back home to Illinois before Sienna went missing. His mother died four years ago, but we spoke to his father, two aunts, and a cousin. All of them swear he was with them that week, which includes the day Sienna went missing. Theo also started a part-time job at the local Baskin-Robbins in Champaign that day.”
“Too bad,” Trejo said. “He had a great motive.”
“What are you talking about?” I whirled on him. “Theo said he loved her.”
“Exactly. This awkward, simpleminded boy—”
“He’s not simpleminded.”
“This odd boy develops a crush on a girl,” Trejo continued. “A girl who appears to have been something of a queen bee at BAS that summer. Lauded by the instructors, winning every award. Surrounded by a clique of friends. Someone out of Theo Foster’s league.”
“He did say everyone was jealous of Sienna,” Holt reminded me. “Maybe he was jealous, too. But for romantic reasons.”
“If he’d been jealous of her, Theo would have told us. He’s the most honest person I know. Sometimes, I wish he wasn’t. Never ask his opinion about what you’re wearing. Or if he likes your boyfriend.” Along with Piper, Theo did not like Ryan.
“It doesn’t matter,” Holt said. “He has an alibi. The same can’t be said for Gordon Sanderling.”
I had never had much interaction with Gordon Sanderling. His business and personal interests didn’t coincide with mine. But the thought that he may have killed someone twenty years ago was upsetting. Since I grew up in Oriole Point, the longtime residents were like extended family. I didn’t want to believe one of them was a killer.
“Have you questioned him?”
“Yes, with his attorney present. And we’ll continue to question him until we ascertain exactly what happened on his property twenty years ago.” Trejo’s stony features seemed Mount Rushmore–like. “We’ve also spoken with his brothers and sister now living in Florida. They all seemed as shocked by the discovery of a body on their property as Gordon Sanderling was.”
Holt finished off his root beer. “Mr. Sanderling has the only real connection to the victim, given that he and Sienna were at the school together. He’s officially a person of interest.”
I thought Gordon had a lot to worry about. “Having that huge stand of woods on the property makes it easy to conceal a body.”
“Let’s not rush to judgment,” Holt said. “The Sanderling farm connects to the state forest. If the murderer was a local resident, he would know that. Anyone who wanted to bury a body could access those woods from the Oriole River State Forest.”
Sitting back, I rattled the ice in my own root beer. Deep in thought, I was only vaguely aware of all the tourists laughing and moving past our table. “Does the medical examiner have any idea how Sienna died?” I asked finally.
“The body was buried too long ago,” Holt said.
“Unless the killer confesses, we may never know how she died,” Detective Trejo added.
“Do you think there are other bodies buried out there?” I shivered at the thought.
“The cadaver dogs haven’t discovered anything so far,” Trejo replied.
Holt pushed his paper plate aside and leaned over the table. “Gordon Sanderling gave you and Mrs. Lyall-Pierce permission to begin the Blackberry Road Rally at his farm. Had you been on his property before?”
“Never. Although it was my idea to start the rally there after our first choice fell through. Because it’s not a working farm any longer, I didn’t see why he would turn us down.”
“Several people in the county claim the farm is haunted.” Holt paused. “Cursed even. What do you know about that?”
“The first I heard about those stories was the day I found the body, which seems ironic. Two of my employees warned me the farm was haunted, but they had nothing concrete to back it up with. I’m guessing the weird rumors stem from the UFO incident in 1975.”
“Why hadn’t you heard any of these rumors until this week?” Trejo asked.
“After I went off to college, I spent ten years away from Oriole Point, except for holidays or family reunions held at our lake house. I wasn’t around long enough to hear the latest gossip and rumors. Plus, my parents and I were never friends with any of the Sanderlings.”
Trejo raised an eyebrow at me. “Bad blood between the two families?”
“Not at all. We simply had no reason to socialize with them. T
he only thing we have in common is that the Sanderlings and my family once were in the fruit-growing business. Grapes for them, berries for us. Aunt Vicki and my dad mismanaged the orchard business and lost it to the bank. The Sanderling winery failed because the vineyards were hit with a fungal disease.”
“Were you surprised when the other members of the Sanderling family sold their share of the farm to Gordon, and then moved out of state?”
“I have no idea when they left,” I told Trejo. “Or why they sold the farm to Gordon. All I do know is when I returned from New York, Gordon was the only Sanderling living there and his focus was on the plumbing business. I hired his company last year for a job at my house, but that’s pretty much the extent of my relations with Gordon. At least until this past Monday when he ordered Piper and me to get off his property.”
“Mrs. Lyall-Pierce didn’t know about these rumors when we questioned her again yesterday.” Trejo seemed unhappy by this. “That strikes me as strange. The mayor’s wife is reputed to know everything that goes on in Oriole Point. Why not this?”
“I asked her about that. She said she confines her interest to the village, not the surrounding farmland. That makes sense. Piper isn’t the bucolic type. Why do you care so much about these silly rumors anyway? Obviously the farm isn’t really haunted.”
“True,” Holt said. “But rumors like that might prevent people from trespassing on the farm or the woods. Something a murderer might find desirable, especially with a body buried on the property.”
I sat back as the logic of this dawned on me. “Do you think Gordon began the rumors to keep people away?”
Blackberry Burial Page 8
