Blackberry Burial

by Sharon Farrow

  “I told you,” Tess said.

  “What she’s not telling you is that I think I’m more excited about having a big party than actually getting married.” I sighed. “The whole idea makes me nervous. Maybe there’s a reason I’m thirty years old and never walked down the aisle.”

  “I think you’re gun shy about marriage because of the two men who did propose.” Like most of my friends, Alison knew the details of my checkered romantic past.

  “Max’s high school proposal shouldn’t count,” Tess said. “He was way too young. As for proposal number two, Fergus was not the right guy for her.”

  “Maybe if he had a different name,” Emma added with a wry grin.

  There was some truth to that. Fergus Fink was not the name I would have chosen for my beloved. But he’d been a sweet young man, and my first serious relationship after college. I loved him, too. I also loved my job at the Gourmet Living Network. When Fergus proposed during a romantic dinner at my favorite French restaurant, I kept fielding calls over the latest network crisis. He grew angry, I got defensive, and the evening ended with Fergus grabbing the ring hidden in my chocolate mousse and exiting the restaurant. And my life. After that, I vowed to concentrate on my career, along with men as work obsessed as I was. This decision hadn’t resulted in much personal or professional happiness, which was why I was back in Oriole Point about to marry Ryan Zellar this winter. If only I felt more confident about my decision.

  “Sometimes I think Tess has the right idea,” I said. “Why bother to get married at all? Maybe Ryan and I should just live together.”

  Alison frowned at Tess. “I knew you were a bad influence.”

  Tess held up her hands. “I have nothing to do with this.”

  “I’d believe that if there were wedding bells in the future for you and David.” Alison was a romantic at heart and something of a traditionalist. Married these past eight years to a doting husband, Alison had two adorable children and was proud to be a stay-at-home mom.

  “David and I are happy. I don’t see how a wedding would change anything.”

  “If that’s true, why not do it?” Alison was nothing if not persistent.

  “We might change our minds if we decide to have children. For now, it’s all good. Even my parents have stopped badgering us about getting married. And you know my parents.”

  Indeed we did. Tess came from a conservative Japanese family. Her parents and grandparents would be thrilled when she finally made her relationship with David legal.

  “Alison forgets Tess is a Bohemian.” I waved my hand in the air. “Devoted to the pursuit of love, art, and beauty. If this were the Roaring Twenties, she and David would be cavorting in Paris with Picasso and Gertrude Stein.”

  “Speaking of love, art, and beauty, what’s this about the body of a BAS student being found in the woods?” Emma said. “We saw the newspaper headlines about an hour ago. And Tess brought us up to speed when we stopped by her studio.”

  “I don’t think I knew the girl,” Alison remarked.

  “None of us did,” I said. “She disappeared years before we went to BAS.”

  Emma sat back. “This is sure to put a damper on the school celebrations. Some of the alumni due to arrive must have been her friends.”

  “I know one person who went to BAS that summer with her: Gordon Sanderling. He’s a local businessman, and his family’s lived in Oriole Point for decades.” Our server arrived with our gumbo. I waited until she left before continuing. “The body was found on his property.”

  “It does look suspicious,” Tess said.

  Our friends stared at us in horror. “The killer is in Oriole Point right now? I thought this murder happened twenty years ago.” Emma’s hazel eyes grew so wide I feared a contact lens might pop out.

  “You need to tell the police,” Alison said. “They have to arrest Gordon Sanderling! What if he shows up at the BAS reception tonight?”

  “Guys, keep it down,” I warned. “We’re not the only ones having lunch out here.”

  Two tables away sat three older women, all of them local residents. One of them was Suzanne Cabot, mom to the Cabot brothers. If Andrew and Dean were the heat missiles of gossip in our small town, Suzanne was the mother ship.

  “We don’t want to give those quidnuncs anything to talk about,” Tess added in a stage whisper.

  My friends looked puzzled, but Tess was reminding me that those local ladies were notorious gossips, or quidnuncs. Tess and I met as fifth graders while competing in a statewide spelling bee, one in which we tied for first place. We had been friends ever since, while also retaining our love of obscure and archaic words. It often served as our secret code.

  I waved to Suzanne, who waved back. Leaning across the table, I said, “Suzanne’s sons work for me. She’s also the receptionist at the local police station, where she’s probably gleaned a few extra details about the murder.”

  “Why haven’t they arrested this Sanderling person?” Emma asked me.

  “Nothing concrete to charge him with, at least not yet. That poor girl was buried on his property twenty years ago. And Theo Foster, my baker, attended the same summer session at BAS as Gordon and Sienna. Lucky for him, he has an alibi. The police are probably looking into Gordon’s background, trying to find something incriminating.”

  “If Sanderling didn’t kill Sienna Katsaros, it’s possible someone at the school did. One of the students maybe. Or even one of the teachers.” Tess appeared ill at the thought.

  Alison seemed just as distressed. “I can’t believe this. I look back at my two summers at BAS as some of the happiest of my life.”

  Emma nodded. “I hope a stranger is responsible for this terrible crime, not someone from Blackberry.”

  “Does this Gordon person seem like a typical murderer?” Alison asked.

  Tess and I exchanged glances. “What does a typical murderer look like?” I asked. “As for Gordon, I don’t know him all that well. He owns a big plumbing supply company in nearby Holland. And he lives alone on the old family farm.”

  “Has he ever been married?” Emma looked up from her gumbo.

  “Don’t know,” I answered. “But he probably had a serious relationship at some point. Gordon’s in his late thirties, at least six feet two, thick black hair, broad shoulders.”

  Emma whistled. “He sounds hot.”

  “Only on paper. He’s pretty out of shape. And last summer, I hired his company to replace the copper pipes in my house. I didn’t enjoy dealing with him at all. He was abrasive and rude.” I perked up at the sight of our entrees. “Lunch has arrived. Let’s spend the rest of the time talking about anything other than murder or Gordon Sanderling.”

  “Fine with me,” Alison said. “I have more I want to say about weddings and marriage. I’m not giving up on either you or Tess.” She pointed at Emma. “After all, if this party girl finally walked down the aisle, there’s hope for anyone.”

  I welcomed the change of subject. Despite my concerns about marriage, it was a more benign topic than murder. Even if I did suspect it held almost as many hazards.

  * * *

  The lunch lasted longer than anticipated, but I needed the girl talk and the laughs. The Boatswain’s legendary giant onion rings were an added bonus. But I had to get back to work, and Tess left early after a phone call from David alerted her a client from Chicago had come looking for her. I handed over my house keys to Emma, with instructions to not let my bird, Minnie, out of her cage until I got home. Standing at the foot of the riverboat’s gangplank, I waved to Emma and Alison as they pulled away in their rental car.

  “Friends from out of town?”

  I spun around and met the curious gaze of Suzanne Cabot. “Yes. We all attended summer sessions at Blackberry Art School. They’re here for the centenary.”

  “Ah yes, the BAS centenary. It’s gotten off to a terrible start, hasn’t it? Piper must be frantic about that skeleton you found. She’s worked so hard to put together events for th
is week. And now one dead body threatens to ruin everything.” She gave a deep sigh.

  Suzanne often performed in the winter stage productions at Calico Barn. Unlike the professional actors who appeared each summer at the Oriole Point Theater, the Calico players were all amateurs, albeit enthusiastic ones. Since Suzanne was as animated offstage as she was on, it seemed as if the curtain never came down for her.

  “Keep in mind it’s a body that’s been buried for two decades,” I said. “It’s not like someone was murdered last week. Most of the alumni here this week never knew the girl.”

  Taking me by the arm, she led me a few steps away. I wasn’t certain why. There was no one in the immediate area, and her lunch companions were nowhere in sight.

  “I heard one of the people at your table mention Gordon Sanderling. You’re probably suspicious about him. If not, you should be. The police have learned Gordon knew Sienna Katsaros. And you found the body on his property. There’s talk at the station that an arrest is imminent.”

  “Could be no more than gossip, Suzanne. The case isn’t even in the jurisdiction of the Oriole Point police.”

  She raised a dramatically shaped eyebrow. Like her sons, Suzanne never left the house without being well groomed. For Suzanne, that included bold choices in make-up and accessories. Today, she boasted Joan Crawford brows and chunky jewelry gleaming like gold bars in the July sun. With her teased reddish brown hair and plus-size figure outfitted in a floral silk jumpsuit, she turned as many heads as her fashionable sons. Although her style choices often made Andrew and Dean cringe.

  “The police don’t deal in gossip, Marlee.”

  “I beg to differ. What else have you heard?”

  “They’re looking into Gordon Sanderling’s past. His disturbing past.”

  Now she had my interest. “How disturbing?”

  “He went through an ugly divorce years ago. Someone he met when he went off to Minnesota to attend college. The marriage didn’t last much beyond graduation. As far as I know, they never lived in Oriole Point. He went to school in Duluth, and they got married there. The girl was the daughter of a local congresswoman. I think the last name was Poe, like the writer of those scary stories. Gordon must have been unhappy about the divorce because around the same time charges were brought against him.”

  “What kind of charges?”

  “Harassment. Stalking.” Her grip on my upper arm tightened. “I heard Officer Davenport talking with the chief this morning. Because they kept their voices low, I could barely make out what they were saying. But a woman accused Gordon of stalking her sixteen years ago. He got divorced around the same time. It must have been his ex-wife who filed charges.”

  “I’m sure the police will be talking to her.”

  “That may be difficult.” Suzanne paused. “No one knows what happened to his ex-wife.”

  Although the day was warm, I felt chilled. “What does that mean? Did she go missing?”

  “I’m not sure.” She looked unhappy. “Everyone’s being tight lipped down at the station. It’s hard to find out much of anything.”

  “This sounds bad for Gordon,” I said. “Two women he knew in the past twenty years just up and vanished.”

  “Now one of them has been found.” Suzanne leaned even closer. “Between you and me, I wouldn’t be surprised if his ex-wife’s body is also buried in those woods.”

  Chapter 11

  Fireflies seemed to outnumber people at the Blackberry Art School’s welcome reception. Given that over three hundred guests were in attendance, the fireflies were putting on quite a show. And it was dusk: the optimal time for these glimmering creatures to go into their mating display. Everywhere I looked, fireflies twinkled in the bushes, shrubs, and grass. The curved shoreline of the surrounding bayou already made the location scenic and tranquil; the lightning bugs pushed the vista into magical.

  “This place is wondrous,” Alison said with a touch of awe in her voice.

  “It is beautiful.” I gazed out at the bayou, its calm surface reflecting the last of the rosy sunset. Also reflected in the water were the strings of white Christmas lights strung over long wooden buffet tables. And a tempting buffet it was: platters heaped with chicken wings, beer steamed shrimp, fish tacos, cole slaw, and three different kinds of salads. I had already sampled everything and was waiting to digest it all before going back for seconds. Especially the blackberry balsamic–glazed chicken wings.

  “I’m glad I wore long sleeves tonight. Otherwise the mosquitoes would have eaten me alive.” Emma gestured at her white cotton dress. Since she worked for Ralph Lauren, it likely came from his latest spring collection. Although the flared collar and midcalf skirt were the height of summer fashion, I knew it was the dress’s white color that helped protect Emma. Having grown up surrounded by water, I knew all the tricks—scientific and homespun—about keeping mosquitoes at bay.

  Alison smacked at her forearm. “They’re biting me like crazy.”

  “I told you not to wear black. Mosquitoes are attracted to black and red. Bright floral colors, too.” At least I had convinced her not to wear perfume. “And they seem to prefer biting blondes and redheads over brunettes. Sorry.”

  Alison smacked her leg next. She wore a sleeveless mini dress, exposing enough skin to qualify for an insect smorgasbord. “I guess blondes don’t always have more fun.”

  “Lucky the rest of us are brunettes.” Emma winked at Tess and me.

  “That dry mountain air in Colorado has made you forget how humid Michigan summers can be,” Tess reminded Alison. “We have a lot of water around here, girl.” She peeked over our shoulders. “Hold on. Is that Kurt and Denny? I haven’t seen them in fourteen years.”

  She hurried to greet two fellow glass artists from our long-ago summer sessions at BAS. We had all been experiencing similar encounters since arriving at the bayou. Every five minutes, another familiar face from summer school appeared, followed by kisses, shouts, and hugs. I actually burst into tears at my first sight of the woman who taught me to silk-screen.

  Next it was Emma’s turn to cry out in surprise and delight. “Ali, I think that’s the Kleinbender sisters.” She pointed at three women standing near the makeshift bar.

  After Alison and Emma ran offhand in hand, I turned to see Atticus Holt making his way toward me. He was in uniform once more, signaling he was here on official police business. “We have to stop meeting like this,” I said when he reached my side.

  He chuckled. “You’re looking very bridal tonight.”

  I glanced down at my white slacks and white silk blouse. “This is a little casual for a wedding.”

  “But you do have flowers in your hair. White flowers, too.”

  I reached back to touch the French braid that hung down my back. “One of my houseguests insisted on weaving daisies in my hair. Emma’s job revolves around lifestyle tweaking and the perfect finishing touch. As soon as she spotted my garden daisies, I knew I was about to be finished off.” I smiled. “Seems a little Boho to me, but it makes Emma happy.”

  “Me too. You look beautiful tonight, Marlee.” As soon as he said this, Holt must have remembered I was engaged. “I assume your fiancé is with you. I’d like to meet him to extend my congratulations on the upcoming marriage.”

  “You have time. We’re not getting married until January.”

  Holt glanced over at the waters of the bayou, now darkening as night fell. “Until I got here, I thought calling this place Blackberry Bayou was a mistake by some founding father. But it actually is a bayou. I went to college in Louisiana and I know a bayou when I see one.”

  “The Oriole River takes a long, lazy curve here. Also it’s shallow; no more than three feet deep. Great for kayaking. Birding too.” I lowered my voice. “Have you learned anything further about Christian and Leah?”

  He nodded. “Tina Kapoor, the current BAS president, pulled up that summer’s records for us. You were right. Leah Malek was a cabinmate of Sienna’s. Christian Naylor belong
ed to her age group, too. He’s thirty-eight years old, born and raised in Chicago. His dad is an architect, a profession the son also took up. Naylor’s mother is a well-known nature photographer, and his grandmother was the first African American student to attend BAS.”

  “Do the Naylors still live in Chicago?”

  “His parents and sister moved to Atlanta years ago. But Christian lives in San Diego now, and he’s supposed to attend the centenary. Don’t know if he’s arrived yet. However, I can’t go around asking every African American man if his name is Christian Naylor.”

  He was right; dozens of African American men were in attendance tonight. At first I was surprised one of them wasn’t Mayor Pierce, otherwise known as Piper’s husband. Since they were Oriole Point’s power couple and presided over everything in the village except for kiddie birthday parties, their absence was noted. However, Piper and Lionel had been invited to a sunset cruise on a friend’s yacht. A cruise that included another prominent couple: the governor and his wife. Small wonder Piper ditched the BAS welcome reception for such a social coup.

  “Has Leah Malek arrived?”

  “I spoke with her earlier today. But I don’t see her at the moment. I also have the names of the students who roomed with Gordon Sanderling.”

  “Theo could help you identify Christian,” I told Holt. “Only I’m not sure he plans to show up tonight.”

  I looked out over the crowd. The Cabot brothers currently held court near the fire pit, and I recognized at least thirty local alumni enjoying themselves. Some sat on picnic benches or Adirondack chairs; others strolled along gravel paths that led along the bayou or uphill through the pine trees to the cabins and various art studios.

  “I don’t see Theo. But there’s my fiancé.” I pointed to the four people en route to the screened-in gazebo near the dining hall. “The tall, blond guy is Ryan. If he were closer, you’d see how good looking he is. And how lucky I am.”

  “If you ask me, he’s the lucky one.”