When Michael Calls

by Farris, John

  "Please don't touch anything inside if you can avoid it."

  "Why would I do that? Should I fix the lock on the door when I leave?"

  "Might be a good idea." Doremus strolled around the barn to Hap's car. The sheriff had come down from the house and was talking by radio to his office.

  "Any problems with the bees?" Hap said, after he'd replaced the radio microphone.

  "No." Doremus produced the cellophane sack he'd made. "I borrowed one, if you don't mind."

  Hap grimaced. "Take 'em all. Old Elsa's going to have the lot burned anyhow."

  "Is she? That's a shame. Looks as if the only German bees the doctor had were the ones that took after him. I suppose these are the U.S. variety of Germans, and not imported. There are a couple of nice colonies of Italian bees in there, and two hives of Caucasians. Both fine breeds, and not excitable. Cyprian bees are probably nastier than the Germans, but they're yellow. I didn't notice any dead yellow bees around the spot where he died."

  The sheriff smiled a lopsided, admiring smile. "So you're a bee expert."

  "Not at all. My Uncle Swen keeps bees on his farm in Wisconsin, but I've forgot half of what I ever learned from him. Believe I'll give him a call."

  "Find out something interesting?" Hap said quickly.

  "Can't say that I did, but I'd like to know what would make those German bees swarm so suddenly that an experienced beekeeper would panic. He was just a few feet from the door, and safety, and he'd been bitten before, I'm sure. I think maybe a couple of hundred of them stung him at once."

  "Even an autopsy couldn't determine that. Is it unusual?"

  "Damned unusual." Doremus put his dead bee back in a pocket of the windbreaker and stood smoking and gazing at the blue sky. Hap nibbled at a thumbnail.

  "This was an accident, wasn't it, Doremus?"

  "I don't think Britton was a fool, and he was sure to be cautious around an open hive of German bees. Yet they swarmed on him. Well, maybe that's an act of God or something. How often was he down here, Hap? Two or three days a week?"

  "More often than that. I'd say nearly every afternoon."

  "So if I wanted the doctor for something, I could count on finding him around his apiary late in the day?"

  Hap nodded. "What are you thinking about, Doremus?"

  "I'm wondering if he had company just before he died, other than Harry Randle."

  "I've talked to everybody who was on the place at the time. Except for Randle, the hands are scared of the bees; the stay well away from here. All right, what if he did have company?"

  Instead of replying, Doremus asked, "Did you show that photograph to Mrs. Britton?"

  "Yep. She'll swear on a Bible she was looking at Michael Young. There was fog, she says, but she saw him clear as day. Can you beat that?" He blinked his reddened eyes and looked hard at Doremus. "Now what are you thinking?"

  "I think it's possible there was a ghost inside the barn before the bees swarmed and killed the doctor," Doremus said, looking perfectly serious.

  "I'll be . . ." Hap started, and dried up, and then said, with some seriousness, "You a ghost expert too, Doremus?"

  "No. But I have an aunt in Indiana who's gotten a rise out of a few spirits. Maybe I'll give her a call."

  "God damn it, Doremus—"

  Doremus gave him a level look. "If it wasn't a ghost, then I have to believe in the possibility of a nine- or ten-year-old homicidal maniac. That possibility freezes my blood. Those bees were made to swarm, Hap. I'm not sure how yet, but I think I can find out if you want me to."

  "He was murdered?"

  "That's the tricky part. I don't think murder could ever be proved."

  "God damn it," the sheriff said despairingly. "What are we in for?"

  "Well, it's still awhile to deer season, Hap, and you weren't doing anything anyway."

  Chapter 6

  Doremus owned several wooded acres and a small house built on a mighty slab of limestone overlooking a wide stretch of the spring-fed Competition River; the half-mile-long part of the river was not deep enough to be called a lake but here the often turbulent river slowed and eddied peacefully much of the year, turning a deep green color, and so someone a long time ago had tagged the place Harmony Lake. Not far from Doremus's front porch there was a waterfall that twined and trickled down the rock surface to the water, and enough sun penetrated the brassy autumn foliage to keep his house from growing damp and musty.

  The house had been in terrible shape when he'd moved in and he'd spent most of one winter learning the roofer's trade, a feat for a man who'd never held a hammer before. He was now a reasonably skilled carpenter who tackled ambitious projects—an extra room, a rebuilt front porch—with success.

  Most of Saturday afternoon following his visit to the Britton farm he spent on his hands and knees nailing porch flooring in place, watched over by three railbirds named Tim, Maisy and Seth, who handed down tools or nails when he asked for them and managed to stay out of his way.

  The telephone inside the house rang for what seemed like the tenth time that afternoon.

  Maisy turned to Tim, who beat her to the punch by saying vehemently, "It's your mother!"

  "It is not!"

  "Somebody answer that," Doremus said patiently.

  Seth, with a superior look, said to Maisy, "She thinks you fell in the lake by now."

  "I went last time," Tim grumbled.

  Doremus pounded another nail. "I'm expecting a long-distance call," he said.

  The three railbirds were silent and acted stone deaf. Each was afraid that it might be his mother after all, and he would have to go home.

  "OK," Doremus said with a sigh, and he got up creakingly.

  The caller wasn't his Uncle Swen in Wisconsin, it was Helen Connelly.

  "Mr. Brightlaw, I'm terribly embarrassed to call, but you were so nice to Peggy this morning that I wonder if—" She lost her voice momentarily, then continued in a rush, "Peg's not there with you, is she?"

  "No, I haven't seen her since I left your house, Mrs. Connelly. Is she missing?"

  "I'm . . . afraid so. I drove Peg to the Methodist Church early this afternoon with several of the other neighborhood children to rehearse for the reunion—the whole thing was going to be called off, but Elsa heard and said no, Andy wouldn't have wanted it that way. Well, I left the children at the church and went on to Elsa's. I had intended to stay about an hour, but once I got there I felt I just couldn't leave right away, and then when I reached home a little while ago Peggy wasn't here. One of the mothers was supposed to drive her home but there'd been a lot of confusion at the church, of course, with a hundred boys and girls—"

  "Peggy doesn't have another hideout, does she?"

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "Other than the tree house."

  "I see what you mean. No, only the tree house. I called everyone I could think of, but Peggy's not visiting any of her usual friends. Then I tried the church, and Reverend Bartlett remembered seeing her with Maisy Duncan, and that's how the whole thing has gotten around to you." Helen laughed, but clearly she was worried. "Peg's not a thoughtless child, and she's not given to wandering off—"

  "Let me see what Maisy has to say," Doremus suggested, and called the little girl into the kitchen. "Did you talk to Peggy Connelly today?" he asked her.

  Maisy nodded. "At the church."

  "Did Peggy ride home with you?"

  "No, sir."

  "Did your mother bring you home?"

  "No, sir."

  "Who did?"

  "I forget."

  "Could you try to remember?"

  Maisy made a stab at concentration, her eyes on the ceiling. "Mrs. Cummings."

  "Did Peggy tell you where she was going to be this afternoon?" Maisy shook her head. "OK," Doremus said. "There's root beer in the icebox. Would you help yourself and give a couple to the boys?" Doremus repeated what Maisy had told him for Helen's benefit.

  "I'll just have to get in the car and go looking
. I'm sorry again for—"

  "Excuse me, Mrs. Connelly. . . What was that, Maisy?"

  Blonde Maisy was on tiptoe, reaching into the refrigerator. "Said she was going to look for Michael."

  "Peggy said that? Why didn't you tell me before?"

  Maisy shrugged and carefully set another bottle of root beer on the floor.

  Doremus glanced at his wristwatch. It was five minutes past four. His hand was covering the speaker of the telephone receiver. "Michael who?" he asked.

  "Wellll . . . I don't know."

  "The opener's right there on the cabinet, Maisy." Doremus looked dubiously at the receiver in his hand and then said to Helen, "Maisy remembers now that Peggy mentioned something about going to look for Michael."

  After a two-second hesitation Helen said in a low voice, "Dear God."

  "Mrs. Connelly, I'd like to help you look for Peggy, unless you have some other ideas about where she might be."

  "I don't, no. Should I call the sheriff?"

  Doremus responded to her hint of fear by saying, "I doubt that'll be necessary." He glanced at Maisy, who was prying the caps off the bottles of root beer. "Right now I have company," he told Helen, "and it will be about ten minutes before I can start them home. If you wouldn't mind driving down this way . . ."

  "Not at all," Helen said instantly.

  "Good. I'm at the end of Competition Road, where it turns to gravel."

  By the time Helen Connelly reached Doremus's house the sun was low in the trees, its light clear but remote, and where Doremus stood waiting the porch was dark.

  Helen said when they were underway, "I don't understand what would compel Peg to go off on her own—she isn't that adventurous. She must still be very upset with Mi—with whoever-he-is. I explained to her as carefully as I could that Michael Young died many years ago, but of course she talked to 'Michael' on the telephone, so he seems as real as any of the boys she knows." Helen smiled tensely. "He seems real to me."

  "Where is the Methodist Church, Mrs. Connelly? Almost in the village, isn't it?"

  "Yes, it's at the corner of Scotia and Pine."

  "Did Peggy have any money with her?"

  "I think she had about twenty cents in her purse."

  "Chances are she got as far as the village center, then decided to have a soda. Now she's wondering how to get home."

  Helen, who was ready for any agreeable explanation of Peggy's absence, said ruefully, "I must be losing my mother's instinct. That's what she's done. I'll bet she's in Huffaker's right now, talking Charley's ear off. Charley was her summer's love—he's fifteen, and he taught her to swim." Helen slowed for a stop sign. The sky in the east was darkening from rain clouds. "I'm afraid I've wasted quite a lot of your time, Mr. Brightlaw. There's no point in your riding all the way to the village with me if you'd rather—"

  "It's no waste of time. And, uh, if you don't mind—uh, Doremus?"

  "If I can stop being Mrs. Connelly."

  He smiled fitfully, and Helen made a small discovery: earlier he had seemed preoccupied, even obtuse to her, but in fact his manner was due to shyness, or—she changed her mind again—timidity. An unusual trait for a policeman, or ex-policeman, Helen thought. He seemed young to be retired. Perhaps he hadn't been Very good with people, and consequently not good at his job. But, no, Hap Washbrook had seemed almost in awe of him, and Hap customarily deferred to no man.

  "If I may say so, you know a great deal about children and their ways, Doremus. Do you have children of your own?"

  "No. My sister has quite a brood though. So Marian and I sort of borrowed her kids from time to time."

  "You're married then?"

  "Was married. Say, do you mind if I smoke a cigar?"

  Helen didn't mind, and once Doremus had his cigar going he lost a certain amount of his reserve, or timidity, or whatever it was, and seemed more at home with her. The sun was setting, filling the inside of the car with a golden light; the storm clouds ahead were dark blue and resembled a vast mountain range dwarfing the ridges and hills of the land of The Shades.

  Helen double-parked in front of Huffaker's sandwich shop and went in, but she was back quickly, shaking her head. "Charley hasn't seen her today. Let's see . . . the variety store is closed, but there are two other places Peg likes to visit."

  They drove across long-unused railroad tracks to the south edge of town and the local Dairy Dreme, but Peg wasn't there either, they could see that without leaving the car; and she wasn't in Coyle's bakery watching the hot bread loaves come off the line.

  "I'll call home," Helen said, but she got only Brenda, who reported that Peggy had neither "showed her face" nor called.

  When Helen returned to the ranch wagon the sky was two-thirds dark, and Doremus was starting his second cigar. For half a minute Helen sat with her hands on the wheel, not knowing where to go, and then she said, giving up all pretense of good cheer, "This is beginning to scare me. It's ten after five."

  "Chances are she's with a friend," Doremus said calmly. "Dinnertime will come before long and Peggy'll remember she has a home. It might be best if you went back to your house, because she's bound to call. You can leave me at the Trailways depot; the six-o'clock bus to Polar Bluff will drop me off five minutes from my place."

  "I wouldn't think of doing that," Helen said automatically, staring at the lighted telephone booth she had just left. Her skin looked preternaturally white under the sodium-vapor parking-lot lamp and her curled lip seemed frozen, sickened. She said, with an audible intake of breath, "What I'm afraid of now . . . She wanted to find Michael. Instead he found her. Again. And this time he didn't run away."

  Doremus turned his head sharply. "Would you tell me that again?"

  "When I showed Peggy Michael Young's school photo—the same one I gave to the sheriff—she said, 'Oh, yes, I've seen him.' And when I asked her where—" Helen broke off, looking astonished. "That's where she is! She saw this boy she believes is Michael on the school playground two or three weeks ago. As far as Peggy is concerned, that's the place to look for him again."

  The Shades consolidated school, located directly under Constable Ridge, was less than half a mile away along the same road they were on. There were asphalt parking lots on both sides of the four-building complex and playing fields behind it. The front of the school and the parking lots were well lighted. Helen made a single sweep around the school, but neither of them saw Peggy. She then stopped behind the cafeteria and Doremus got out, looking across the playing fields to the black rise of the heavily wooded ridge.

  "I see somebody," he said. "Honk your horn." Helen leaned on the horn and also rolled down her window and called.

  Presently Peggy came running through the gloom and arrived out of breath and red in the face. Helen was both angry and concerned at the sight of her daughter.

  "I've been searching for you," she snapped. "All over."

  Peggy looked at Doremus and then at her mother, and said nothing.

  "Well, get in the car," Helen said.

  "I'm sorry you're mad."

  "I'm sorry you've made me mad."

  "I wanted to see Michael," Peggy explained, in a low voice.

  "Peggy—" Helen started ominously, but Doremus cut her off.

  "Did you see him?"

  Peggy eyed Doremus again, and decided she had an ally. "No. He lives in the woods. But he didn't come out today. I wanted to tell him"—Peggy's mouth turned down and her face looked redder than before—"I wanted to tell him to leave us alone, and not . . . not hurt anybody else. Like he hurt Andy." She lowered her eyes and stood looking miserably at the ground.

  "Baby," Helen said, more gently, "please get in the car now."

  "I don't want to . . . if you're going to be mad at me."

  "I'm not mad anymore. We'll just forget about the whole thing. And we'll forget about Michael too."

  Peggy was struggling not to cry.

  "I called Brenda, and she said we were having chicken dumplings for supper. Maybe if y
ou ask Doremus, he'll stay and eat with us."

  Peggy wiped her eyes and forgot her unhappiness at the prospect of company. "Do you want to stay?" she said to Doremus.

  "There's only one thing I like better than chicken dumplings," Doremus replied.

  "What?"

  Doremus took the cigar from his mouth, studied the ash in a perplexed way, then hunched his shoulders and shook his head. "I forget," he said.

  Peggy smiled a tiny smile, and they all got into the ranch wagon, Peggy in the middle where she could dial the radio. She found a station playing hillbilly music and settled back to enjoy it.

  Over the din Doremus said to Helen, "What's on the other side of that ridge? It's on the way to the Greenleaf School, isn't it?"

  "Yes. I'd say Greenleaf is about two miles beyond the ridge, possibly a little less."

  "Not too long a walk for a ten-year-old boy with an itch to travel," Doremus murmured, but Peggy had turned the volume on the radio up, and Helen couldn't hear him.

  After supper Peggy amused Doremus by showing off her favorite antiques while Helen did the dishes. Peggy's favorites numbered in the hundreds and she could talk about them almost as well as her mother could, but Doremus's interest and patience never seemed to waver. Helen didn't know if he cared for antiques, and ordinarily she would have called Peggy off after a few minutes to give him a rest; however, she had a notion that Doremus would have been as disappointed by this as Peggy. Helen was eager to talk to him about the "Michael" mystery, but she decided to wait until after he completed the long-distance call which earlier he'd asked to make.

  Outside, the rain had begun to come down heavily but peacefully, without wind or thunder. Helen had a second cup of coffee in the kitchen after loading her dishwasher and then went in search of her guest, who was sitting on a horsehair settee in what had been the parlor of the house, cigar smoke curling around his head, while Peggy explained the purpose of a Georgian silver pap dish.

  "Doremus has a telephone call to make while you put all those things back," Helen said.

  "Then I think I'd better be on my way."