The Deadly Fields of Autumn

by Dorothy Bodoin

  The little restaurant with its wraparound border of green clovers was another favorite, the place I counted on when I wanted to save time with take-out dinners or talk to Annica, my friend and sometime partner in detection. She was a part-time waitress and an English major at Oakland University. Since school started, I hadn’t had time to visit Clovers and hear the latest news.

  I found a parking place at the end of the lot in the shade and reached for Bronwyn’s leash. “We’re going to have lunch,” I told her, “and there’ll be a little surprise for you.”

  Again she came with us willingly.

  “It would be nice to have a collie,” Miss Eidt said. “I guess people would say I’m too old to adopt one, though.”

  “Not at all.”

  I had no idea how old Miss Eidt was, but whatever her age, she was young in all the ways that count. In her love of sweets, for example, which were displayed in the dessert carousel that greeted Clovers’ patrons as they walked through the door.

  A glimmer of an idea sprang to life but vanished in the wake of Miss Eidt’s cry of delight.

  “They have lemon meringue pie!” she said. “I must have some for here and a slice to take home.”

  Annica came forward to greet us. She was dressed for the season in a burnt orange sheath. Tiny scarecrow earrings danced between strands of her red-gold hair, and a bracelet of autumn leaves made of enamel encircled her wrist.

  “We have lemon cake, too,” she announced. “It’s Lemon Week.” She glanced at Bronwyn. “I see you have a special guest.

  “Her name is Bronwyn,” I said. “Is it all right if I leave her in your dog room?”

  “Sure. We have two tables and chairs for people. Shall I serve your lunch there?”

  “That might be best. Otherwise she might feel that she’s been abandoned.”

  “She isn’t one of yours then?”

  “Bronwyn is a rescue. I’m going to take her to Sue Appleton.”

  “This way then.”

  Clovers’ back room was an airy space furnished with two café tables and chairs. A shelf contained a variety of dishes for dogs.

  “I’ll bring her a bowl of water,” Annica said.

  We ordered roast beef sandwiches and two cheeseburgers—without onion or lettuce.

  “Is that Crane’s dinner?” Annica asked. “Won’t he want a few sides and dessert?”

  “The cheeseburgers are for Bronwyn,” I said. “She doesn’t look underfed, but I doubt they gave her cheeseburgers at her last home.”

  “Lucky dog,” Annica said, extending her hand to Bronwyn for a sniff. “Clovers’ burgers are the best.”

  I hoped Bronwyn would be lucky in other ways.

  When Annica brought our order, she said, “I love this time of the year. I love my new classes, my life, the weather, the leaves—everything.”

  She didn’t have to add Brent Fowler. Foxglove Corners’ illustrious red-haired fox hunter and perennial bachelor had a major claim on her affection. Annica’s crush on Brent had developed into a fledgling relationship. She wouldn’t talk about her romance with Brent in front of Miss Eidt, though.

  “What else is new?” I asked her.

  Her eyes sparkled. The topaz eyes of the little scarecrows also sparkled.

  “Brent and I are keeping an eye on the mysterious violets,” she said. “There are about a dozen of them now. They look as fresh as they did when they first opened.”

  Miss Eidt looked puzzled. She didn’t know about the wildflowers that Brent and Annica had planted on Brent’s property where the palatial pink Victorian house had once stood. Or that the first violet had appeared in a cloud of mystery. Some of us thought the spirit of Violet Randall who had lived in the house had sown that first seed.

  Annica told Miss Eidt the story. “I won’t be surprised if they bloom in the snow,” she said in conclusion.

  “That will be a sight to see,” Miss Eidt said.

  “Hey, Miss. A little service here, please.” The voice, jarring over the subdued hum of conversation, carried all the way to the back room.

  “That was for Marcy. She must be getting busy out there.” Hastily picking up her order pad, Annica said, “Gotta go.”

  Neither Miss Eidt nor I, and certainly not Bronwyn, lingered over our lunch. Miss Eidt was anxious to plow through her box of Gothic novels, and I wanted to get Bronwyn settled in her new home. She had wolfed down the cheeseburgers and lay watching us, front paws crossed.

  I had called Sue to inform her of the imminent arrival of a new rescue but had to leave a voice mail. I hoped that Sue wouldn’t be too surprised.

  ~ * ~

  As president of the Lakeville Collie Rescue League, Sue was used to collies appearing on her doorstep. At present she had three collies at her ranch, all rescues she had adopted. Sue raised horses and gave riding lessons to several young students, but finding good forever homes for bereft collies was her passion.

  She was raking leaves and twigs into an enormous pile that would soon be blazing, sending the smell of burning leaves into the air. Being able to build bonfires was one of the many joys of living in the country. I was glad we were free to do so without having to adhere to pesky home association rules.

  As usual her collies, Icy, Bluebell, and Echo, were outside with her, chasing one another around the farm and occasionally lapping water at the dogs’ pail. Echo tried to interest Bronwyn in their game, but Bronwyn moved closer to my side, almost smashing me against the corral post. It was clear that she wasn’t used to being around other dogs.

  Sue pushed her strawberry blonde bangs back and eyed Bronwyn with surprise. Apparently she hadn’t received my message.

  “Who have we here?” she asked.

  “Her name is Bronwyn.”

  As I summarized the tale of how I’d acquired her, Bronwyn flattened her ears and lifted her left paw in a clever Lassie imitation. She knew how to win a human heart.

  “Selling a dog like a decoration is outrageous,” Sue said. “There should be a law against it.”

  “I guess it’s one step above being taken to the pound.”

  “She’s beautiful. I hope I can find a home for her, but you know how difficult it is to place older collies. People want puppies or younger dogs.”

  I did know. An idea that I’d had a few days ago resurfaced.

  “Some do,” I said, “but not everybody. I’ve heard that some rescues have begun pairing geriatric collies with senior citizens.”

  “I don’t know,” Sue said. “Would seniors have time to take care of a dog?”

  “More than young people with careers and families. We have to find the right prospective owner and a dog that would blend into the person’s lifestyle. No bouncing puppies.”

  Sue warmed to the idea. “A person who lives alone and might be lonely, or a couple. A gentle dog like Bronwyn would make the perfect companion for somebody who moves at a slower pace. They’d still have to meet our requirements.”

  “Of course. They’ll fill out an application, agree to a home check…”

  “Not every senior will have a house with a fenced yard,” Sue pointed out.

  “Well, people who live in apartments wouldn’t be likely to consider a large dog anyway. With this program, we won’t have that heartbreaking problem of what to do with an older collie who can’t find a forever home,” I added.

  “Emma Brock is the only one of our members who will foster a geriatric collie. I could keep one here at the ranch, but a dog like Bronwyn might be happier if she were the only dog in the house.”

  “We’ll have to start compiling a list of possible owners,” I said. “I have another idea. I know a reporter, Jill Lodge, who works for the Banner. Maybe she’ll write a story about our rescue and mention our new program.”

  “We’re due for some publicity.”

  Sue took Bronwyn’s leash. Bronwyn cast me a worried look.

  “It’s all right, girl.” I said, giving her a farewell-for-now pat on the head.

&n
bsp; She whined and fixed me with her soulful stare. Oh, no. She couldn’t have become attached to me already.

  Sue pulled a biscuit out of her jacket pocket. Bronwyn sniffed at it politely but didn’t take it. Possibly because she was full. She’d just eaten two cheeseburgers. Or apprehensive.

  Sue set the biscuit on the grass. “Hopefully we’ll find you a nice home, Bronwyn.”

  “For that article, Jill can take a picture of you with Bronwyn,” I said.

  “But it’s your idea, Jennet. You deserve all the credit.”

  “I’d rather stay anonymous,” I said.

  I didn’t share Sue’s desire for publicity. I’d be happiest working on the sidelines, compiling our list, and waiting for Bronwyn’s perfect owner to appear.

  Three

  Home was a green Victorian farmhouse on Jonquil Lane with a stained glass window between twin gables, gingerbread ornamentation, and a spacious porch furnished with white wicker furniture. I shared my dream house with my husband, Deputy Sheriff Crane Ferguson, and seven collies. Two of the collies had their faces squashed against the bay window, and all of them were barking.

  If you want to be sure of your collies’ undying love, leave them alone for even a short time. With the estate sale, lunch, and the visit to Sue’s horse farm, today’s wait had been long. They were accustomed to us leaving for the day during the week, but somehow they knew that today was Saturday. That meant no school. Play time.

  They would also soon know that something was different by the scent of another canine on my person.

  Carrying the television set, I entered through the kitchen door and greeted every one of my leaping, joyous brood by name.

  Halley, a sweet tricolor collie, was the only one of the seven who wasn’t a rescue. Then came Candy. When it looked as if I had lost Halley forever, an enterprising urchin had presented a tricolor Halley-lookalike to me hoping I’d give him the reward money.

  I’d rescued the timid blue merle, Sky, from an abusive situation, and Gemmy, a sable, who had been accused of causing her owner’s fatal accident. Star, also sable, was one of those older collies whose family no longer wanted her.

  Misty, my white collie, had appeared on our doorstep one snowy Christmas Eve, and Raven, a rare bi-black who liked to live outside, was recovering in the house from an accident.

  To say the humans were outnumbered in our home was an understatement.

  I had planned an easy dinner for tonight: steaks, baked potatoes, and salad. After taking a quick shower and changing into a dress, I finally had a chance to sit quietly and try out the new television set.

  I plugged it into the counter outlet and turned the ‘on’ button. An expanse of rolling green meadow filled the small screen. It looked like the same program that had aired when I’d tested it at the estate sale. At least three hours ago.

  How was that possible? Unless it was one of those marathons like A Christmas Story that play continuously for twenty-four hours at Christmastime.

  That was it.

  “There’s no mystery here,” I said aloud.

  I turned to the second of the three channels, saw a close-up view of the same meadow and heard background music, a nostalgic, melodious sound.

  For heaven’s sake! Try the third channel.

  Now the scene was different, the main street of a town in the Old West. I saw a hotel named the Pink Palace, a saloon, a general store, and horses. Several horses, some tied to hitching posts, others carrying riders.

  Impulsively I played with the channels. All three were airing the same movie. This was certainly not an everyday occurrence.

  Did I just say there was no mystery here? I’d spoken too soon.

  ~ * ~

  With their uncanny ability to hear faraway sounds, the collies alerted me to Crane’s imminent homecoming while his Jeep was most likely still on Jonquil Lane. They grew restless and gravitated toward the kitchen door, except for Sky and my recovering invalid, Raven, who still moved slowly. They were both resting under the oak table.

  He came through the door, bringing a blast of warm autumn air with him, along with a few flyaway leaves.

  Crane is tall and blond although strands of silver have stolen into his hair, complementing his marvelous frosty gray eyes. He is always handsome, but in his deputy sheriff’s uniform with its badge, especially so. His presence lit up the house with color and energy.

  As usual he had to wade through a wave of excited collies to reach me.

  At his entrance, I had turned off the television set. A stagecoach had just lumbered onto the screen. At least the story was moving forward.

  “Hi, honey,” he said, turning me around for a kiss. “What’s that?”

  “A TV I bought for you at the estate sale today,” I said, “but I decided to keep it.”

  “Too bad. I would have liked it.”

  “For your workbench, yes, but inadvertently I picked up a haunted set. You know, ghosts are my province.”

  “It looks pretty normal to me,” he said, running a hand along the top of the case. “What does it do? Transmit messages from beyond?”

  I smiled. “Maybe it will in the future. Now it plays the same movie on every one of the three channels. I haven’t been watching it that long, but I’ll bet it plays them endlessly.”

  “Let’s see,” he said. “Turn it on again.”

  The screen was still warm, but the western town had given way to weather forecaster, Joan Cranby, talking about the unseasonably warm temperatures expected for the coming week and the slight chance of severe weather tonight.

  “What the heck? Where’s the Western?”

  “That doesn’t look like a movie to me,” Crane said.

  “No, it doesn’t.”

  I switched channels. A woman in an apron covered with pictures of kitchen utensils was frosting a layer cake. The third channel was running a commercial for new moisturizing soap.

  “Perfectly normal,” Crane said. “I guess I can have my birthday present back.”

  “I guess. It was a false alarm.”

  He locked his gun in the special cabinet in the living room, as he always did, while I checked the steaks.

  “Dinner will be ready in about twenty minutes,” I said.

  “I’ll go take a quick shower.”

  I moved the TV into the living room, moved from the realm of the Twilight Zone into a familiar routine of salad and biscuit making. It looked as if I wasn’t going to have a new mystery after all.

  I gathered ingredients for the salad and started tearing lettuce. My good friend and neighbor, Camille Ferguson, who was also my aunt by marriage, had given me tomatoes from her vegetable garden, so this salad would be special. I added spinach leaves and let my thoughts wander back to the TV.

  Why should I summarily dismiss the possibility that I’d purchased a mystery at the estate sale? I still couldn’t explain why the Western movie had been playing on all three channels, both at the estate sale and in my kitchen.

  Miss Eidt had seen it, too.

  I had to think about that. Had she? Or had she been looking at something else when I’d turned the TV on? Darn. I didn’t remember. I’d have to call her.

  I sliced a tomato into the bowl of torn lettuce.

  Finish making the salad and forget about the vagaries of the TV.

  I found myself remembering the disappointed woman in the pink sundress. She had wanted to buy the TV set herself. I was almost afraid she was going to grab my purchase and make off with it. Was there something special about the set? There had to be, and perhaps she was aware of it.

  Stop! I ordered myself.

  It was an antique. Unique. A well-crafted piece. Period.

  I backed up to get a cucumber from the refrigerator and narrowly missed stepping on Candy’s paw. She yelped in protest. It was her way of telling me to watch where I put my foot.

  Candy wouldn’t eat vegetables, but I’d brought out one of her favorite foods to add to the salad. Cheese. She was hoping for a ha
nd-out.

  I heard Crane’s footsteps on the stairs. Candy heard them, too, and, cheese forgotten, took off to escort him to the first floor.

  I took the steaks out of the oven. It was time for dinner, and by mutual agreement we banned distressful topics from the table—and also electronics.

  That included a haunted television set.

  Four

  On Sunday, as soon as Crane left for his patrol of Foxglove Corners, I took Halley, Sky, and Star for a long walk to Sagramore Lake. Then I came home and went straight to the television set, now moved to the credenza in the dining room. I turned it on and consulted the TV Guide. The three channels were showing exactly what they should be showing.

  I turned back a page to scan the programs scheduled for yesterday, hoping to see a movie with a Western title. Nothing came remotely close to one.

  Where was my Western?

  Not liking the noise and mindless chatter of contemporary television, I turned the set off. Immediately an unwelcome thought forced its way to the forefront of my mind.

  What if I had never seen those lovely scenes? The meadow, the main street, the stagecoach? The dog and the horse? Was it possible that my imagination had played a cruel trick on me? Perhaps my gruesome first week of classes had dredged up a past trauma I’d endured at Marston High School.

  It was possible. Anything was possible. Still, I rejected the idea. I was used to coping with the ups and downs of teaching high school English. I was an experienced professional, for heaven’s sake. I might be highly imaginative, but I wasn’t delusional.

  That Western movie existed somewhere, if only on another plane. I had to find it again.

  But it wasn’t on today.

  Going into the living room, I pulled my cell phone out of my shoulder bag and called Miss Eidt.

  “How’s your Sunday going?” I asked.

  “It couldn’t be better! I’m enjoying those books immensely. I’ve already read Thunder Heights, The Lute and the Glove, and Scarecrow House.”

  “Since yesterday?”

  “That’s all I’ve done. I can’t put them down. When I finish one, I have to start another.” She paused, no doubt wondering about the purpose of my call. Usually we held our conversations in the library.