“What if there’s a crisis at the Emporium?” Dan asked.
“There won’t be. I told you. I’ll close it for the duration.” She’d already countered Gina’s original offer with the proposal that her old friend pay a cat-and-house sitter rather than a sales clerk. Liss had a certain young relative in mind for the job, one who was currently squirreling away every penny he could earn into a college fund.
“My shop, then.”
“Your shop?” Liss couldn’t help but smile. Dan was running out of excuses. “It’s a co-op now. Or have you forgotten?”
When he’d switched over to making nothing but jigsaw-puzzle tables, Dan’s inventory of handcrafted wooden objects had shrunk to almost nothing. He’d solved the lack-of-stock problem by turning his storefront, Carrabassett County Wood Crafts, into a cooperative venture with other local craftspeople. They had pooled their resources, as well as the products they created, and had hired a full-time employee to run the place.
“I haven’t forgotten. But what if—”
“If Maud can’t handle anything that comes up, she shouldn’t be working for you.” Maud Dennison, the co-op’s sales clerk and bookkeeper, was a retired teacher who’d found she didn’t like having so much time on her hands. Since she’d capably managed obstreperous seventh graders for forty-plus years, Liss knew she could handle anything that came along.
“I don’t see how we can close up and go away without a care in the world,” Dan grumbled as he walked the heavy box onto a dolly and trundled it toward the door. There was only one more step to go—print a mailing label and assembly instructions and attach those to the carton.
Liss trailed after him, gaining confidence with every step. “It’s easy. In my case, all I have to do is put a sign on the door. It isn’t as if the Emporium is ever swamped with customers.”
“You get a lot more walk-ins than you used to. So does Carrabassett County Wood Crafts. So does everyone in town.”
“Victims of our own success,” Liss agreed.
Where once she and the other local business owners had taken every Sunday and Monday off, now they usually stayed open seven days a week. The Moosetookalook Small Business Association had become so adept at promoting the unique gift shops surrounding the village square as a shopping mecca that tour buses had them on their regular routes and groups of retirees booked blocks of rooms at The Spruces just to be able to enjoy the experience. Seasonal festivities drew good crowds, too, which meant that volunteering on behalf of the MSBA took up even more of Liss and Dan’s dwindling supply of free time.
“I can’t see how we’ll manage, Liss,” Dan said. “Tell Gina to hire someone to evaluate her property.”
She threw her hands in the air. “She hired me. And she gave me a blank check to use to hire a cat sitter.”
“Send it back.” The box in position, he turned to face her.
Liss sent him her best exasperated glare. “If you really can’t see your way clear to go, I’ll take on the job without you. I gave my word to Gina that I’d evaluate the place for her. I don’t break my promises.”
Dan looked thoughtful. “How about this? You drive over there, take a quick look at the place, and come back the same day.” He opened the door and gestured for her to exit first.
“I’m going for a week,” she said as she swept past him. “Even if you don’t need a break from routine, I do. So, I’m leaving on Friday—two days from now.” She looked back at him over her shoulder. “Are you coming with me or not?”
The challenge in her voice made him scowl. He locked up, then stood there, staring at the back of their house and what could be seen of the street between it and the building next door.
Progress, Liss thought. After a moment, she went back to him and eased herself in under his arm. She planted a quick kiss on his cheek.
Darkness came early at this time of year. The pale glow of streetlamps illuminated not only the sidewalk and street but also a section of the town square, where a bandstand and merry-go-round held pride of place, along with a monument to the Civil War dead. As Liss watched, a woman appeared on one of the paths that wound through the green. Liss recognized her as soon as the light struck her pale hair—Sherri Campbell on her way home, crossing from the police station in the municipal building to her apartment above Carrabassett County Wood Crafts.
Sherri must be on the two-to-ten shift, Liss thought, and taking a supper break to spend a little time with Pete and the kids. There were two of them, Sherri’s teenage son, Adam Willett, and the couple’s four-year-old daughter, Amber.
Liss took a deep breath. “We could use an opportunity to talk about . . . things.”
Dan said nothing, but she could feel his arm tense where it draped across her shoulders.
“I think I’ll go look over what’s in my closet.” Liss slipped away from him. “I need to decide what to take with me. November weather is always tricky to pack for.”
He waited until she reached the back door of the house before he spoke. “You’d best pick out clothes for me, too.”
“Did you hear Liss and Dan are taking a vacation?” Sherri Campbell handed two heavy-laden plates to her husband and grabbed the other two herself. “They’re leaving tomorrow.”
“Yeah, Dan told me.”
Pete deftly deposited his own supper on the table and slid the other plate into Sherri’s place while she served Adam and Amber. The little girl’s eyes lit up when she saw the mound of mashed potatoes. Sherri couldn’t help but grin as she sat down and reached for the salt. Before their daughter ate a single bite, she would shape those spuds into the signature landscape from Close Encounters of the Third Kind. Young as Amber was, Sherri doubted she had understood much of the rest of that movie, but she had definitely got the part with the potatoes.
“He’s not exactly enthusiastic about it.” As Pete settled into his chair, it creaked under his weight. He was built like a linebacker, solid and square, but what had been chunky when they met had begun to waver on the edge of overweight.
Sherri needed a moment to switch out of Mommy mode. “Dan isn’t? Why not?”
“Maybe he thinks Gina Snowe has a lot of nerve expecting them to drop everything to do her a favor.”
“She always was something of a queen bee.” Sherri ate mechanically, taking an occasional sip of Moxie, a beverage she’d only recently rediscovered. Her thoughts drifted back to the last time she’d run into Liss’s friend Gina. It had not been a pleasant encounter.
Why she’d decided to attend her tenth high school reunion, Sherri would never know. Maybe because she’d had Pete as her escort, and Liss and Dan were with them? She should have known better. Ten years hadn’t been enough time for the cattier members of the class to sheath their claws. Gina Snowe wasn’t the worst of the lot, but she’d been ready and willing to repeat what she knew about Sherri and the mistakes she’d made when she was younger. That most of what she’d said was true only made it worse. Sherri had dropped out of school and left town halfway through their senior year. She’d taken up with some pretty unsavory characters during her years away from Moosetookalook. She’d returned with Adam but without a husband, adding one more “sin” to the list.
That was all a long time ago, she reminded herself as she looked around the table at husband, son, and daughter. She’d built a new life for herself since then.
At the time of that tenth reunion, Sherri recalled, she’d barely taken the first steps toward a tentative friendship with Liss MacCrimmon. The bond between them had strengthened in the months and years that followed. These days, with Sherri married to Pete and Liss to Dan, Sherri was closer to Liss than Gina had ever been. While it might be petty to think in terms of a rivalry of BFFs, the truth of the matter was that it did make Sherri feel better to know that Liss thought highly of her.
And it wasn’t only Liss who liked and respected her, either. Sherri was certain no one in their small town had forgotten her past, but she also knew that, in the present, she was well reg
arded by the community she served as chief of police of the Moosetookalook Police Department.
The subject of Dan and Liss’s “vacation” didn’t come up again that evening, but Sherri did find herself thinking about her friend while she watched Amber at play after supper. Once Adam had gone off to his own room to do homework, the little girl reveled in having her parents all to herself.
“Come on, pumpkin,” Pete crooned. “Show me what you can do with that pencil.” He was trying to teach her to print her name.
They sat side by side on the carpet, dark heads bent over the oversize drawing pad between them. Amber already resembled her father far more than her petite, blond mother. Measurements taken by her pediatrician indicated she was going to be tall, close to Pete’s five-foot-ten. She would tower over Sherri by the time she finished growing, and would probably end up being taller than Adam, too.
“She’s only four, Pete.”
“But she’s the smartest little rug rat in the entire world. Look at that. That’s an A.”
It looked like three random lines to Sherri, but she hadn’t the heart to burst Pete’s bubble. Instead, from her perch on the sofa, she continued to watch the interaction between father and daughter.
There were a lot of smart little rug rats around, Sherri mused. She wondered if Liss and Dan were thinking of adding one of their own to the mix. Maybe there was more to their vacation than simply doing a favor for Gina Snowe.
Sherri was not the only one in their circle of friends and family to have been pregnant during the last few years. Sandy and Zara Kalishnakof, who owned and operated Dance Central, had two young children, both carrottops like Zara. And Mary Ruskin Winchester, Liss’s sister-in-law, was currently expecting her sixth child. Liss, though, had never even hinted that she might want a child of her own.
Later, after Adam and Amber had been tucked into their beds, Sherri broached the subject with Pete. “Has Dan ever said anything to you about starting a family?”
“None of our business, hon.” Pete avoided meeting her eyes by pretending to be fascinated by the late-night news on TV.
Sherri wasn’t buying it. He knew something. He just wasn’t saying.
But he was also right. It was none of their business.
Frowning, Liss consulted the map Gina had drawn for her. “I can’t make heads or tails of this. We’re going to have to stop in town and ask directions.”
They had driven some 140 miles, all the way from Moosetookalook to New Boston, the town in which the tree farm was located. Getting there had seemed simple enough at the outset, but now that they were in the immediate vicinity, the road signs and landmarks did not match up with Gina’s squiggles.
Their truck did not come equipped with GPS. Dan considered these devices to be a waste of money, and in general, Liss agreed with him. None of them functioned well in rural areas, and she’d heard that on long trips they tended to choose the route with the lowest mileage, ignoring the fact that it would inevitably take the driver into the center of every major city along the way. Paper maps worked much better when it came to avoiding traffic jams and other delays. Usually.
Dan grumbled, but eventually he complied with his wife’s suggestion. He pulled into the parking lot of a small grocery store. He hailed the first shopper they saw, an elderly man loading overflowing reusable canvas shopping bags into the trunk of his car.
“We’re looking for Simeon Snowe’s place,” Dan said. “Can you tell us how to find it?”
“Nobody lives there.” The old-timer had a vague look in his pale, rheumy eyes. “Hasn’t been a going concern for some time.”
“Yes, we know,” Liss called across the cab of the truck. She smiled encouragingly. “The new owner asked us to take a look at the place for her.”
“Then she shoulda told you how to get there.” He opened his driver’s side door and eased himself into the car. Without so much as another glance in their direction, he started the engine and drove away.
“Taciturn old cuss,” Dan muttered.
“At least he confirmed that the place exists,” Liss said brightly. “We’ll have to find someone else to tell us how to get there.”
The grocery store—the New Boston Food City—was bigger than the High Street Market in Moosetookalook, but not by much. Of the three checkout lanes at the front, only one was open.
The clerk was a teenager with a ring through her nose. She’d never heard of Simeon Snowe. Her customer, a jeans-clad woman in her midtwenties, who was busily piling cans, bottles, and bags of frozen food on the counter, didn’t recognize the name, either, but she offered a practical suggestion—ask at the town office.
Following her directions, they drove to the New Boston municipal building, a one-story clapboard structure that looked as if it had originally been built for some other purpose. A real estate office, Liss thought. Or maybe—she sniffed the air as they entered the building—a take-out pizza place.
“Help you?” asked a sour-faced older woman seated at one of several desks separated from the entrance by a wide wooden counter.
“Can you tell us where to find the farm belonging to the late Simeon Snowe?” Liss asked.
The woman rose slowly, as if she suffered from arthritis, and shuffled up to her side of the barrier. She appeared to be well past the usual retirement age and stared at them through thick glasses. “What’s your business there?” she demanded.
The rude manner in which she asked the question took Liss aback and left her momentarily speechless. Dan stepped up to fill the void.
“We’re here on behalf of the new owner, Gina Snowe.” He leaned in, as if intent upon sharing a confidence, and added his best smile. “Ms. Snowe paid a brief visit to the farm herself a few days ago, but she was unexpectedly called away on business. She asked us to finish up her evaluation of the place. She drew a map for my wife here, but we’re having a little trouble finding the landmarks.”
The attempt at boyish charm fell flat. The woman looked even more suspicious of their motives. “We don’t generally give out that sort of information,” she said in a snippy voice. “I’ll have to fetch the town manager.” With that, she stomped off toward the back of the building, now moving at a surprisingly fast clip for someone who, only moments earlier, had looked as if she needed a cane.
Liss glanced down at herself. She’d worn jeans and a bulky sweater for the drive. Dan was similarly dressed. “Do we look like people who are planning to break in and rob the place?”
“She’s right to be cautious. After all, we’re strangers in town.”
“Most folks aren’t so standoffish.”
“That old guy at the grocery store wasn’t inclined to be helpful,” he reminded her.
The New Boston town manager, a middle-aged man in shirtsleeves and an unknotted tie, emerged from the rear of the town office before Liss could reply. He smiled at them in that particularly insincere way politicians had perfected and shook hands with Dan in a hearty manner.
“Steve Wilton,” he said. “Call me Steve. Bea here tells me you’re looking for the Snowe Christmas tree farm. Imagine that! Am I to gather that the estate has finally been settled?”
“Apparently.” Dan’s tone was dry as he introduced himself and Liss. He explained again about the map.
“A map, you say? Let’s have a look.”
Liss handed it over. It was proof, she supposed, that they had the right to request directions to the farm.
Ten minutes later, they were back in the truck and headed west. It turned out that their destination was some seven miles distant from the center of New Boston, just short of the town line. Curious, Liss dug out the most recent edition of The Maine Atlas and Gazetteer. New Boston had a population of 4,980. That was almost five times the size of Moosetookalook. Even so, the Snowe farm was well away from any neighboring houses.
It started to spit snow the moment Dan turned off a two-lane country road into a long winding driveway. Sunset was at least an hour away, but the sky had already t
urned an ominous gray, which made everything look dark and dreary. To make matters worse, overgrown rows of evergreens planted on either side of the narrow way formed a high, nearly impenetrable hedge.
Liss began to feel uneasy as she peered at the thickly intertwined branches. “All we need are a few thorns and I’ll be wondering if we’re about to stumble onto Sleeping Beauty’s castle,” she muttered under her breath.
“Hold on!”
That was all the warning she had before Dan slammed on the brakes.
Liss’s seat belt tightened, pressing hard against her chest and lap. Fortunately, Dan had not been going very fast. They didn’t hit anything, and the air bags did not deploy.
When she looked out through the windshield, Liss half expected to see a deer blocking their way, but what had caused their precipitous stop was not an animal. A heavy chain had been stretched across the driveway. Dan opened his door and got out of the truck. While he unhooked the barrier, Liss squinted to read the words on the sign attached to the links.
The message was not WELCOME TO VACATIONLAND.
It said: PRIVATE PROPERTY. TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT.
Chapter Two
After passing through the barrier and driving another eighth of a mile, still walled in by the evergreen hedge, they emerged into a large square parking area. Frost heaves had left the surface uneven. In spots the blacktop had entirely crumbled away. The farmhouse to their left was very plain, with a sagging front porch that extended the width of the building. The peeling white paint on the clapboard siding made it look even more dilapidated.
Dan brought the pickup truck to a stop in front of the large freestanding Quonset hut situated on the far side of the parking area from the house, the only other building in sight. “Huh,” he said, staring at it. “You don’t see many of those anymore.”
Ho-Ho-Homicide (A Liss MacCrimmon Mystery Book 8) Page 2
